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So, do it already.
Some of the crazy shit I’ve done in the past was to get her attention. It’s stupid, I know, but I’ll take whatever time I can get with her. This particular incident, though, wasn’t planned. I worked my ass off to get the deal with Titan Tech. No one wants this more than I do. And now, I have no idea where the future of our company stands.
I grow tired of waiting and write something I’m sure I will regret later.
Nathan King: You’re just jealous I’m getting some.
A minute passes without an answer. I’m an idiot. None of our past games work on her anymore. So, why do I keep trying to get her to challenge me like she used to? I love the fire in her, that spark of electricity that I can feel whenever we’re in the same room. No woman does it for me like Harley.
Harley McQueen: Like I would ever be jealous of your disease-ridden skanks. Unlike you, I have standards.
Someone’s cranky.
She needs to get laid instead of working eighteen-hour days. Harley has no idea that I check the user logs to see when she’s online and what she’s working on—and she never will. It’s a little stalkerish but whatever. Carefully observing Harley from a distance is the only way I can feel close to her again as if I still know her. Like she’s still my Harley.
Nathan King: It’s been that long, huh?
Smoke must fly off her keyboard because her answer is instantaneous.
Harley McQueen: No, you idiot.
Nathan King: Don’t lie to me, Queen.
Harley McQueen: Stop being a dick, King!
That’s my girl.
Now, it’s time to kick this conversation up a notch. I wish we didn’t have to fight the way we do. Our relationship was never this petty, but this is the only way I can get Harley to engage with me, to show me her teeth. To show me some part of her still cares.
Nathan King: If you need the cobwebs cleaned off your chastity belt, you know where to find me.
I expect an immediate response, but once again, I see how wrong I am about Harley. A minute later, a bubble finally appears on the screen.
My desk phone beeps, scaring the shit out of me, and then Terrence says, “Mr. King, your ten o’clock is here.”
Surprised by his intrusion, I accidentally click the mouse and log myself out of the QTK Messenger app. Shit! I bet Harley’s having a stroke right now, assuming I blew her off. Maybe it’s better this way. What good would have come from the conversation we were having?
“Mr. King,” Terrence says.
In case you’re wondering, I have a male secretary because my father said—and I quote—"I don’t trust you around the opposite sex in the workplace.” Harley’s one of the few women I’m allowed to interact with, and she hates my guts.
“Who’s my ten o’clock?”
“S-s-Sophie Davenport,” Terrence stutters, afraid of his own shadow.
I slide my feet to the floor, sitting upright as I straighten my tie. “I don’t remember setting up a meeting with Sophie.”
Sophie flirts with me every chance she gets, and I can’t afford another scandal right now. I avoid the new marketing guru whenever I see her around the office. Most of the time, I stick to the executive space on the twenty-third floor. Up here, this is my domain, where my team and I create the best fucking video games in the business. I don’t allow marketing or creative execs on my floor, and somehow, Sophie managed to work her way up to the top. She must be fucking someone important.
“Your brother arranged the meeting,” Terrence says, his voice shaking. “Mr. King said he cleared it with you.”
What an asshole. Is little brother trying to sabotage me?
“Let me know when Stefan arrives.”
“He’s not coming,” he says under his breath.
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Can we reschedule?”
“Um… Mr. King insisted. He said it was important.”
My younger brother is such a pain in my ass.
I glance at one of the five monitors on my desk, wondering if Harley is ready to kill me. For a second, I consider messaging her again. We’ve gone months at a time without speaking, and I miss talking to her already.
“Mr. King,” Terrence says. “What do you want me to do?”
I tap my knuckles on the desk, hoping I don’t regret this. “Send her in.”
A few seconds later, my door creaks open, and Sophie pokes her head into my office. “Are you ready for me, Mr. King?”
Not really.
“Come in,” I say as I walk toward the conference table.
Sophie closes the door behind her and strolls into my office, flicking her long, black hair over her shoulder. Her eyes widen as she looks around the room. My office is more sacred than my bedroom, an accurate representation of my personality in every way. Classic video game posters such as The Legend of Zelda and Doom are on the walls, mixed in with the games I’ve developed since my days at MIT. A projection screen extends from the ceiling, hanging low enough for me to reach. The back wall behind the conference table displays several flat-screen televisions with various gaming consoles on shelves beneath them.
