I want to roll my eyes, but I actually kind of understand what they’re saying, thinking of the canvas in my room, the painting I’ve been working on of the view outside my window.
When I emerge, stomach growling for my dinner—which I didn’t dare eat in my new clothes—I find them holding the nice credit card, staring down at it and whispering to each other intently.
“What?” I ask, reaching for it on instinct. They let me take it, sharing a look.
“Lucy,” Julian says, his voice thick with excitement. “Thatis not a company credit card.Lookat it.”
Frowning, I turn it over, my mind going blank when I see the name printed right there on the back, right above the numbers.
Dane Rourke.
“That is hispersonalcard,” Julian says, standing up and bringing his hand to his mouth, his eyes sparkling at me. “Holyshit, Lucy?—”
“It was probably a mistake…”
“Dane Rourke doesn’tmakemistakes,” Julian insists, and I have to agree with him, after knowing him for only a day. It doesn’t seem likely he would give me the wrong card.
But that doesn’t mean I can allow the other explanation—that Rourkewantedme to have his personal card. Now, the thing feels hot to the touch in my hands, despite the fact that the metal is, objectively, cold.
“I’m his assistant now,” I whisper, keeping my voice as level as possible as I stare down at it. “So, it only makes sense that he would trust me with his card. I’ll probably need to use it for all sorts of stuff.”
Julian looks like he has to pee, the way he’s practically hopping from foot to foot, and Aunt Ruby appears cautiously interested. Pudding, as usual, doesn’t seem to care about what’s going on around her.
“Well, I suppose we’ll see,” she says, before stretching, yawning, and announcing it’s time for her to go to bed.
It’s barely seven, but she’s been like this since I got here—going to bed at weird times. It’s either while the sun is still out, the middle of the night, or, sometimes, not at all. And somehow, she seems to have more energy than I do, even though she’s thirty years older than me.
After we say goodbye to Julian and I clean up the mess from dinner, I’m alone in my room, the black box Rourke gave me practically staring me down from the dresser.
Standing, I walk over to it like it might run away from me, biting my lip and running a finger over the outside of the box.
If you’re going to be working here, then you need to be well-acquainted with the product.
I shiver again at the memory of his voice, swallowing hard when I’m able to call it up again like he’s here in the room with me. Closing my eyes, I open the magnetic lid and trail my fingers over the toys.
They’re almost… soft. Inviting.
I’d read more about the products in an article quoting the Chief Technology Officer, Cole Davenport. I got the sense that he didn’t really want to be interviewed, but also that he was proud of the technology.
“…have the finest medical-grade silicone, finely-tuned motors with machine learning. Temperature control, dynamic touch from nano-bots within the silicone that goes far beyond what a simple rotating ball bearing could otherwise accomplish.”
Now, I’m holding one of them in my hand.
I turn it over, something hot and sticky—almost like shame—running over my skin.
It’s not like my parents ever directly demonized sex or pleasure. We got plenty of that from outside sources, namely youth groups and the general small-town culture. I’d never had terribly strong sexual urges, completely disgusted by the boys in my class, and thought that was just fine.
If there was no temptation to give into, I could be a good girl very easily.
But then I got to college, and suddenly, I felt completely out of my depth. Sex was a possibility far, far on the horizon, impossible to grasp without going through the barrier of finding the right guy.
And college guys didn’t seem that much better than the high school boys. In fact, they really weren’t, only a few years removed from hollering down the hallways and smacking books from people’s hands.
So, I did nothing. Focused on my studies. Spent my weekends with Frankie. Ignored the flutter I got when aprofessor twice my age handed back a paper with a pointed, “Greatwork.”
Now, my curiosity outweighs the shame, and I walk over to my bed. My heart pounds thickly in my ears, just like it did when I was with Rourke earlier, his gaze on me as I opened the box.
Did that…dosomething for him?
