Outside the Lines(12)

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“You should dress up like this more often,” Cameron says, scrolling through Facebook. “You’re hot.”

I look up from the computer and make a face. “Would you pay me more if I dressed up?”

He raises his eyebrows. “No, but I—”

“Then it’s not worth it.” I quickly type out a code, press enter, then save my progress. “What do you think?” I ask and push my feet against the floor, causing my rolling chair to scoot away from the desk. I yawn and grab my coffee at the last minute, before I’m too far to reach it. It’s Monday morning. I need all the coffee I can get today. Cameron leans in, clicking through the website.

“It looks great! Way better than what the client paid for,” he only half jokes. “Seriously. You’re good, Lissy.”

“Thanks. And really, it was easy.”

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he says quietly. “As much as I don’t want to lose you, I feel like you’re wasting your talents here.”

I shrug off the compliment. “When the CIA seeks me out to be part of a top-secret hacker group, I’ll quit.”

Cameron rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you apply? You don’t have to be kidnapped in a black windowless van to get a job with the government, you know.”

“I do,” I say. “And I’ve looked into it. I’ll think about it.” I’ve opened the online application many times. Not just the CIA either. The FBI or Homeland Security would work too. And I’m sure there were other even more secret groups out there too. I wouldn’t exactly be Black Widow, but fighting cybercrime would be badass enough for me.

“So,” I say with a sigh. “Do I have to go to that appointment now?”

Cameron checks the time. “You got some time. What do you want for lunch? Thai food?”

I smile. “Aww, you know me so well.”

“More than I wish I did,” he shoots back. “Your usual?”

I nod and log onto my company email to message the art director about the garden website. Assuming he approves the graphics I added this morning, I’m done. I grab my phone and scroll through Pinterest, pinning fan-made memes of my favorite shows until Cameron texts me to tell me lunch is here.

No one really cares that I’m friends with the boss, but Cam worries about his boss coming down hard on him for being so casual with me. There are no official policies against it, but it’s “frowned upon” by the guys upstairs. Whatever. Buying me lunch as a thank you is harmless, if you ask me. I sit in the breakroom, half paying to the Steve Wilkos show as I eat my spicy noodles until I have to go.

I tell the people at On Star the address and get directions sent over, then drive halfway across town to a fancy art gallery, owned by a Mr. Hartford. I park and pull down the mirror, running my hands through my hair, which had gotten messy from the wind blowing through the open windows.

A little bit of dread goes through me when I get out of the car. I take a breath, finding my resolve, and think about Black Widow again. I push my shoulders back and walk into the lobby. Cold air hits me, making goosebumps break out over my arms.

I’m standing in a small foyer-ish lobby, with dark wooden floors and what I guess is the original tin-tiled ceiling. The lights are dimmed and weird; abstract art hangs on the walls. There are teeny-tiny handwritten price tags under each painting. My eyebrows hike up and I shake my head. Those things each cost my month’s rent.

“Can I help you?” someone asks, and walks out from behind a satin curtain that’s hanging by a desk.

“Yeah,” I say and turn. “I’m here to—” I cut off when the familiar face of Mindy fucking Abraham comes into view.

Her brows push together. “Felicity?”

Dammit. I can’t lie about who I am now, even though my first thought is to switch to a British accent and call myself Emma.

“I’m here to help you with the computer issues you’re having. Customer service and all,” I finish, bypassing her question again.

She blinks a few times. “Right, right.” She smiles pleasantly and turns, waving me to follow her. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a perfect French twist, not a strand out of place, and her pencil skirt is the perfect combination of tight and work-appropriate, as well as the gray satin blouse she has on. There isn’t a single run in her panty-hose, and her tall black heels click on the floor.

I shake myself, digging my nails into my palms. I’m not standing in the high school cafeteria, cheeks burning from the heat of embarrassment as she points and laughs at how my Spiderman lunch box matches the patches of red skin on my arms.