Page 17

Ten

T hree hundred seconds.

As in, that’s how long I set the timer for before I dive into my spaceship.

People have sex in less time. Since it’s crunch time at work and mere days before my demo, I need to limit my diversions.

I hurtle through the near empty vacuum, making for my favorite asteroid.

Stars stream past my viewport in a burst of light.

No time for photos. When I land, faster than is safe, my ship wobbles.

The world tilts forty-five degrees. No sandworms, no fatal space debris, no meteoroid. Victory is mine!

As soon as I’m suited up, I sprint out the hatch, land hard on the rocky surface, and take off for the gulch.

Forty-two seconds into my countdown, I’m tunneling into a vein of glittering pink, scraping delicately at the asteroid’s surface.

Bits of nickel-iron float past me. My gloved fingers close around a rough pink stone.

It’s translucent, like a gummy treat, and the size of my fist, its surface rippled and cratered.

Holy shizzballs. It’s the biggest space diamond ever.

I grab it. I might fist pump because this is so awesome.

Clang.

Clang.

CLANG.

I jump reflexively. The world is ending. Space monsters have invaded (I unfortunately coded them into this universe on a grumpy day, proving you truly do reap what you sow). The space diamond slips out of my fingers and bounces down, down, down into a crevasse. It winks a fuck-you up at me.

CLAAAAAANG.

Since I’m running on no sleep, I rub my eyes and consider my retrieval options.

Also, murder. Satisfying, vengeful felonies.

Klaxons sound. Sirens. Lasers. You are a screwup , Darth Vader intones from my work laptop.

The one thing programming for a living has taught me is that there is never, ever enough time and that coding sprints are not for the weak.

When the timer goes off, I’m still mourning the space diamond I almost had.

My apartment is a mess of abandoned snack wrappers, empty coffee cups, a bra (my least favorite implement of torture), socks, blankets, a blizzard of sticky notes and half-erased whiteboards.

I turn back to the piece of code that has been frustrating me for the last two hours.

I’ve got this. I’ve fixed worse, so I’m not too worried.

CLANG.

I’m merely deafened. Unable to focus. Absolutely 100 percent peeved. Who works out at two in the morning?

Ozzy’s phone number winks at me from the whiteboard on my fridge. I can’t even rage-erase it because he used a goddamned Sharpie . The pink kissy heart he scrawled next to his digits days ago mocks me. You will have to TALK to me.

I am surprised by the (unsuccessful) lengths to which I’ll go to avoid that.

Wall banging? Fail.

Passive-aggressive notes? Also fail.

Beaten down, I concede defeat and shoot him a text: How’s your hearing? Are you deaf from all that noise?

Punching the Send button is satisfying, but then I instantly want to unsend it. Questions invite Ozzy to engage. I want to exile him to an ice floe in Antarctica.

Ozzy’s response is to add music to the clanging. He is diabolical. After ninety wasted seconds glaring at my phone, willing him to reply and/or turn down his volume, I give up temporarily and go back to work.

My laptop spawns bugs like a cicada brood emerging from a seventeen-year hibernation.

An hour later the clanging ceases, but the music continues on. And on. And on. Perhaps his weight-lifting apparatus has fallen over and he’s trapped. Maybe he desperately wants to turn off his music but can’t. It’s…possible?

I code sprint for thirty minutes and then I’m done. Ish. I stumble upstairs to my bed. My beautiful, beautiful bed.

Must. Lie. Down.

The clanging restarts.

“You hate me.” Before I can think it through, I’m down the stairs, feet slapping against the floor.

I slam my door. Take that, Ozzy Wylder. Take a right. Sprint the ten feet to his door (aka the portal of hell).

Feet planted on his doormat, which features two procreating pineapples, I hammer on his door. There’s a mutant seashell the size of my head by my right foot. Somewhere out there in the ocean there’s a crab the size of a dog. I hope it pinches Ozzy’s balls.

I hammer some more. The soundproofing issue must be limited to the wall between our lofts because it’s remarkably silent in the hallway. There’s just a whisper of music. I’d lie down here and go to sleep, but Ozzy would just step over—or on—my body on his way out in the morning.

The door flies open mid-hammer. I fall forward because the laws of gravity are in full effect.

“Hey, neighbor.” Strong hands catch me and reposition me on my feet.

I should thank him. Or do it again. Except my brain goes offline.

Middle-of-the-night Ozzy wears just a pair of low-slung athletic shorts made of black nylon. The shorts stop just above his knees. Dip over his hip bones. Frame his perfect, perfect V-cut. He hasn’t bothered with underwear and the synthetic fabric leaves nothing to my imagination.

Ozzy is oblivious to my staring. He removes his hands from my person and does that sexy wall slouching thing. “What’s up? How are you?”

“Uh,” I manage.

He waits.

I stare.

“I’m good,” he prompts. He glistens in the light. The sweat sheen should be unattractive. He should need soap, a shower. Instead, I want to lick him. Drink him in. I am drunk on Ozzy pheromones.

“Are you cold?”

“Excuse me?”

He smiles kindly. “You’re not dressed for the weather.”

He’s the one who is half-naked. Maybe he’s confused by all the music. The constant noise has scrambled his logic circuits. Except. Crapitty crap crap.

I refuse to look down. “Are you interested in what I’m wearing?”

The smile morphs into a devilish grin. “If I say yes, will you be offended?”

His eyes dip. Mine follow. Oh God. In theory, I know what I put on my body seven billion hours ago.

I’d rather forgotten, however, just how ratty this particular pair of sweatpants is.

There are holes (and not the artful, distressed kind).

A bleach stain from where I wrestled with some AWOL chili sauce.

The waistband is folded over to keep them up, which means three inches of my cotton granny panties are visible.

Ordinarily, I’m pro comfort panties. Mine are breathable and they’re covered in tiny spaceships.

Right now, though, they feel like a tactical mistake.

His eyes bounce between my spaceships and my braless boobs in a tank top I bought in high school.

I have no bra. No shoes. No armor. I soldier on. I will die on this hill.

“Please keep the volume down.”

I’ve come prepared. I hand him a printed sheet. It’s the noise regulations for the condo in eighteen-point font. I’ve highlighted the key sections.

He looks down, brow furrowing. Sighs. “Is this your love language, Panda?”

“These are the relevant rules. You’re too loud.” It feels like my face is red. My eyes sting now like a school of jellyfish has taken up residence on my corneas. I’m so tired. So…something. I should turn around and go to bed.

Yes, bed would be brilliant.

Okay.

I’m not moving.

“Uh-oh.” Ozzy shakes his head.

What?

“Quick! Come in!” He shoves the door wide. It hits the wall and flies back toward us. He stops it with one big hand.

I am tired—and ever nosy—because I do as he says. Three steps inside his evil lair, and I can confidently say that the only thing he has added to his loft since my felonious prior visit is a pile of camera equipment on his kitchen counter.

He shuts the door behind us with exaggerated care. “Whew! We were in violation of the no-talking-in-the-halls-after-ten-p.m. rule.”

As if he cares. “Did you lure me in to kill me? Toss my body over the balcony?”

He resumes leaning against the wall, propped up on one bare, broad shoulder, grinning at me. I refuse to fidget with the hem of my tank or cross my arms over my chest. Let him look.

“Your evil lair is looking a little spartan, Sir Surfs-a-lot.”

Now he looks delighted. “Why are you here, Panda?”

“Because you don’t answer your phone,” I grit out.

He walks over to the weight bench and picks up his phone. Types something. “Answered.”

I scoff. “My phone is in my place.”

Along with everything else except myself, three insufficient articles of clothing, and my key card.

Wait. Where is my key card? I look around.

On the ground. Pat my nonexistent pockets.

Crap. I’ve locked myself out. The maintenance guy won’t come on-site for another four hours.

The security dude hates me. I allow myself the luxury of closing my eyes for five seconds. I sway ever so slightly.

Ozzy keeps talking (because of course he does). “Is there a problem? Did you miss me?”

“As if. Why are you like this?”

I’m on autopilot now. I spit out some random words, try to inject a little barb into my tone.

Mostly, though, I’m thinking about how today sucks.

To-do lists and random Java classes from the TripFriendz algorithm float through my brain like soap bubbles.

The bugs, the code reviews, the big-ass presentation I have to deliver tomorrow (today?) to sell that algorithm and land my dream job.

I imagine I must look one part manic, one part frantic. All parts of me are tired. I kind of want to lie down on Ozzy’s floor, pass out, and wake up tomorrow.

Instead, I list against his wall. I look nowhere near as sexy as he does. I’m both tired and wired at the same time thanks to my caffeine consumption. “Fuck,” I tell his floor.

Ozzy pads toward me. Bare feet appear in the corner of my vision and fingers tip my chin up. I should smack his hand, but I don’t.

“Are you okay, Panda?”

No. I’m not. “This is your fault.”

He hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Why?”

Am I acting like a toddler having a meltdown? Yes, but I’m so tired and he’s so right here and I snap.

“Panda?” Ozzy’s voice is steady.

“I’m locked out and I don’t have a key frog.”