For the next hour, that’s exactly what she does. She goes over clauses, meanings, and parameters. She also tells me she’s already copyrighted my source code to protect it from being stolen, and is working on getting a patent for a few of the more technical points.
“You’re leasing your beta-version algorithm to the team for soleuse, not for inspection or development,” she says in summary. “In return, they will grant you freedom to be the onlyuserof it during the term of this contract—through this season.” She smiles. “That way, no tech bros will have the opportunity to eventryto steal it.”
I frown. “Then what’s the point of leasing it? I was already going to push to be the person who actually uses it. It’s still in early versions, so few people would even understand how to properly prompt the program in real-time.”
“Pushingis not legal terminology.” Delilah rolls her eyes. “Trust me on this. The catch is that you cannot share it with anyone else until the end of the season—even investors, which means you’ll have to wait on those. But I wouldn’t worry too much. Holding out for a bit is how you build interest and prove the value of your work.”
“I don’t care about—”
She leans forward and slaps a hand over my mouth. “Yes, you do. Trust me. I had a friend from Harvard Law review the basics of what you’re doing. You will make an obscene amount of money on this.”
I pull my head back. “Whatever. But what if I stay in F1 and only use it for whatever team hires me?”
“Your source code is versatile, yes? Build versions applicable to different industries. License those versions out to the highest bidder.”
My head is starting to spin from the possibilities of actually getting rich on a passion project. I’ve never really been fueled by money. It sucks to have to check my bank account every time I want to eat out, but I’d rather be struggling and happy than rich and miserable, which is what I’ve seen wealth do to people, again and again.
My half-siblings might be rolling in money, but they also haveseriousproblems. Drug addictions. Long stints in rehab. Public, ill-advised marriages and even more public divorces.
“I’ll think on it.”
“You do that. And, while you’re doing that, work on it.” Delilah sits back and checks the time on your phone. “Huh. That only took an hour. We’re making good time.”
“Good time on what?” I frown. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “But there is someone else who broke his tour schedule to—” she cuts off when there’s a knock on the door. “And there our drama-queen is.”
My lips part. Keith wanted to be here terribly, but he was stuck on a tour in Europe. Did he…?
I launch out of my seat like a rocket, fly over to the door, and wrench it open so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off the hinges.
“My god, the iceberg was right. Youdolook like shit,” Keith says.
“And you look like the meanest pretty-boy I’ve ever seen.” My voice is faintly choked. Keithdoeslook as beautiful as ever, like a modern-day Adonis. Perfectly blonde, stylishly cut and fluffed hair. Brilliant eyes like glittering emeralds. The lean physique of a swimmer or runner, and facial features so symmetrical, it’s hard not to feel ugly next to him.
I haven’t been near Keith and Delilah at the same time inages;we’re all constantly busy and our schedules never quite match up. But he’s here—they’rebothhere to support me in my time of need.
“As long as I’m pretty, who cares how bitchy I am? Now, I understand a fortuitous late departure means I’ve missed the boring parts of this meet-and-greet. So, why don’t we order a bottle of obscenely expensive wine and gossip?”
“God, I’ve missed you.” I don’t know how I get the words past the tightness in my throat.
“Of course you have, my love. Let’s get drunk and catch up.”
“Already ahead of you, pretty-boy,” Delilah calls out. “We’ve got three bottles of wine on the way.”
And, just like that, one of the darkest moments of my life starts to feel just alittlebit brighter.
Too much sweet wine and a large plate of fries to wash it down later, the three of us are sprawled out on the bed. Keith is painting my nails with a studious expression—he proclaimed that nothing is more important than looking fabulous even when you feel like shit—and Delilah is, of course, reading a nonfiction book, though she looks markedly more relaxed than when she walked in here. Her hair is even down from the twist, framing her face in vibrant blonde locks.
A silly romcom plays on the flatscreen TV across from the bed, but none of us are paying attention.
We haven’t had a night like this in years—it’s been long overdue.
“So,” Keith purrs. “Nine inches? Ten?”
“People need to stop asking me about that,” I mutter into the pillow, wincing when Keith tightens his hold on my finger until it hurts.
“Eleven, then.” Keith winces. “No wonder you’re making him chase you. Dealing with an asshole who’s packing a kraken is hard.”
