The Sexpert
“Very biblical. What makes you think that someone stole it? Couldn’t someone simply have had a similar idea?”
“A similar idea called the Sexpert? Are you fucking kidding me? That shit is gold. And it was my idea! And where are you? I went down to your office and they said you were in fucking Utah. What the fuck’s in Utah?”
“Rocks. I was bouldering.”
“Rocks? There are rocks all over the place! It’s Colorado!”
“Dude, relax. It was my last weekend of freedom before I start being Johnny Corporate and I wanted to just … y’know … commune with the universe.”
“What the fuck did they do to you at Berkeley?” He asks it with a dire sincerity.
As timing would have it, I’m pulling up to the roundabout driveway in front of Pierce’s building. Which is now, I guess, also my building.
I didn’t want a big, sprawling, conventional-type workspace for the Aureality offices, but I also didn’t particularly want to take the company public and have all the pressure that comes with an IPO and the burdens of running a newly billion-dollar-valued company. Hell, I didn’t want to have a company and a career and have to do any of the things I’m doing in the first place. But these are, to say the least, first-world problems of the silliest order, so really… I shouldn’t complain. And I’m not. We’re doing all kinds of cool stuff with the company. Stuff I can’t even talk about, but it’s kind of badass and I’m pretty stoked, to be honest. I’ve left all the drama and bullshit in California behind me and I’m ready for a new start. I’m gonna be working just two floors below my best friend and it’s gonna be like old times. Just instead of talking shit about professors, we’ll be talking shit about shareholders. It’s gonna be awesome.
“Dude,” I say into the phone, “I’m just pulling up. Give me two minutes, I’ll come up to your office.”
“And also—!” But that’s all I let him get out before I tap End and hop out of the cab. I grab the charger as I step out of my pickup. I have this notion that I should just carry it with me wherever I go until I run into my new friend Eden again. If she’s moving into the TDH—which I can’t even say to myself without making fun of—today, then I have to assume we’ll run into each other at some point. Maybe a restaurant somewhere. Or a coffee shop. Or someplace. Denver feels like that kind of town, and this neighborhood, from what I’ve seen, feels like that kind of burg.
She was cute. More than cute, if I’m being honest. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a girl. More than a while, actually. Which hasn’t been by accident. It’s been a choice. I’ve been careful not to wind up in another situation like my last one, but that’s taken me out of the game for a long minute, so there is a slim chance that I’m just, like, super horny.
But even if that’s true, it doesn’t change the fact that she was objectively comfortable to look at for an extended period of time. And if I see her again and get a chance to give her back her charger—even if nothing else ever happens—I can sleep easy knowing I did the right thing by a cute girl called Eden.
When I hand him the key, the valet looks at me like he’s not sure what to do with my busted-ass truck. “Oh, uh, I’m Andrew Hawthorne. CEO of Aureality Enterprises? I probably have a parking place somewhere?”
The valet looks to his left where a row of Bentleys and Porsches and Mercedes and other dick-size-compensating cars are parked. And there, in the middle, is an empty space with a sign that reads “A. Hawthorne. Aureality.” Probably make more sense if it said, “A. Hawthorne. Surreality.” But, hey, is what it is. The valet takes my key, smiles, and tries to avoid getting mud and dust all over his black pants as he opens the door and plops down inside.
“Don’t scratch it!” I call to him. He doesn’t seem amused.
There’s a distinct difference between me and all the other people I see running around in the lobby. They look like successful businesspeople, dressed for work. I look like I was just bouldering in the grimy heat and took a break to smoke some of that sweet, sticky Colorado weed. Ironic, since I don’t smoke. Or drink. Or even take aspirin if I don’t have to. Whereas I’m pretty sure the three guys in three-thousand-dollar suits who are walking past me right now are already coked up at nine in the morning.
I swipe my glossy new key card on the security turnstile and it goes from red to green. I breeze through and jog toward the elevator doors that are closing just as I get there. A hand reaches out and the doors spring open again, allowing me to step on. I notice that it’s a woman’s hand. Long fingers and red nails.