Page 92 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
“One thing’s for sure: whoever Parker Maxwell employed to secure his shit is good. Like, National Security Agency good. Like, World of Warcraft level 100 good. Like, Star Trek Deep Space Nine good—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve got it, he’s good! But that’s bad for us, right?”
She tilts her head, smiling like a cat that’s just gorged itself on a nice fat mouse. “I’ve already mounted a brute-force attack with administrator obfuscation and a custom fifty-GPU cluster to get the encryption key.”
I stare at her. “Any time you’d like to revert back to English, it would be appreciated. The natives here don’t speak computer geek.”
“Forget it. The bottom line is, I’ll have access soon. And then we’ll see what dirty little secrets Mr. Maxwell is hiding in cyberspace. They might be even better than what he’s hiding in his safe.”
For the first time since Parker asked me about Texas last night, the knots in my stomach begin to unfurl. Tabby has relieved some of my concerns about the Drudge Report story and given me renewed hope about finding something compromising in Parker’s background that I can use to screw him over. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and rest my head on the back of the chair.
After several moments, Tabby’s hesitant voice breaks the silence. “So…how was Laredo, anyway?”
I know what she’s really asking: how was Eva?
Without opening my eyes, I admit, “About as fun as having all my skin peeled off with a potato peeler and then being thrown into a saltwater bath.”
Another span of silence follows. This time when Tabby speaks, her voice is deadly serious. “You know the real reason I do this job isn’t for the money, Victoria. You know that, right?”
I tilt up my head and look at her. Today her outfit of choice is a pair of black men’s suspenders attached to black skinny jeans, a tiny white T-shirt with the Batman logo in electric blue stretched taut across her boobs so it’s pulled all out of proportion, and Chucks with no la
ces that, judging by the look of them, she’s owned since junior high school. The jewel in her belly-button ring matches the blue of the Batman logo, and so does her nail polish.
I ask, “Are you about to confess that you’re in love with me?”
She doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “I’ve had a major girl crush on you since before we even met, superstar, but that’s not the reason, either.”
My brows lift. This is getting interesting.
She says, “I work for you because I believe in what you’re doing.”
“Which is?”
“Empowering the powerless.”
She says it with deep respect and reverence, as if it’s Gandhi or Nelson Mandela she’s speaking about. I’m a little taken aback by the quiet passion in her voice. I’ve never heard her talk like this before.
I joke, “Maybe we should make that the company slogan.”
She retorts, “Kid all you want, but it’s true. You’re the only one out there telling women that the source of our own power is within ourselves. That we don’t have to rely on anyone else for our happiness. That what’s in our best interest isn’t having babies and playing house, but stretching ourselves and finding our true potential, because that’s also in the best interest of the rest of humanity. We had the sexual revolution and the big feminist movement in the sixties and seventies, made all kinds of strides forward for women’s equality and rights, and almost fifty years later we’re still only making seventy-seven cents on the dollar compared with what a man makes. And we’re supposed to be content with that. Well, I’m not.”
“Believe me, sweetheart, you’re making a hell of a lot more than any other man in your position.”
She says vehemently, “Yes, I am. Because I have a badass boss who cares only about the quality of the job, not what’s between my legs. And if every other employer in this country were like you, we’d have true equality. Women wouldn’t be afraid to leave their shitty marriages, because they’d be able to support themselves and their children alone. Women wouldn’t have to put up with all the crap they put up with from men, and compete against one another, and freak out about getting older, and deform themselves with Botox and fake tits and lip injections, because men have more money, and therefore more power, and ultimately more worth than women do. You’re the only loud, proud, unapologetic voice left telling women to stop being so fucking passive and take control of their lives. And that’s why I work for you. Because you’re not afraid of anything, you don’t take shit from anyone, and you’ve got a pair of balls on you bigger than any man’s.”
When I sit there gaping at her in silence, she smiles. “And also because I’m a little bit in love with you.”
To my deep surprise, I’m moved by Tabby’s words. Seeing the look on my face, she scoffs, “If you cry right now you’ll totally nullify everything I just said, you big wuss.”
I sniff. “I can still be a badass and get a little misty-eyed, can’t I?”
She grimaces and rises from the chair. “No. Don’t be such a girl. God, I hope we crush Parker Maxwell soon, because your hormones are starting to get out of control.”
Don’t I know it.
Tabby stands behind me and starts to massage my shoulders, something she occasionally does when I’m really grouchy. For such a wisp of a thing, she’s got hands like a rugby player; I groan in pleasure as she works the knot in my left shoulder that never completely goes away.
“All right,” I sigh, ready to start kicking butt and taking names. “What’s on deck for today?”
