Santa's Pet (6 page)

~ Brittney ~

I wash the remnants of Lacy’s garish makeup off my face, kicking off the horrid furry stiletto boots. I can’t get the fishnet stockings off fast enough. Ooops. Guess this pair’s going into the trash. The fur-lined tube is next. I shimmy out of it and throw it in the closet. It’s probably too stretched out for Lacy to wear, and I’ll never need it either.

There’s no time to shower, so I spritz cologne and pull on a pair of jeans, leaving the oversized Shopahol shirt on my back.

Lacy knocks on my bedroom door and steps in with the makeup case. “Remember what Owen said.”

“Not tonight, okay?” Can’t she ever leave me alone?

She’s always been way too bossy, being five years older than me. Family lore says it took my parents five years to recover from the horror known as Lacy Reed, from colic to night frights, prolonged toilet training to trips to the emergency room, and having to baby and childproof from carpet to ceiling, before they were brave enough to adopt me.

Of course, I slept through the night right away and always ate my baby food. I figured out the potty before I was two, and I learned to say “pwease” before I could say “mama” or “dada.” I even dressed myself and got ready for daycare before the parents woke, whereas Lacy had to be dragged kicking and screaming from her bed.

“You’re going to miss dinner if you leave now.” Lacy puts on a concerned look. “Are you sure you have to go in? I thought you could do everything remotely.”

“We can, but forcing people to go in is a way to motivate them not to make mistakes. Everyone responsible for the broken build has to report to the Broken Build Bullpen. Since the build broke in ScrapCloud code, I have to be there to police the fixes.”

“Sounds like punishment.” Her eyebrows crease and her lips twist. “That’s not very motivating.”

“Whatever. You’re no longer working there so it’s not your business.” I grab my laptop bag and turn toward the door. “Not all of us are lucky enough to snag the VP of Marketing.”

“Actually, Brandon gave notice,” Lacy says. “He’s starting a new venture, Appaholics Anonymous, a platform for building and delivering apps and getting paid per use.”

My jaw drops and I wave my hand at her. “How come no one tells me anything?”

“I just told you, didn’t I?” She twirls a strand of her curly red-brown hair around her finger. “It’s a subscription service. Customers pay a flat fee and can download and use as many apps as they please for free. Our platform monitors their usage and pays the developers for the amount of time and features the subscribers use.”

“Uh, sure, sounds wonderful.” I really don’t have time to shoot the breeze with her.

“You should develop a Scrapbooking App for us, strip some of the premium features and set it up on our platform. Then users who really like it can make in-app purchases.”

“Sure, talk later.” I sidestep her, not an easy feat given her big belly. “This explains the sudden push from Jewell for a streamlined shopping app.”

“Yep, but don’t tell anyone. Jewell’s not on board. He’s claiming Brandon’s ideas belong to Shopahol, but we can prove that Shopahol is not in the app delivery business.”

“Unless we develop the platform before yours gets funded and prototyped.” The wheels in my mind are turning. I’d hate to backstab my sister, but Jen had pulled me aside Friday and told me to add an app showcase to the scrapbooks and allow users to share their friend’s apps on a trial basis.

Lacy’s eyes narrow. “You’re not going to spill all this to Jen, your idol, are you? I’m your sister, after all.”

“Of course not.” I zip my lips. “I’m not going to get involved in this. Right now, I have bigger problems with a feature that should have been online on Black Friday.”

“Sure, I trust you.” She pats my arm. “By the way, we’ll beat this lewd conduct thing. You’ll see. Someday, we’ll look back and laugh, but in the meantime, you’re going to look so hot, you’ll make me weep.”

“Why? Won’t you be jealous of Brandon checking me out?” I smirk to tease her.

“Don’t.” She growls and pushes me to the door. “Get to work, girl. Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping and do a makeover.”

I grab my car keys and hurry to my sensible Toyota parked next to Lacy’s bright red Mustang GT. A niggle starts from my heart and works its way to my stomach. Why should she have all the fun?

Turning on my heels, I stride back to the kitchen. Lacy, Brandon, my grandfather Pappy, grandmother Cece, and my parents are in the living room watching a bowl game along with Owen. Their rapt attention is on the boob tube.

No one disturbs me as I replace my keys and snag Lacy’s. She won’t miss her car. Not tonight, anyway.

The car starts with a full-bodied rumble. Oh yeah. I’m taking the top down. After weaving through the town, I zoom onto the freeway and head for the Golden Gate Bridge as the sun sets over the Pacific Ocean.

~ Ben ~

Ben checked into the private fitness club Dominique had set him up with. It was situated in a warehouse area in San Francisco next to a recycling center. The neighborhood looked dumpy, full of storage units, trailers, and the occasional office building, but once he got behind the automatic gates, a newly tarred driveway led into an old aircraft hangar which served as a shaded parking area for the athletes.

Pro players from the San Francisco Bridges, as well as their across the bay rivals, the Oakland Brigands, hung out at the swank club which was equipped with the heaviest weights and the most tortuous exercise machines known to mankind.

A personal trainer was always on duty, so Ben didn’t have to worry about a spotter for the weights he was going to hit.

Adrenaline flooded his veins as he pulled on his workout clothes. He routinely benched four hundred pounds and squatted seven hundred. As for reflexes and agility? He had a forty-inch vertical leap, could broad jump over one-hundred twenty-five inches, and ran the forty-yard dash in a little over four-and-a-half seconds.

Alonzo, one of the trainers, met him at the weight room. “You must be one dedicated hombre working out on a Saturday evening.”

“Yeah, well, if you had the day I had, you’d be pushing pounds too.”

“No date night, or you got some already?” Alonzo lifted his eyebrows. “What are you in for?”

“Hit me with some drop sets.”

“Sure you want to be useless tomorrow?” The trainer grabbed a towel and activated the electronic lock to the weight room.

“Tomorrow’s my endurance day. Going for a long run.” Ben grabbed a towel and a bottle of water.

An hour later, Ben could barely move. Every muscle in his body not only screamed, but was drained to the fullest. Drop sets continually taxed the same muscles by going from heavier weights to progressively lighter ones without resting, until the muscles literally failed.

Alonzo pulled him from the bench. “Okay, jock. To the shower and sauna. Couple of Brigands are there.”

“Sure, thanks.” Ben dragged himself to the shower. He didn’t want to meet up with or speak to anyone, especially if they’d seen the news.

The trainer, of course, was discreet, and never let on whether he’d seen or heard of Ben’s problems at the tree farm. However, he couldn’t count on pro players to consider his feelings, when he was nothing but a college senior whose agent paid for the private club—her investment for her future income stream.

He had finished his shower and was pulling on his clothes when two linebackers closed in on him. Great. One was the all pro linebacker for the Brigands and the other a guy who graduated from his college a few years back. It was too bad they weren’t in the playoffs like the Bridges were, or he would have had the gym to himself, at least on a Saturday night.

“Hey, it’s Bamm-Bamm,” the all pro, Greg Marsh, said. “Can’t believe they let you out of jail.”

“What happened? They couldn’t make it stick?” Josh Carter, the guy from his college, punched his shoulder.

“Nope. They got nothing on me.” Ben zipped up his pants and pulled on a sweatshirt. “Love to chat, but gotta go.”

“Why? Night’s young. We’re heading for the Strip Zone.” Josh leaned his elbow on Ben’s shoulder. “Between you and me, that elf’s nowhere as hot as the babes at the Zone.”

“Yeah, all she has is a giant pair of knockers. You need to hang with us.” Greg chuckled. “When you go pro, you’ll have access to the best tits and ass on the planet.”

Ben’s haunches bristled at the way they knocked Brittney down, as if she were only to be judged by her body. At the same time, it was useless to rile them up. After all, Greg was also a client of Dominique’s and depending on if there were room on the roster for another linebacker or not, they could possibly be teammates, or even better, cross-town rivals.

“I’m calling it a night. You guys go ahead.” Ben pulled on his socks. “My agent wants me to be a good boy until this mess is cleared up.”

“Word of advice,” Greg said. “Don’t let any cheap tramp anywhere near you. That’s why we stick to strippers. Their bosses keep them under control, if you know what I mean.”

What was he talking about? How dare he call Brittney names?

“Look, I really have to go.” Ben slipped on his shoes and stood. “Miss Reed is not a tramp. Her family owns the tree farm and she was helping out. This entire thing was a big misunderstanding.”

“That’s not what your lawyer says.” Josh stared at his phone browser. “She says it’s a case of entrapment. The slut’s suing you for sexual harassment and wants a cut of your future earnings.”

“What? Let me see.” Ben’s entire body glowed red hot.

He swiped the phone from Josh and glared at the article headlined. “For shame. Should an elf dress like this?” Not only that, they’d included unflattering pictures of Brittney and referred to her in bovine terms with several jokes about her udder and running a dairy farm on her own.

“This isn’t right.” Ben’s breath rasped as he scrolled through pages of comments calling Brittney a slut and a whore. “This isn’t what happened.”

He shoved the phone at Josh, grabbed his gym bag, and rushed to his truck. Dammit. Hadn’t Dominique said she wouldn’t represent him if he didn’t respect women?

Then why the hell was she allowing her sister to tar and feather Brittney? No woman deserved this treatment.

Sitting in the cab of his truck, he searched for Brittney on the internet and his jaw hit the floorboards. She was the CEO of ScrapCloud, a multimedia social sharing company in a joint venture with Shopahol International, the world’s premiere shopping referral network. Add to that, Dave Jewell, the CEO of Shopahol, had come out in support of Brittney and was accusing his team of slut-shaming her.

Hadn’t Delaine told him that was her strategy? Why hadn’t he stopped her? He’d been so angry and confused, in panic mode. But that wasn’t an excuse. He had to do something to stop the attacks on Brittney.

Ben called Dominique on her cell phone. She didn’t pick up so he left a message.

“Have you seen the trash they’re posting about Brittney Reed? Call off your sister right away and issue retractions, or I’m turning myself in to the police and pleading guilty.”

~ Brittney ~

“No social media. Turn off those cell phones right now.” I hold up my hand as I walk into the Broken Build Bullpen and glare at the three programmers and the build engineer working on the new shopping feature called Monkey-See. Its main feature is to allow shoppers to be notified whenever their friends buy something online, so they can also place an order with a single click.

Samantha Reed, my cousin, is the one who broke the build when she checked in the permissions module with the wrong encryption type. At the moment, none of the friends are able to give permission for their shopping scrapbook to be followed, and Marketing is going crazy since this feature is being tested at Mississippi Online, Shopahol’s largest customer.

“The quicker we fix and rebuild the system, the faster we can all go home,” I say, eyeing the engineers. “No one leaves until automation tests have passed. Downtime in the middle of the Christmas shopping season is unacceptable, and you all should have integrated your code before checking it in.”

This is a speech I’ve given many times before. Usually, my team simply nods and turns to their work. But tonight, they stare at me, their eyes shifting from one to another. Samantha opens and closes her mouth as if she wants to say something. The others fidget, their knees popping or tapping their fingers.

“Okay, what’s up? Spit it out. We don’t have all night.”

They look at each other, as if nominating a spokesperson, and finally, Samantha speaks out. “Are you sure Monkey-See is our first priority?”

“Of course it is,” I reply. “Mrs. Jewell herself called and said the build was broken. She said the Mississippi CEO called her to complain.”

“Oh, then you must not have read your email,” Samantha says, twirling her dark brown hair. “There’s a new marketing executive and she says Monkey-See might violate privacy and has to be opted in for each purchase.”

“This might not be so easy if each and every purchase has to be opted in and checked.” My brain spins faster.

“I think you better read your email or talk to Mrs. Jewell,” Samantha says. “Monkey-See is on hold. I mean, I’ll fix the code, but there’s rumors that TrophyShots is coming up with an app sharing platform. They’re already ahead of us with their browser add-on games and in-app purchases.”

“I know about TrophyShots. They’re a bunch of crooks.” I seethe under my breath. “Get this thing fixed and we can all go home.”

“Sure, cousin.” Samantha swivels her chair around. “Except the new Shopahol marketing VP came from TrophyShots.”

“I knew that,” I lie and turn away from the bullpen.

Why does nobody tell me these things?

I wander to my office and unlock the door. I know I’m supposed to stay in the bullpen and monitor or supervise, but such overtly aggressive tactics would only make the engineers nervous and resentful. Lacy is right, calling everyone to work in the middle of a Saturday evening is punitive. But then, if they weren’t all together, the fix would take longer as each person would have to wait for an email or text from their teammate between each step, which would increase the turnaround time.

Yawning, I wake up my laptop and check my email. There is a new VP of Marketing coming in, but Samantha has misinterpreted the email. Monkey-See is on hold until we can solve the security problems. There’s a report of a hacker exposing the sex-toy purchases of an actress to those beyond her social circles, and Mississippi has shut down the feature until a new encryption scheme is approved. This definitely is a shit storm in the making. I wonder what they’re saying on social media?

My face turns up the heat when I search on the actress’s name, Amy Suzuki. Crap. People are calling her names and making fun of her. This is so unfair. Just because she bought a sex toy is no reason for people to call her a slut. I can see how this Monkey-See feature might be a bad. Wasn’t it Brandon’s idea? I bet Lacy suggested it. She’s the one into sharing all her personal details online.

With everything going on, I haven’t had a chance to check out Ben Powers. He’s in more trouble than me because of the indecent exposure charge. Poor guy. His football career could be ruined.

My jaw, stomach, and heart plummet to the center of the earth as soon as the search results return. Ben Powers’ hired gun is all over the internet calling me a loose woman and shaming me for wearing a provocative elf outfit. She’s even claiming I’m corrupting the morals of minors.

“Why, that bastard.” I almost throw my laptop. Forget about feeling sorry for him. He’s destroying my good name.

Tears rim my eyes as I read the comments. Everyone seems to be on his side, and the names they call me fry every hair on my head. The horrid pictures make me look worse than that singer who twerked at a music awards ceremony. But the most hurtful are the names I’m being called in the comments. Slut. Whore. Ho. Skank. Tramp. Heifer. Cow. Milkmaid. Gold digger.

I can’t believe Grandpa Powers would let his grandson do this to me.

~ Ben ~

“I have to speak to her,” Ben shouted over the phone at his grandfather. “Come on, you know her phone number.”

“What do you want? A restraining order?” Grandpa’s voice is stern. “Leave this to the lawyers. You already told yours to leave off.”

“The damage is done. You should read what they’re saying about her online.”

“Pah, it’ll blow over. These things always do. Remember when everyone was upset about Cecil the Lion? Do you hear peep about it now?”

“What about Brittney’s grandfather? Have you spoken to him?”

His grandfather was best buddies with Brittney’s grandfather, Bob Reed.

“He’s on her side, of course. Believes you sexually harassed her. I hung up on him.”

“Wait, so you’re going to lose your friendship over this?”

“It’s better than you losing your entire future. Listen, bud. I know you want to be a gentleman and all that, but you have to fight fire with fire. I happen to know Brittney’s not at all the way she’s being portrayed, and yes, it’s unfair, but when she attacks your integrity and lies about you, I draw the line. Blood is thicker than water.”

“I appreciate you having my back, but somehow I think it’s better if we focus on getting both of our charges dropped instead of blaming each other.” Ben wiped the sweat from his forehead. Every muscle in his body felt like soggy noodles from the workout, but his brain had never been clearer. If only he hadn’t let anger and fear overtake his good senses. “I’m sure if I speak to Brittney directly, we can work this out.”

“Don’t go there. You’ll only weaken your case. Where are you, anyway?”

“Driving around San Francisco.”

“Don’t stay out too late. Come back and help me pack.”

“Pack? Did you decide?”

“Yes, I did. After Bob Reed called me to ream me out about you, I’ve decided I don’t particularly want to hang around this holiday season. Maybe you’re right. It’s time I got around to the ranch.”

“I’m so glad, Grandpa. I know Dad misses you. I’ll be back in a bit, and then we can drive out tomorrow morning.” He hung up the phone after saying goodbye.

Ben rubbed his tired eyes and huffed out a deep breath. His grandfather just lost his lifelong buddy over this thing with Brittney. Of course, she was making baseless accusations to get herself off the hook, but she was losing in the court of public opinion. Most commenters felt she deserved to be ogled because of her revealing outfit.

What had made her dress that way? Ben scrolled through her publicity photos online. She was professional looking and wholesome. A real beauty, but not flaunting it. In fact, she stayed in the background and seemed to let others take the limelight.

Ben searched for her company to find her email address. He had to reach out and make this right. Maybe he could talk her out of the lawsuit. If the arrest hadn’t happened, he would have asked her out. She was the first woman he’d met who hadn’t looked at him in an appraising manner—trying to figure out what she could get from him, whether a good time in the sack, an expensive dinner on the town, or to size up his future potential wealth.

He slapped himself. What arrogance. Of course she could care less about his earning potential. She was sitting on a startup company that had the potential to make instant millionaires of all her employees.

Ben groaned at his stupidity. He’d only looked at her dress and appearance and hadn’t considered the woman inside. And here he thought he was respectful of women—one of the good guys.

There was no email address for her, but the company was located not far from the private club. Ben set the GPS on his cell phone and drove. Not that she’d be there at this hour, but somehow, knowing Brittney was a better person than he, drew him like a magnet to a lodestone.

When he pulled into the parking lot of ScrapCloud, he found several cars in the parking lot. His heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. She could be in there working. Would she see him?

He locked his truck and strode to the guest phone outside the door. Punching in her extension, he waited, barely able to breathe.

The phone rang several times before she picked it up. “Hello? Who’s this?”

“Brittney, it’s Ben. We need to talk.”