The Sexpert

“That can what?”

“Basically, that can grab the vocal signature of any voice in the world and then run it through a database that will match it to its owner. A vocal thumbprint.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Where do you get the database from?”

I shake my head from side to side and kind of hold my breath. “That’s… Don’t worry about it.”

“Dude,” he says, sitting up in his chair, “are you into some illegal shit now?”

“No! No, it’s all completely legal. Hyper-legal, actually.”

He narrows his eyes at me and I just stare at him and nod, watching him sort out the implications.

“Are you…” he whispers now. “Are you working on some spy shit?”

“Mmmmmm,” I moan, resisting the words that want to leave my mouth, and then… “We all have to play our part to defend democracy.”

There’s a long, long moment where neither of us says anything. Then, finally, he says, matter-of-factly, “You went to art school.”

“Yeah.” I laugh, sorrowfully. “I know.”

And after another long moment, he says, “But it’s not her voice. She’s using your thing to disguise it.”

“Yeah. But that part’s easy. The stripping-down component is built into the app itself.”

“It is?”

I nod.

“Do people know this?”

“I do. And now you do. We’re people.”

He drops his head and closes his eyes. He starts, “You don’t have to—”

“I got you, man. OK? I got you. Look, at the very least, I will bring you the source. After that, you can decide what to do with the info. If you wanna sue some chick sitting in her bedroom making videos, you can do that.”

He looks sad for a second and says, “It’s what my dad would do.”

“I know, man. I know. Look, lemme go pretend I care about my company, OK? But, hey, I’m on this. I got you, mon frère.”

He nods slowly at first, getting more vigorous as he goes. I pat him on the knee, stand, and head for the door. As I get there he says, “Oh. Who was that chick last night?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m thrilled, obviously, but who is she?”

“Pierce, she… Eden. Eden Presley?” He looks at me with a blank stare. “She runs your social media department?” Still nothing. “She’s friends with Myrtle? She was up here yesterday?” Nada. I raise my eyebrows and shake my head. “OK. I’ll talk to you later, man.”

“Andrew?” I turn back. It looks like he wants to say, ‘thank you.’ He opens his mouth to speak… “Bang her if you didn’t. She has a great rack.”

I smile and huff a breath. I want to tell him he’s welcome. So I say, “I’ll try, man. I’ll try.”

I walk out of the office, past Myrtle who says, “Bye, Andrew,” in a syrupy way that freaks me out, and I arrive at the elevator bank. Something about that video is gnawing at me. It’s not fair to say that I don’t know what, because I do, but it’s just too…

Nah.

The elevator doors open and there’s no one else in the car. I half expected to see Eden, only because… I dunno. That’s the relationship we seem to be forming. If we are forming a relationship. Hell, I dunno what you call it. I just know that I don’t feel like I can be trapped in a box right now.

Last night we talked about this being a walking community. And right now I feel like walking. So I decide to take the stairs.

I open the stairwell door, step inside, and begin trotting back down to my floor when I hear, in a voice I know, “Are you kidding me right now?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN – EDEN

My desk phone rings. But I’m in the middle of composing a tweet to thwart that harlot Sexpert and bring people over to Le Man website to read a repurposed article about how to… well, let me just give you the title.

How to Find Your Way Through the Vaginal Forest and Hit Her Button.

I swear to God, that was the title.

And there was a picture of a man lost in a forest as a graphic.

‘Was’ is the operative word here. Because holy shit, I don’t know who they were targeting with that title, but it’s bad. And I don’t even have time to get into how spectacularly that graphic missed the mark.

So now it’s called How to Eat Her Like Dessert and there’s a picture of a pink cupcake with a cherry on top of pink frosting. And sprinkles. Because sprinkles and frosting are—

“No,” Gretchen says, walking up to my desk. “And I just buzzed your phone and no one answered, which is why I’m now standing at your desk. Why do you try my patience, Eden?”

I push my glasses up my nose and squint at her. “Which part was a no?”

“The cupcake,” she says. “This isn’t Cosmo, Eden. No man wants to see a picture of a cupcake while he’s learning to…” She does a little wiggle move with her finger, which I can only presume is her gesture for eating a girl out.