#but dammit this man has a POWERPOINT

[bithegai]

not me fighting for my life trying to understand cydo’s stream

[quasisnipr1048]

On Finals and How NOT to Teach a Class

I was originally going to try to make this post quasi-motivational because finals are near and I know everyone needs a dose of that right now. But I'm gonna rant for a bit and try to throw in some inspiration if I can.

Newsflash: Electric Drives (Motors, Machines, whatever your college calls it) sucks. It's interesting, but damn I have never had a class before where I wanted to shoot myself in the foot every second of the lecture.

Now again, note that I did say the class was interesting. Keep that in mind for later, but real talk if I could, I would have avoided that class like the plague.

Anyway, it's the first lecture and we're all expecting a certain professor to walk in (i.e., we like this guy) but in walks the devil himself, the one man who can single-handedly destroy our GPAs. I won't name him because while this guy is a real hardass when it comes to coursework, he's actually a pretty nice guy with good intentions but he's just in his own bubble most of the time.

Now, we've had this professor before for a course and it was hell, but the class was the equivalent of a course summary covering all the EE topics we had discussed in previous classes. So it was manageable. Now, however, we were dealing with new, senior level (his favorite phrase btw) material AND it was going to be hell....which doesn't adequately describe how bad the class actually was.

Here's just a general rundown of how lectures went: He would arrive 3-5 minutes late, comment on how late he was and then get started. He would then draw a diagram on the board, usually something from last lecture, ask us about it to make sure we at least understood it enough to review it on our own time and then move on to the new material. This would take about 10-15 minutes. Sounds alright enough right?

In this professor's mind we were always, ALWAYS behind. So what would he do? He would start rushing through the lecture about as fast as Sonic through the green zone and bombard us with information and questions about the information and oh did a student have a question? Don't worry we'll get to that in a second after I talk about something that you won't understand until 5 chapters from now. Oh I'm going too fast? Sorry, I can't slow down because we are really behind, so here's some more information but don't worry about this because you should have learned about it in a class you took 3 semesters ago and you don't need a review. And what do you mean my handwriting is illegible? You have the *handwritten* notes I emailed you so you don't need to look at the board, but why are you taking notes on your own paper when you have my notes already? Btw, do you remember that super advanced topic I was talking about because you can use this new topic for that as well. Oh crap its 1:55, let me just wrap up this topic really quick (and by really quick I mean I'm going to make you even more late for your next class) and oh more questions? Why are there suddenly so many questions? I'm trying to finish up this lecture and...

I think you get the point.

If I could define his version of Electric Drives in the least amount of words, it would be "Information Overload at High Speeds". We had no time to process anything. We may as well not shown up to the class at all with the amount we actually learned in a lecture. Because it was next to nothing. And for comparison, the guy who should have been teaching the class had nice PowerPoints, assigned homework on a regular basis, talked clearly about the subject, and actually took his time teaching the course.

We had a 16 point curve on the first midterm with an average of about 55 or 58. The second test was a bit better, but honestly the questions were easier on that test, indicating a "Oh shit these students are all struggling" mentality but with no in-class effort to change that.

And his final is next week.

I consider myself lucky in that I've more or less learned the extremely useful college skill of teaching myself. It's a painstaking process and it doesn't guarantee that you will leave the class with a decent grade. But to have a professor who's actually pretty decent fail to properly teach and force me to fall back on that skill is just...sad.

I guess I need to throw in something inspirational or something.

Look, I'm fucking terrified right now of this guy's final. I did some calculating and I'm on thin ice. I can easily swing from passing to failing with a single misstep. And I'm betting a lot of you are in that situation as well. But something I've discovered in my four years in college is that the vast majority of students are fighters. College students fight tooth and nail for grades, just passing grades if nothing else. It's almost sad that this is what our education system has turned us into (a topic for another time), but I'll be damned if anyone calls college students lazy.

So I'm going to fight for this grade, if for no one else, for myself because I know I've spent hours and hours working on this one damn class that the professor can't teach and dammit I deserve to pass. I've invested too much of my time into this class to just simply roll over and accept my fate. And you guys better not just give up like that either, not with the amount of money and time you've invested into this semester. Because you know what?

You deserve to pass too.

[sitkowskiryan]

tag yourself, shit my american history professor says

“fuck it, i’m supposed to take notes”

“I befriended the cheif’s daughter...twice”

“a long fucking walk back to that ship”

“300 at bannan republic, mother fucker!”

“fuck that song”

“soldiers taunting eight year old kids”

“‘all men are created equal’ fucking love this one”

“you wanna go through your friends bag, find drugs, and smoke them”

“ray and i are going out back [ to do drugs ]”

“you smell *stabs*”

“it’s no wonder why professors show up drunk

“there’s a lot of shit happening”

“i am fucked”

“who the fuck is that?” 

“does that calculator do other shit?”

“british were kicking ass in the first years”

“i don’t like mexico...you forget you can’t drink the water and then you are in your room all weekend”

“we have all been there...not allowed back”

“fucking burn his house down”

“shay’s rebellion: shit went wrong”

“courtney don’t quote that!” 

“let’s take the party bus back to the dorms”

“throw all their shit outside”

“get drunk, get rifles”

“you can’t send your ‘policemen’ and arrest me”

“Why not fucking crush these guys?”

“holy shit, it’s washington”

“you know he fights dirty too”

“those bastards”

“fuckin’ a, i’ll do that”

“he fucking marches out there on a white horse”

“those scrawny bastards!”

“thousand of miles away from anyone...with his 400 slaves”

“he steals all that shit from john locke”

“[ about the french ] they understand, they get it”

“big army? fucking dangerous”

“can’t run around naked in the corridors!”

“old white dudes that’s what it is”

“bastard of a founding father”

“aaron burr doesn’t give a shit”

“disney land, but with muskets”

“they are blowing shi-ships up!”

“princeton boy, five foot tall”

“you’re driving, i’m drinking”

“if you come to ohio, we’ll kill your ass”

“future president...terrible person [ william harrison ]”

“you from new jersey? i won’t hold it against you”

“burn that shit up”

update from today’s ( 4/6 ) class

“the old man is rambling again, oh shit”

“you, you could go either way. i see the shit you write [ talking to me about liking me as a student ]”

“sometimes i do a little dance for them [ the security cameras ]”

“as if we are going to steal all this paper!”

“i’m trying to start a revolution”

“next time lie to me”

“america’s first drug dealer [ jefferson ]”

“i don’t care that he grew weed and sold it to his virginian friends”

“boom. it’s getting hot in here”

“it just fucking pumps him up [ the embargo act ]”

“you can do it at royal farms when you are waiting for your chicken”

“i didn’t make this shit up”

“i don’t even need glasses, i’m just playing the part”

“is that all me? god help me. [ he saw my notebook with all of these ]”

“if you publish this, i want a cut. write that one down”

“#disappointed”

“text jay, tell him he fucked up”

“you’re from delaware? i won’t hold it against you”

“baltimore was fucking shit up. are you going to write that one down? [ i shake my head ] god dammit. you win some, you lose some.”

“margaritas and fort mchenry, yay its friday!”

“‘fill in the blank’ country”

“there he is much more romantic [ andrew jackson ]”

update from today’s ( 4/25 ) class

“me, jesus, and michael jackson”

“it was like jaws man”

“let’s go defeat nature! hopefully you come back”

“the american story: you are in this shit hole”

“its the peakaboo the government is playing with us”

“you know how many indians i killed? hella. i can’t even count”

“*messes up powerpoint* shit”

“i don’t wanna take it for work,  i wanna go for fun [ steamboats ]”

“it’s like titanic only 100 years earlier”

“don’t fucking wave at me, i’m grumpy”

“maybe i’m not hard enough”

“what happens there you don’t remember. i think i have a good time there”

“they got to start paying me more”

“that’s not turning me on unless its amazon prime shipping”

“[in a spanish accent] i want to say spain...no”

“looks like you got in a fight with a couple alley cats”

“really nice pieces of wood”

“fuck it, look at my nightstand”

“journalling with my buddy and indian friend”

“burn down the capital”

“good? no”

“who wants a woman that works?”

“why would you want kids? they ruin everything”

“[snickers] he is a mormon?”

“gonna act a little funny if a guy is staring at you all day every day with a gun”

“fibbers and phonies”

“[singing] ain’t got no time for me”

“[singing] thoreau is just singing for you”

“we broke up, i can make fun of her”

“aw i love key racks!”

“here’s the back staircase for your servants so no one has to see them”

“i’m not liking small pox”

“[kid says “i hate school”] i want that on a shirt”

“oh i quit”

“[after giving an inspiration speech about how we are adults] maybe i was wrong?”

“that’s janky”

“make a deal with me”

“i feel like bob barker”

“that’s how homeless people in new orleans get you”

“suddenly there’s 5 of them with guns and you’re like take the 20″

“none of this could be real, i’m just making shit up as i go”

last update 5/9/18

“happy friday guys, happy fucking friday”

“that’s not true [ mouthing “it’s true”]”

“poe is like make sure my fucking name is on this”

“not romance as in love and kissy kissy”

“student government, what the fuck are they doing?”

“this all leads to old uncle walt whitman”

“i’m not a farmer boy”

“poles are friends”

“who were the tories? i dated her in highschool”

“i’m not giving up on you. [points at me] write that shit down”

“but i am your cheerleader”

“i hate south carolina that’s gonna be in there [ the final ]”

“i’m throwing dots on the wall and if you step back you’ll see the picture”

so my professor didn’t want his name shared, but i truly loved his class and look forward to every time i went! my class was rather rude to him and he said that this list is a bit horrifying to him because at some times you can see him give up on students or in the class. i just wanted to say that he deserves to never have a class like mine again and that he knows that at one person benefited from this list. so please remember to be nice to your professors/tutors/teachers because it almost made me cry hearing him speak about how defeated he felt with the majority of my class! 

[modernart2012]

I’m Friends with the (Monster)

@sumigakure Halloween Event 2017

Prompt 10: Normal Person meets Someone and finds out they’re a Monster

Word Count: 2107

Rating: T (for safety)

WARNING SPOILER FOR A WIP THAT INFLUENCES THIS FIC HEAVILY. IF YOU DON’T WANT THAT FIC SPOILED, SKIP THIS FIC.

On AO3

“Obito, you cannot be serious right now.” Rin sighs exasperated. “If this is the sign you're turning into Dr. Uchiha, tell me now so I can go get Shisui to do a refresher on ‘Normal Human Interaction 101’.”

Obito whips his head around from where he was stealthily peeking around the edge of the Uzumaki Special Collection Library, “Rin, there is absolutely something weird about Bakashi! Who else is that young and -and - aloof at University? This is the most prestigious University in the Elemental Nations and he’s walking around like he’s the greatest thing here!” He pauses and continues, “Also, Unce Kagami made that PowerPoint presentation you know.”

Rin boggles, but ignores that tidbit of information. “Kakashi is Dr. Benzaiten’s stepson. He’s a genius, and has probably spent enough time on campus to be comfortable. And even if he’s a little odd, well, he’s traveled all over and then some besides, he’s probably an amalgamation of different cultural norms.” She checks the time on her phone, “Look, I need to head to class. Dr. Senju and Dr. Kato are really strict about attendance at practicals; I’ll catch up with you later. Don’t get arrested, Chief Uchiha will flambe you alive and then Dean Senju will completely erase your existence from the space-time continuum.”

At the mention of his guardians, Obito has to pause to consider Rin’s point. Uncle Madara and Uncle Tobirama were both excellent parental figures, if easily distractible, but they often disapproved of any Uncle Kagami-esque shenanigans. Supposedly there was an International Incident involved, at least once, but Obito didn’t believe the University would give a PhD and then hire someone who caused such rampant mayhem even if the mayhem was in the name of Experimental and Theoretical Magic. It didn't matter, there was definitely something weird about Bakashi. And Obito was going to prove it!

Maybe. He’s got about an hour until his class with Professor Namikaze, and that’s his favorite class. He doesn’t want to be late. He goes back to nonchalantly trailing after Bakashi, who seems to be looking at nothing and eating through his mask. Which, why does he even have a mask that only covers the lower half of his face? The excuse of, “Protecting your mucus membranes from the elements is essential to proper health,” seems like a blatant lie, but Obito doesn’t know or want to know about what goes on in niche fitness nut circles to call Bakashi on it. And that asshole tries to tell Obito his (true! Verifiably true!) explanations for his tardiness are bullshit. Obito would like to call hypocrisy, thank you very much.

Bakashi is halfway through walking the Forest Quad Loop, after stopping a bajillion times to touch random knots of wood, or pet moss, or crunch leaves, or sniff a rock - at which point Obito had to seriously consider that Bakashi was onto him and just fucking around to mess with him - when a massive white wolf comes crashing through the forest. Obito is about to shriek in horror, because oh Fire God’s Eternal Flame Bakashi is gonna be eaten, when a terrifyingly strong hand clamps over his mouth.

It’s long - too long for anything natural - and scaled. Scaled like a pit viper from Kaze no Kuni. Which, since Obito has checked as part of his law courses, are non-native to any part of Hi no Kuni and illegal to import. There were rumors of Dr. Benzaiten having weird questionably-ethical experiments with human subjects and genetics and magic, but that was into ... regeneration? Can snakes regenerate body parts?  Or is this an escaped prisoner with a weird magic trying to take revenge on Kakashi because Colonel Hatake is part of the Rangers of the Hi no Kuni military and killed someone important to this person? The Army Rangers do do a lot of high profile and clandestine stuff, it’s not outside the realm of possibility....

“What are you doing following the Princeling, mortal?” Princeling? Who? Bakashi? Maybe he is part of a LARP group? Well, he seems the type.

“I didn't realize people LARP’d on weekdays. You know what, I like this answer. This explains everything.” Obito lifts up and ducks under the arm, then shakes the man’s (possibly, the special effects makeup is some of the best Obito’s ever seen) hand vigorously. “Good day sir. I need to get to class.” The man seems astounded, like he's just experienced something impossible. Maybe he thinks Obito is part of the LARP?

Obito thinks everything is going just fine as he heads back towards campus when the LARPer dashes faster than his eyes can track into his way, this time brandishing a knife that outright bristles with barely leashed offensive magic. Something that is powered by the ... power of blood, to drain whomever it cuts of their life and/or bind that person to the wielder's will, if Obito is reading the runes right. “Do you have a permit for that?” It slips out his mouth faster than Obito can think about it.

“What?” Maybe he didn’t hear him clearly?

“That knife. Do you have a permit to carry a magical weapon with a black magic enchantment? Because it’s a felony if you don’t. Unless it’s for ritualistic or religious purposes and therefore covered by religious exemption, in which case you still need a permit, but it’s stamped specially and registered with the government.” There is an objective downside to living with a cop, and it is this: you learn bits and pieces of law that have no real use outside of a government office. Obito didn’t need to know the precise breakdown of the law regarding enchanted weapons or items with aggressive intent before he started studying pre-law.

There’s no light of dawning understanding with this fellow, and Obito suddenly has the sinking suspicion this might not be a LARP when he starts gathering magic like its cotton-wool. People with that level of magic know better than to throw it around in broad daylight without protective barriers up, and as far as Obito can tell there is no protective barrier to stop the blast from affecting any unwitting bystander. Gods all dammit, why does Obito always run into the psychos?

Luckily, there’s no law against carrying an pre-prepared protective barrier, concealed or otherwise. At least there’s a bright side, he’ll be able to tell Prof Kushina if it worked or not. It takes three reflexive handsigns to activate, but it ripples out in a wash of violet beautifully. Just in time, as the scaled man lets loose, and Obito means that quite literally. He’s never seen such a large Air and Earth combo before, slashing winds and jutting earth spikes rising and falling and rising in chaos. He’s buffeted about, but otherwise unharmed.

He’s bracing for the next wave when a voice rings out across the path. “What’s going on?” He glances sideways to find Bakashi and the massive wolf watching.

“Bakashi! Get out of here! This dude’s gone crazy; I don’t know how long this barrier will last.” Dr. Benzaiten would be out for blood if his stepson was even the slightest bit injured, which meant Uncle Tobirama would be displeased, and Uncle Kagami and Uncle Madara and Dr. Sarutobi and Dr. Senju and Dr. Ogata would be mad, and then Professor Namikaze would do his squinty-eyed smile that screamed “justifiable homicide” and then Prof Kushina would be pissed because her boyfriend was in prison which would make Aunt Mito displeased and Uncle Hashirama would end up taking it out on foreign policy decisions leading the whole world into war. Really, it’s in everyone’s best interest Bakashi get away now. At least if it’s only him, then everyone will think there was some sort of accident and there’d be no war, right?

He’s met by a blank and dispassionate stare. The wolf even gives him the same look, and Obito is officially done with everyone giving him that look, okay? Animals shouldn’t even be able to give that look! Where was the justice?! “Uroko, what are you doing to Obito?”

The scaled-man, Uroko, bows deeply, “My apologies, Princeling. This mortal here was covertly following you and I wanted to be sure of his intent. The Lady would be most displeased with me if her grandson was injured on my watch.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, and Obito’s mind leaps from idea to idea faster than he can rightfully track. Kakashi’s ... grandmother, this Lady, was powerful enough, or important enough, that she was having people with rare magical ability protect her grandson. And she’s probably a Queen, if Kakashi is a Princeling. Which meant this ... body guard, probably of a foreign country, given his unfamiliarity with the laws of Hi no Kuni - Tetsu no Kuni, probably, they’re the only place with a monarch and such pale coloration - his only job is to protect Kakashi from threats. Like a stalker. Which, what Obito had been doing was legally stalking. Oh Fire God’s flaming balls, Uncle Madara is going to kill him, then Uncle Tobirama is going to erase his existence for causing an International Incident. Is it too late to beg for mercy? It’s not too late to beg for mercy.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but what comes out instead is, “You’re related to a Queen?!”

Uroko puffs up, proud, “The Young Princeling is the direct grandson of the Fair Lady of the Wild Hunt, Queen Sayaka of the Seelie Court.”

Obito had been following along into that last one. Seelie were only legends, Fae who were supposedly kinder than their Unseelie relatives, or the High Fae who were the cruelest of the lot. There was no way Bakashi would be - except Bakashi is facepalming as if Obito has just been some inconvenient truth, and so is the wolf, which really is much bigger than it actively ought to get in the wild but would be explained by the fact it’s Fae, and - “The mask is to hide something unnatural, isn’t it?”

Bakashi pulls down his mask, revealing a face that is clearly non-human in beauty, then bares a wolfish grin at Obito. And he means that quite literally - that smile is full of wolf teeth. Obito eyes them speculatively, “How do you even make words?” He had no idea Bakashi has a mole by his mouth - does Bakashi even know he usually gets rice grains stuck in the same spot? Or is that coincidence?

Bakashi corrects his mask, scowling. “That’s what you take away from that?”

Obito shrugs, “It’s either that or fleeing screaming into the pond.”

Uroko interjects, “The pond is full of kelpies and kappa.”

Right. Murderous water horses and turtles. Fire God’s balls. “I will not be fleeing into the pond, then. I’ll flee to Uncle Kagami’s office.”

Bakashi raises a skeptical eyebrow, “Can you even make it back down the trod without getting lost?”

His mother had raised him on the old stories, and Uncle Madara had a knack for retelling them in new and interesting ways, so Obito knows what a trod is, and where it leads. And there’s no way he’s anywhere near a trod. “This is the forest bit of Forest Quad. I’m following the loop, there should be no trod anywhere near the loop.”

“Did you not wonder why no one came to investigate the massive amount of magic just now? That amount of magic is usually a sign of impending disaster.” If Bakashi gets any more sassier Obito is going to punch him in the face, bodyguard or no.

“Fire God’s flaming balls.” Obito has managed to follow Bakashi down a hidden path through the Veil Between Worlds into the realms of the Fae. Which would be impressive, but only if he can get back to the human realm without going insane, getting back to about the same time as he left, and avoid being preyed upon by a more Powerful Fae. “Uncle Madara is going to kill me.” If Uncle Madara is even still alive when he gets back; he’s probably just jinxed it and now Uncle Madara is going to live forever. Oh, Twelve Hells.

Bakashi checks his watch, “Look, we’re going to be late for Professor Namikaze’s class at this rate. Let’s go.” He starts walking confidently down the path, in a completely tangential direction to where they came from, were going, or should be headed to return to campus.

Obito checks his own watch and yelps because they really are going to be late at this rate. He speeds after Bakashi, but can’t hold back a grin. Rin is never going to believe this.

[i-just-love-writing-crap]

Catching Murphy, Part 3

Warnings: Swearing, possible nsfw content Word Count:  Summary: You, Miss (y/n) (y/l/n), had a crush on Connor Murphy for years, from a distance of course. You had always been too shy to approach him, and the fact around school that he was an aggressive stoner caused you to become even more shy. One day, in history class, your teacher decided to assign a project and assigned everyone a partner—you and Connor were partnered together. Could you two grow close during the project and remain close? Or will Connor go back to ignoring you after the project comes to a close? A/N: I apologize if Connor is a biiiiit OOC… ;-; Obviously takes place in an AU where Connor is alive Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11

Connor watched as you practically scarfed down the mac & cheese he made for you, all the while you were continuously talking about the project. He saw the passion in your eyes as you continued talking, and the little tug of a smile that was constantly pulling at your lips as you droned on; it had him almost smiling himself. He didn’t feel the need to smoke at that moment, because he was actually rather absorbed by you—something he never thought he’d be able to say. I’ve never been able to say a person has captivated me like she does before now, he thought to himself as he watched you.

You were blissfully unaware of the Murphy boy’s observation of you, all you were focused on was talking about the project. You were so into trying to plan out what you were going to put in the PowerPoint, you didn’t focus on anything else. “So, you’re really okay with this topic?” you asked, picking up the last spoonful of mac & cheese.

The young man before you seemingly didn’t hear you, as he was still observing you. It suddenly became clear just how intensely he was observing you. His eyes never left your face and it was resting in his right hand. An almost longing look was in his eyes, which really threw you for a loop. Not only had you never had a guy look at you like that, but this was Connor fucking Murphy—the known aggressive stoner from school. The aggressive stoner that you had been crushing super hard on since seventh grade. You felt your heart rate picks up and your face started heating up—it felt like Connor was staring into your soul.

He was so into just watching your features as you talked about Egyptian history, that it seemed like he lost himself. Connor was lost for a while, until you gulped down your embarrassment of the fact he was staring at you. You snapped your fingers in his face, exclaiming, “Connor? Connor. CONNOR MURPHY!”

Blinking slowly and shaking his head, Connor snapped out of it. “What? Why are you fucking screaming at me?!” he hissed.

“You zoned out… and it looked like you were staring at me. I asked you a question and you didn’t answer me,” you said.

He sighed and settled down, “Oh, that’s nothin. What the fuck did you ask me?”

“If you were okay with this topic,” you answered.

“Like I said earlier, I quite frankly don’t give a fuck. You seem to be really passionate about this topic, and knowledgeable in it. So, sure, let’s do it. Also like a fucking said earlier, I can’t really be of any fucking help because I’m not good at this stuff,” came his answer.

You nodded and finished off your mac & cheese. “Okay, I’m done with my food, let’s get this rolling,” you said, walking over to the sink with the empty bowl in your hands. You place the glass bowl gently into the sink, then turned and looked at Connor. “So where are we gonna go to start the project, Con?” you asked.

Connor sighed and pushed himself away from the table, standing up. “My room. I don’t need my parents freaking out when they get home and see a girl here. Because they’ll act just like fucking Zoe. ‘Oh Connor, you brought a girl home, is this your girlfriend? Does she agree with you smoking pot all the time?’ blah, blah, blah. I don’t really feel like fucking dealing with that shit.”

“Yeah, okay, I get that. I don’t feel like being bombarded with questions by your family. Especially with them assuming I’m your girlfriend. I mean, fuck, we barely know each other. Today is literally the only day we’ve been talking,” you agreed.

Walking towards the door of the kitchen, Connor said, “C’mon, you fucking dork.”

You smiled softly, he didn’t say that with a super hard tone, so you knew it was a kind of pet name. “I’m coming, you damn stoner,” you answered, sticking your tongue out at him.

“Keep sticking your tongue out at me, I’ll grab it and won’t let the fuck go.”

“No you won’t, Con~!” Connor rolled his eyes and walked upstairs to his room, and you followed him. He kicked open his door and immediately the slight smell of weed flooded your senses. To Connor it wasn’t too bad, but for you (who had never really smelled weed often) it almost knocked you out. “Eww, what’s that god-awful smell?” you asked, covering your nose.

He looked at you and laughed, “That, dork, is the smell of weed. Wanna try it?”

You stepped into his room and thought about it. “Maybe after we get some of this project done with.”

That seemed to get Connor’s eyes lighting up as he asked, “Wait, are you being serious, dork?”

“Yeah, why not. It’s something new to try, right?”

“You’ve never smoked before?”

“God no, why would I?”

Connor sat on his bed and laid down. “Well, I do it because it helps with my issues.”

You sat on the floor in the middle of the room and said, “I don’t think you have issues, Con. You seem fine with me.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t know me well, (y/n). I have many issues, the main one being my temper,” he said, staring at his ceiling.

“Connor, you don’t really need weed to deal with that.”

That caused him to glare at you and hissed, “Bitch, don’t act like you know what it’s like to deal with a short temper!”

You looked at him sighed, resting your head in your hands, which rested on your knees (as you sat Indian-style), “Connor, I used to have a really sour temper, just like you. But, I got some friends and they helped me reel in my temper a bit. However, if you keep testing me, I’ll blow up… probably… I haven’t done that in fucking years.”

“Oh, well good for you. You’re more fucking social than me, so you have friends. I, however, have no friends and I am very anti-social,” he sneered.

Throwing your hands up, you said, “Whoa, whoa. I wasn’t meaning to trigger you, Connor. And I could be your friend, if you want me to be.”

“Why would I want such a dork as a friend of mine?”

“Because you know you find me interesting, Con. But, you’re absolutely right, you don’t want to be my friend and that’s okay. After this project, you won’t have to see me again. Now, can we worry about this project then get high and then forget I ever triggered you, because fuck dude, I’m sorry,” you said.

“Okay, so yeah I think your kinda fucking interesting, so what? Sue me then, dammit,” Connor grumbled out.

You looked at him and deadpanned, “Okay, seriously. Time to cut the crap and take this seriously. Do you have any paper so I can write down some stuff?”

Connor handed you some paper he had lying around, “Here.”

Taking the paper, you thanked, “Thank you.”

An hour had passed, you and Connor had simmered down from your almost possibly bad altercation. As you wrote down what you wanted on each slide, you and Connor talked. Half of the time it was you continuing to explain to Connor what you were writing, the other half was Connor trying to convince you to stop and smoke with him. He seemed excited that if you did smoke, it’d be your first time, and he used that as a cover. “I just want to get you high, dork,” he would tell you from over your shoulder.

You would always laugh and tell him that you’d do it after you got a good portion of the project done. “Get high without me,” you told him once. He shrugged, said “fuck you then” and proceeded to get high. When the smell of weed hit your nostrils, you grimaced and looked back at him, telling him it was fucking gross smelling. He told you to “suck it up, buttercup”, and you did.

Another 2 hours passed and you were finally done with what you wanted to get done. You let out a heavy sigh and fell over onto the floor, “FINALLY! I am done!”

“Ready to get high now?” he asks.

You looked at him from your place on the floor. “You have more shit with you?”

He smiled and he pulled out some more. “Duh.”

“Dude, why are you so ready for me to get high?”

“Don’t know. You don’t have to, ya know, dork. I can take your fat-ass home now if you want.”

You sighed and checked your phone. It was only 5:15 pm. “Nah, I can stay and try to get high. Are we gonna share that stuff?” you asked, putting your phone face-down on carpet.

“Well, obviously, I only have enough for one more joint. Hope you don’t mind passing the damn thing back and forth between just us.”

You stretched, popping your back in the process, then sat up. “I don’t really have an option, do I? If I wanna get high, I take it or leave it and I’m taking it,” came your answer.

Connor laughed and started to roll the joint, “You have a pretty good point, (y/n/n). While I get this shit set up, why don’t you go get some water? You will definitely need it.”

Groaning, you stood up and followed Connor’s orders. You went downstairs and got a large glass of water. Luckily, his parents still weren’t home, surprisingly. You almost ran up the stairs and closed his door. “Okay, I got the fucking water, we ready?” you asked.

“Yeah, it was ready the moment you left the room. I was just waiting for your slow ass to come back,” he answered.

“Can I sit on your bed?” you asked, walking towards him.

He shrugged and said, “Sure, I don’t give a damn. It would be the easiest way to pass the joint back and forth.”

You smiled a relieved smile and then you sat down beside him, saying, “Okay then, let’s do this. Ready to see me pussy out?”

“Oh, I won’t let you do that. You’ll probably cough like the bitch you are, though,” he snickered.

“And you’ll give yourself a handjob like the lonely fuck you are,” you quipped as you smiled cheekily.

Connor mockingly laughed and lit up the joint. He took a rather big hit and then handed it to you. “Your turn, fucking dork,” he said as he let out a breath.

You hesitantly took the joint and brought it up to your lips. A thought crossed your mind: This is kinda like indirectly kissing Connor Murphy!! That thought had your breath catching in your throat and your heart skipped a beat. Again, not even 24 hours ago you would not have even dreamed that a situation like this was remotely feasible—yet here you are about to get an indirect kiss from Connor. Because of a fucking joint. Your body started shaking out of both nervousness and embarrassment? Could you actually do this? Take the hit, take the indirect kiss, and not do something stupid like blurting out something along the lines of your feelings?

No, getting high isn’t like getting drunk… right? you thought to yourself. Might as well do it and see. Let’s see if I, (y/n) (y/l/n), can handle an indirect kiss from C-Connor…

TAGS: @defenestrate-yourself-please just as if you wanna be tagged an’ I’ll do it!

I gotta leave it as a cliffy! Sorry, mom is making me due shit and I couldn’t continue because I have to get this thing done before it rains here. I will immediately get writing part 4 after I do what I need to!

[anavoliselenu]

Relaese me chapter 6

“No way. He wants you. Your snark. Your attitude. I mean, he flat out told you that you’re not like the usual women on his arm. I Googled him, you know.”

I blink at the non sequitur. “You did not. When?”

“After you told me he was bringing you home. He’s pretty private—I didn’t find a lot and to be honest I didn’t try very hard. But it doesn’t look like he dates that much. Lots of women, sure, but nobody serious except for this one socialite a few months ago, but she’s dead.”

“Dead? Shit. How?”

“I know. Sad, right? Some sort of accident. But that’s not the point.”

My head is spinning. “What is the point?”

“You,” she says. “I mean, even if you are just a notch on his bedpost, so what? You’re not a nun.”

I almost ask if she was listening when I described the whole phone-sex-in-the-limo thing, but I wisely keep my mouth shut.

“And honestly, I don’t think you’re just a notch. I think he really likes you.”

I raise a brow. “And you base this on your extensive knowledge of the man gleaned from five minutes on the Internet?”

“I gleaned it from what you told me,” she says. “He wanted your opinion on a painting. He got all alpha male on Ollie’s ass. He made you come, for Christ’s sake. And let’s not forget the foot massage. Holy crap, girl, I’d totally fuck a guy who gave me a foot massage. Hell, I’d probably marry him.”

I can’t help but smile. Sadly, Jamie probably isn’t exaggerating.

“Not every guy is an asshole like Kurt,” she says, and for Jamie her voice is surprisingly gentle. “You can’t keep pretending you’re wearing a damn chastity belt.”

I cringe. “Just drop it. Please.”

She looks at me, then bites out a sharp, “Dammit.” She draws in a breath. Her eyes are sad, and I can see that she knows she’s gone too far.

She stands up and moves to the fireplace. Since a fireplace in the San Fernando Valley is an absolutely idiotic concept, Jamie has converted it to a bar. Bottles instead of logs. Glasses on the mantel. She grabs the bottle of Knob Creek. “Want some?”

I do, but I shake my head. I’ve had enough of alcohol for the night. “I’m tired,” I say, pushing myself up off the sofa.

“I’m really sorry. You know I wouldn’t—”

“I know,” I say. “And it’s really okay. I just need sleep.”

A sly smile touches her mouth, and I know that we’re okay again. “I guess so. You have a meeting tomorrow, don’t you? And who’s that meeting with, exactly?”

“Give it a rest, Jamie,” I say, but I grin as I head toward my bedroom. She’s right. I do have a big meeting. With Stark. In his offices. With my boss standing right there with the two of us.

I think back over the events of the evening.

I dwell on the panties I left in the limo.

And as I collapse facedown on my bed, only one thought goes through my mind: What the hell have I done?

10

My arms are stretched above my head, my wrists bound by something smooth but firm. My naked body is stretched out on cool silk. I cannot move my legs.

My eyes are closed, and yet I know what binds me. A red ribbon twined around my wrists. Wrapped tight around my ankles. I struggle, but there’s nowhere to go, and I don’t really want to escape anyway.

Something cool brushes my erect nipple, and I arch up in surprise and pleasure.

“Hush.” His voice seems to brush over me like a caress.

“Please,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but once again I’m sweetly assaulted by a burst of cold. This time, he doesn’t pull away. It’s an ice cube, and he traces it over my nipple, down the swell of my breasts. I feel the trickle of water down my cleavage as the ice melts. He traces patterns on me with the melting ice, his hands never touching me, just the cold hardness that’s melting against my skin.

“Please,” I whisper again. I arch up, wanting more, but am stopped by my bindings.

“You’re mine,” he says.

I open my eyes, needing to see his face, but everything around me is gray and out of focus. I am lost in an imagined world.

I am the girl in the painting. Aroused and on display for all the world to see.

“Mine,” he repeats, his body a blurred gray shape above me.

His hands on my breasts are calloused and strong, yet so tender I want to cry. He eases them down, touching every inch of me, tracing my breasts, my rib cage, my belly. I tense as he approaches my pubis, suddenly afraid, but his hands lift and settle again on the outside of my thighs. I am in heaven from his touch. Lost. Floating. Dancing in a haze of pleasure.

But then his hands shift. He takes my knees and gently forces my legs apart. And slowly, so slowly, he glides his palms up my inner thighs.

I tense, and it’s no longer a pleasurable dance but a frightening maelstrom. I try to pull away, but I’m trapped, and he’s coming closer to my secrets. To my scars.

I struggle more. I have to get away, and warning bells are ringing, echoing through the room like red-hot klaxons—

Away,

Away,

Away,

“—awake?”

I’m jolted out of my dream by the sound of Jamie’s voice. “What? I’m sorry, what?”

On the nightstand beside me, my phone is screeching. Outside my doorway, Jamie is shouting.

“I said, ‘Are you awake?’ Because if you are, you need to answer your damn phone.”

Frazzled, I reach for it, and see Carl’s name on the display. I snatch it up, but the call’s already rolled over to voice mail.

With a groan, I slide my legs off the bed and stretch, then glance at the phone again to check the time. Six-fucking-thirty.

Seriously? I mean, is the sun even up yet?

I’m about to call him back when the phone rings yet again, and Carl’s name flashes like neon.

“I’m here,” I say. “I was just about to call you back.”

“Jesus Christ, Fairchild. Where’ve you been?”

“It’s practically dawn. I was in bed.”

“Well, get down here. We’ve got a shitload of work to do. I can’t get the fucking PowerPoint to work right, and we need to print out PDFs of the specs and get the proposal packages bound for Stark and his staff. I need you on it, pronto. Unless you already signed him to the deal last night? Or was there a nonbusiness purpose for his late night phone call to you?” There’s a lascivious tone to the last that I really don’t appreciate, but at least now I know how Justin got my phone number and my address.

“He called to make sure I got home okay,” I lie. “But next time I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give out my cell number without asking me first.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get dressed and get down here. We’ll go from our office to Stark’s at one-thirty.”

I frown, because C-Squared occupies one corner of the eighteenth floor of the Logan Bank Building, and Stark Tower is right next door. In fact, the two buildings share a courtyard and an underground parking garage. “Isn’t the meeting at two?” A snail could make the trek in thirty minutes. We should be able to manage it in five.

“I’m not leaving anything to chance,” Carl says.

I know better than to argue. “I’ll be there in an hour. Tops.”

Jamie looks up as I rush into the kitchen to pop a bagel into the toaster. “Boss on a rampage?”

“Big time.” I bend down and scratch Lady M, who’s making figure eights around my legs. “And he was being oh so snarky about Justin asking me to stay last night.”

“Um, hello? You did get off in the backseat of Mr. Moneybags’s limousine.”

I glare at her, then head for the shower while my bagel toasts. On the way, I pass the flower arrangement. I sigh. Jamie’s right, of course.

I let the water get so hot and steamy it makes my skin turn red. Then I step in, tensing as those first heated drops batter my body, then relaxing as the heat oozes through me. I close my eyes and let the water sluice over me. I feel like I should be angry at myself for letting it get so out of control last night, but I can’t quite work up the lather. It sure as hell wasn’t the most prudent thing I ever did, but I’m a grown-up and so is Stark and there was chemistry and free will and it’s none of Carl’s business anyway.

Which would be all good and well if I didn’t have to see the man today. Or, rather, the men. One who’s a lascivious jerk. And one who I’m afraid is going to distract me and throw me off my game.

And what if he surreptitiously shows me my panties?

Enough.

I can’t think about it anymore or I’ll go crazy, so I focus on finishing my shower and getting dressed. I choose a black skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket. Not a suit, because this is Saturday and because I’m working in the tech field and clean jeans are about as fashionable as we tend to get, but I just can’t do a meeting in jeans. The shoes are a bit of a problem because my feet ache, but I jam them into my favorite black pumps anyway. I go easy on the makeup, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and, voilà, dressed in fifteen minutes. I think that’s a personal best.

I grab my purse and my bagel, but I don’t bother with cream cheese—with my luck I’d drop it and have to go the entire day with a creamy white smear on my black skirt. Then I shout goodbye to Jamie and head out the door.

I pause immediately, realizing that I’ve just stepped on a large yellow envelope that someone has left on the doormat. I pick it up. It’s light, with minimal bulk. A sheaf of papers or something similar. I turn it over and see that it has my name on it, along with the sticker from a local messenger service. I roll my eyes. Carl.

With the envelope tucked under my arm, I head to my car. If I’m going to be on time, I’ll have to read it at the stoplights.

My usual commute-time entertainment is the news, but I can’t stomach it today, so as I pull out onto Ventura Boulevard, I let the radio scan through static, evangelical stations, talk shows, and blaring rap music. I really need to get a new radio, the kind with a plug for an iPod. Finally the tuner lands on an oldies station, and by the time I enter the 101 freeway, I’m jamming with Mick as he and the Stones sing about not getting any satisfaction. I grin. At least last night I was one up on Jagger.

I pull into my assigned space in a remote corner of the underground parking lot exactly forty-seven minutes from the time Carl called, which probably breaks some Los Angeles speed record. I don’t leave the car immediately, though, because I still haven’t looked at the envelope, and if it’s about the presentation, Carl’s going to expect me to know the details cold.

I slide my finger under the flap and open it, then tilt the envelope sideways. A copy of Forbes falls into my lap, and I realize that I am grinning. There’s a note paper-clipped to the outside of the magazine. I told you I was tenacious. Read and learn. There’s no signature, but the From the Desk of Justin J. Stark stationery is a big clue.

I’m still smiling as I tuck the magazine in my oversized purse. So he’s tenacious, is he? Well, I can believe that. But my decision still stands. Just like I told Jamie, I can’t let this go any further.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not moved by his gesture. Not only did he remember a throwaway comment from our banter at the art show, but he actually sent the magazine all the way to my house.

“What are you grinning about?” Carl demands as I push through the glass doors into the aquarium-style conference room that is the focal point of the C-Squared offices. But he doesn’t really want my answer. He’s already looking me up and down, nodding, and saying, “Good. Good. You look professional, businesslike. Yeah. I’d give you money. So long as you don’t screw up the slideshow.”

“I won’t,” I say, grateful that he’s not mentioning last night or Justin or late night phone calls.

Carl preps with the intensity of a criminal defense attorney preparing for the trial of the century. His organizational system is a thing to be marveled at, and in the relatively short time since yesterday afternoon he’s completely revamped our presentation outline.

I ask a ton of questions and make at least as many suggestions, and instead of falling back on his asshat personality, Carl responds thoughtfully, answering my questions, considering my ideas, implementing them when they make sense, and taking the time to explain when he decides to pass on one of my proposals.

I’m in heaven. I’ve reviewed the specs of the 3-D modeling program enough to know that I could be a valuable member of the tech team, possibly even the team leader. But being a project leader or even a manager isn’t my goal. I want to be Carl. Hell, I want to be Justin Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-ass presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I’ve been toying with since my last year at UT.

Today I’m going to get to see two entrepreneurs in action. Carl, who rarely fails to get financing for any project he pitches. And Justin Stark, who has never said yes to a project that didn’t ultimately exceed expectations and make a fortune for both him and the underlying company.

The conference room table is littered with paper, electronic tablets, and notebook computers. While the rest of the team scurries about, Brian and Dave, the two lead programmers who had worked with Carl developing the software, bang away at the notebooks, fine-tuning the presentation slideshow and doing dry runs of the software with a staggering number of parameters.

Carl paces, his eagle eye on everyone. “We’re doing this right,” he says. “No fuck-ups. No slips. A well-oiled ship.” He narrows his eyes at Dave. “Go order up some sandwiches for lunch, but I swear to God, if anyone goes to that meeting with mustard on their shirt, I am firing his ass right then and there.”

At one-thirty sharp, Carl, Brian, Dave, and I gather our things and march mustard-free to the elevator. Carl fidgets during the entire eighteen-story descent. He looks at himself so often in the mirrored wall panels that I am tempted to tell him he makes a beautiful bride. Wisely, I keep my mouth shut.

Of course, once we cross the courtyard and enter the ultra-modern Stark Tower, I’m the one who fidgets. My nervousness exists on so many levels that I can’t even rally and organize my thoughts. There’s the basic flutter of nerves simply from the thought of seeing Stark again. Then there’s the fear that he’s going to say something during the meeting—not necessarily even something suggestive. But God forbid he should say the word “phone.” Or “ice.” It’ll throw me off my game completely.

I stop worrying long enough to sign in at the security desk, which is really more of a console, sleek and efficient. Two guards sit behind it, one typing something and the other efficiently taking and scanning our drivers’ licenses.

“All checked in,” the guard, whose nametag reads Joe, says. “You’re cleared to the penthouse,” he adds, handing us each a guest badge.

“The penthouse?” Carl repeats. “Our meeting’s at Stark Applied Technology.” The company is one of many owned by Stark and housed in this building. Tech companies, charitable foundations, companies that do things I probably haven’t even thought about. I glance down at the list of business names on the backlit console. All of them, I realize, are somehow related to Stark International. In other words, all of them are related to Justin Stark. Whatever I thought I knew was wrong; I have no concept of the wealth and power that Mr. Justin Stark commands.

“Yup, all the way up,” Joe is saying to Carl. “On Saturdays, Mr. Stark takes meetings in the penthouse conference room. Use the last elevator bank on the end. Here’s your card key to access the penthouse.”

My nervousness returns in the elevator. And this time it’s not just about seeing Justin. It’s about the presentation, too. I latch onto that. Work nerves are much better than sex nerves.

As Joe had said, we arrive at the penthouse quickly and smoothly. Carl and I are standing near the elevator doors when they open, with Brian and Dave behind us guiding the rolling cases that house all of our presentation materials. At first, I can only stand and gape. I’m staring at a stunning, yet comfortable, reception area.

One wall is made entirely of glass and presents a magnificent vista of the hills of Pasadena. At least a dozen Impressionist paintings line the other walls, each simply framed so as to keep the focus on the art and not the package. Each is individually lit and together they present an array of nature scenes. Verdant fields. Sparkling lakes. Vibrant sunsets. Impressive mountain ranges.

The art gives a soft, welcoming quality to the polished reception area, as does the coffee bar that stands off to one side, silently inviting guests to help themselves, and then take a seat on the black leather sofa. A smattering of magazines covers a coffee table, the topics ranging from finance to science to sports to celebrity. Off to the side, a foosball table adds a bit of whimsy.

A reception desk dominates the room, its surface cleared of everything except an appointment calendar and a phone. At the moment, it is unmanned. I’m wondering if Justin doesn’t keep a receptionist working on Saturdays when a tall, lithe brunette appears in the hallway leading off to the left. She smiles at us, revealing perfect teeth. “Mr. Rosenfeld,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Ms. Peters, Mr. Stark’s weekend assistant. I’d like to welcome you and your team to the penthouse. Mr. Stark is very much looking forward to your presentation.”

“Thank you,” Carl says. He looks a little intimidated. Behind me, Brian and Dave are a cacophony of shifting feet and rustling clothes. They are definitely a little intimidated.

Ms. Peters leads us down a wide hallway to the right and into a conference room so huge that NFL teams could practice there. It’s then that I realize that the penthouse office takes up a full half of the top story. The elevator rose in the center of the building, and the side we’re on is roughly shaped like a rectangle, with the reception area in the middle, the conference room on one side, and Stark’s office on the other.

But that means that there is an entire half a story behind us. Does Stark’s office flow into that space as well? Is some other CEO subletting from Stark?

I’m not sure why I’m so curious, but I am, and so I ask Ms. Peters about the building’s layout.

“You’re right,” she says. “The office area of the penthouse takes up only half the square footage. The rest of the space constitutes one of Mr. Stark’s private residences. We call it the Tower Apartment.”

“Oh,” I say, wondering how many residences Justin Stark has. I don’t ask, though. I’ve already pushed the bounds of nosiness.

Ms. Peters points out the hidden wet bar built into one wall. “It’s fully stocked. Help yourself to orange juice, coffee, water, soda. Or if you need it to calm your nerves, you’re more than welcome to have something stronger.” She says the last with a smile, her voice full of humor. But honestly, at the moment I’m thinking that a double shot of bourbon might be just the ticket.

“I’ll leave you to set up,” Ms. Peters says. “If you need anything, just buzz me. Mr. Stark is finishing a call. I expect he’ll join you in ten minutes.”

It turns out to be twelve. Twelve long minutes during which I alternate between working feverishly to set up our showcase and worrying nervously about how I’ll react when I see him again.

And then the twelve minutes are over and Justin is striding into the conference area. The moment he enters the space, the air shifts. This is his territory, and though he doesn’t say a word, power and authority seem to cling to him, and the two men who enter behind him are little more than afterthoughts. Every movement is controlled, every glance has purpose. There can be no doubt that Justin Stark is the one in charge, and I feel a strange little surge of pride that this exceptional man not only wanted me, but has touched me so intimately.

He’s wearing jeans and a tan sport coat over a pale blue shirt. The top button is undone, and the ensemble gives him a casual, approachable quality. I wonder if he dressed that way on purpose in an attempt to make his guests more at ease. Just as quickly, I realize that of course he did. I can’t imagine that Justin Stark does anything without fully understanding the impact his actions will have.

“Thank you all for meeting here. On the weekends I like to work out of the penthouse. The change of pace reminds me that it’s time to kick back a little.” He turns to his two companions and introduces them as Preston Rhodes, the new head of acquisitions, and Mac Talbot, a new member of the product acquisition team. Then Stark shakes Brian’s and Dave’s hands, taking the time to chat briefly with each. They still look nervous, but I think that he’s soothed them enough that neither of the boys will botch the presentation by pushing a wrong button with a shaky finger.

He greets me next. Acceptable, polite, professional. But when he pulls his hand away, there’s the slightest curve of his finger, so that he gently strokes my palm. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I choose to take it as an acknowledgment that last night happened, but that today is only about the presentation.

All that in one little touch. I smile, and as I take my seat at the table, I realize that I’m much calmer. Whether he intended it to or not, Stark’s touch has soothed me.

Finally, he shakes Carl’s hand and greets him as if they’re the best of friends. They chat about vintage LPs—apparently Carl collects them—and the weather and the traffic on the 405. His intent is clear—he’s putting Carl at ease, and he’s done it so skillfully I can’t help but admire his technique. Finally, Stark takes a seat at the conference table, but not at the head. Instead, he sits opposite me, his long legs stretched out. He gestures to the head of the table and tells Carl to begin whenever he’s ready.

I’ve seen the presentation so many times that I mostly tune it out, focusing instead on Stark’s reaction. The technology really is amazing. Video footage of athletes is analyzed using a series of proprietary algorithms that translate anatomical movement into spatial data sets. Stats from each player are mapped against the data. Then, taking into account the player’s particular body structure and metrics, the software provides concrete suggestions for improving performance. But what is truly revolutionary is that those suggestions are demonstrated in holographic form so that the athletes and their coaches can see the actual position adjustments necessary for improvement.

Every article I’ve read about Stark mentions how brilliant he is, but today I get to see that intellect in action. He asks all the right questions from theoretical to applied to marketing and sales. When Carl raves and crows instead of letting the product speak for itself, Stark shuts that down so skillfully that I don’t think Carl even notices. He’s direct and to the point, efficient without being rude, firm without being patronizing. The man may have made his original fortune on a tennis court, but as I watch him, I have no doubt that business and science are in his blood.

Stark asks questions of all of us, including Brian and Dave, who gape and mumble but manage to articulate responses under Stark’s easy but firm control of the conversation.

He turns to me next and asks a technical question about one of the key equations at the heart of the primary algorithm. I can see Carl out of the corner of my eye, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to have a heart attack. This question is very firmly outside of my job description. But I’ve done my homework, and I use the virtual whiteboard to show Stark the mathematical underpinnings of the equation. I even go so far as to address the anticipated consequences of a few hypothetical adjustments that Stark suggests. At the head of the table, Carl sags in relief.

I’ve obviously impressed my boss. But what’s more satisfying is that I’ve impressed Stark. I can’t say the satisfaction rises to the same level as last night, but it comes pretty damn close.

When the meeting finally wraps up, I can tell that Carl is having a hell of a time playing the cool, calm professional. He knows too well that the whole thing went over fabulously. Stark’s interested in the product and impressed by the team. In this business, it doesn’t get much better than that.

We’re just about to start the round of goodbyes and handshakes when Ms. Peters steps in, her expression tightly efficient. “I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Stark, but you asked me to inform you if Mr. Padgett returned to the building.”

“He’s here now?” I watch as Stark’s expression shifts from casual and calm to hard and dangerous.

“Security just called up. I assume you’d like to speak to them?”

Stark nods, then turns to face us. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. There’s a situation that demands my attention. I’ll be in touch next week.” He glances at Ms. Peters. “If you could see our guests out?”

“Of course, sir.”

His eyes meet mine, but they are unreadable. And then he steps out of the conference room and disappears down the hall. The sense of loss from his departure surprises me, but I say my goodbyes to his colleagues, then turn my attention to helping Brian pack one of the cases, all the while afraid that everyone in the room can read my expression.

After Ms. Peters has put us on the elevator and the door has firmly closed, Carl does such a funky little jig that I can’t help but laugh. “That was great,” I say. “Thank you so much for letting me be here for this.”

Carl spreads his arms in a magnanimous gesture. “Hey, we’re a team. And we all kicked some ass.” The elevator doors open onto the lobby, and Carl swings his arms jovially around Brian’s and Dave’s shoulders. They valiantly try to move with their boss and still drag the rolling cases. I’m about to take pity on them when I hear my name.

I look up and see Joe the security guard gesturing toward me. “Ms. Fairchild? If you have a moment?” He’s holding a phone to his ear.

“Yes?” I say, hurrying to the guard desk.

Joe holds up a finger in a just a moment gesture. I glance sideways at Carl, who’s looking at me with an unmistakable what the fuck? expression. I shrug, just as clueless as my boss.

Joe says something I can’t hear, then hangs up the phone. “You’re wanted upstairs, ma’am.”

“Upstairs?”

“Back in the penthouse,” he says. “Mr. Stark would like to see you.”

Behind me, I see Dave and Brian nudge each other. Great. Apparently Carl shared his suspicions with the staff. Maybe by tomorrow there’ll be an interoffice memo.

“Now’s not a good time,” I tell the guard. “I’m on my way to a team meeting.”

“Mr. Stark was very insistent.”

I bet he was. An unpleasant heaviness starts to settle over me. I spent most of my life being told exactly where to be, where to stand, what to do, and when to do it. I squeeze my right hand into a tight fist and force myself to smile at Joe. “I’m sure he’ll find something else to occupy his time this afternoon. But if he calls my office, I’ll be happy to work him into my schedule next week.”

Joe’s eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open a little, as if his jaw is made of rubber. I have the feeling nothing like this has happened before. People don’t say no to Justin Stark.

I toss my shoulders back a little, liking the new Selena. “Shall we?” I say to Carl and the boys.

Carl frowns. “Maybe you—”

“No,” I say. “If he wants to talk about the project, we can all go back up.” In the distance, I hear the ding of an elevator, the sound punctuating my resolve.

“And if it’s not the project he wants to see you about?” Carl asks, looking at me hard.

I stare back, just as coolly. “Then he doesn’t need to see me, does he?” I stand firm, daring Carl to send me up there. He did it once at the party. If he does it again in the lobby of Stark’s building, it really isn’t going to be pretty.

After a moment, he nods. “Come on. Champagne’s waiting.”

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