Page 63 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
A sharp, cold spike of jealousy builds in my chest. Owen is my brother. We survive because we don’t overlap.
But looking at the curve of Tessa’s spine, the logic fails.
For the first time in my life, I don’t want to share.
“Mr. Branson!”
A high, nasally voice cuts through my thoughts.
I stiffen.
A man in a velvet blazer is standing in front of me. He’s holding a phone that is recording.
“Greg Miller, TechStream,” he says, shoving the phone in my face. “Big night for the Phantom Trio. The beta launch numbers are solid, but are you ready for the global release? You’re the quiet one, right? The coder? Tell us, what’s the secret sauce behind the matching algorithm? Is it AI? Is it true you’re harvesting biometric data?”
My heart rate spikes. Eighty-five BPM. Ninety.
The light from his phone is blinding. The crowd feels suddenly tighter, pressing in on me.
“I…” I take a step back, hitting the pillar. “The algorithm is proprietary.”
“Come on, give us a scoop,” Miller presses, stepping closer. He smells like stale coffee and cheap cologne. “There are rumors that the backend is unstable. That you can’t scale. Is that why you’re hiding the code?”
“The code is stable,” I say, my voice tight. “The latency is within acceptable parameters.”
“But what about privacy?” He’s too close. “Are you selling the data?”
My lungs seize. The noise of the party—the music, the laughter, the clinking glass—becomes a roar of white noise.
I need to leave. I need a quiet room. I need a server rack to hide behind.
“I think you’re confusing us with our competitors,” a cool, feminine voice cuts in.
Suddenly, there is a wall between me and the reporter.
Tessa.
She steps in front of me, her back to me. She’s small, but she holds the space like a shield.
“Mr. Miller,” she says, her voice smooth. She reaches out and gently lowers his phone. “I’m Tessa Hartley, the Brand Lead. I’d be happy to answer your questions about our privacy policy. In fact, we have a press kit prepared just for you with the full technical specs.”
Miller blinks, distracted by her smile. “Oh. Uh. Sure.”
“Great.” She signals a waiter. “Can we get Mr. Miller a drink? The signature cocktail is excellent.”
She deftly turns him away from me, guiding him toward the bar. She engages him in conversation, laughing at his joke, making him feel important while simultaneously removing the threat.
She saves me.
She glances back over her shoulder. Her eyes lock onto mine.
“Go,” she mouths.
Without hesitating, I turn and slip through the terrace doors.
The concrete walls of the fire escape suck the heat from the air.
The bass from the party thumps against the steel door like a second heartbeat.
