This torture needed to end. “Look, if a suitor comes around and he’s halfway normal, I promise I won’t say no to a date. And maybe I’ll even ask him out instead of waiting for him to do it. I’ll be more open to opportunities. I swear.”
They exchanged looks again and nodded in approval.
The server came over with a small platter of appetizers. The smell of Belgian fries made my mouth water. “I call dibs,” I said, rotating the plate so the potatoes were in front of me.
Candace wrinkled her brow and looked around for our waitstaff. “We didn’t order this. Let’s send it back.”
I’d already eaten two fries before she finished talking. I chewed and gulped. “Sorry. I’m starving.”
The hostess stopped by our table and said, “Well, looks like you’re truly VIPs here. The chef sent this over, free of charge.”
Jane and Candace dug into the hummus and pita while I shoveled more fries into my mouth. When the server came back, she said, “How’s everything tasting?”
I nodded enthusiastically while the other two said in unison, “It’s great!”
Jane said, “We’ll take another round of drinks.” After glancing my way, she added, “And one more order of fries, please, so Candace and I can have some.”
Candace said, “Actually, no drink for me. I still haven’t finished mine.”
When the new drinks came, we clinked glasses again. “To new jobs and new beginnings,” Candace said. Translation: Let’s toast to Melody’s new gaming job and us convincing her to keep her dating options open.
Cheers, ladies. Too bad I had no options.
Chapter Five
That night I slept a full nine hours and still woke up early enough to make breakfast and an iced coffee. The three-or-more-cups-a-day java habit that had befallen me the very day I moved to Seattle cost me hundreds of dollars a year. Money that could be going toward saving for a house, or toward a fancy-schmancy coffeemaker. With my home brew in hand I took the elevator down to my apartment parking garage and turned the key in the ignition.
And . . . nothing.
I tried the key again.
More nothing.
Damn it. No more Starbucks for me, I needed a new car, stat. And I didn’t even have time or money to shop for one. Getting to work early was a top priority in case Ian had more news about the Ultimate Apocalypse game launch during our nine A.M. all-hands meeting. Walking to work in the torrential rain wasn’t my favorite option, though, so I opted to use Liftr instead, a ride-share service that specialized in short urban distances and flat fees by zone numbers. I ordered my car and waited near the garage entrance for “Paul, 4.7 rating” to show up.
Within thirty seconds a tricked-out Honda Element with a Liftr sticker on the passenger-side window pulled up next to me. I never understood how any Honda executive ever approved the design of those ugly-ass, Kleenex box–shaped cars in the first place.
I entered the back seat and said a quick hello. Paul, dressed in a trucker cap and ’70s-style wire glasses, turned around and held his stare a little bit too long. He looked more predator-like than hipsterish. Could he be deciding if I’d be today’s murder victim?
“Melody Joo,” he said quietly and turned back to face forward. OMG, I was totally going to die. He knew my name, address, and possibly my credit card information. Ohhhh fucking shit. And I was going to die in a fucking Honda Element.
He put his car into gear and drove me down the hill toward Elliott Bay, thank god, in the direction of work. He was transporting me, and not murdering me.
“Sorry if I spooked you. I wanted to figure out why you had such a low passenger grade.”
A . . . what? “Sorry, I’m still half asleep this morning. What’s a passenger grade?”
“You know how you rate the driver when you end your ride? Well, drivers rate passengers, too.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “I’d normally not pick up someone with a really low score, but right now there isn’t a lot of demand for rides for some reason, even with the downpour.”
“Uhhhh, how bad is my score?” He glanced at me again in the mirror, this time with a look of worry. Maybe he feared I was going to murder HIM.
“Do you ride a lot?” He adjusted the news radio station down a few notches.
“Like once or twice a month,” I muttered while swiping through my previous passenger history on the Liftr app.
He whistled in a way that sounded like an atomic bomb dropping. “Well, given your score, more than one driver gave you bad ratings.”
“How bad is it?” I asked with a tinge of unhinge in my voice. Even I could hear it.
He pulled up to my office building and said, “Well, the worst score I’ve ever seen was for a guy who begged me to drive him to Mars. Your score was a little higher than that guy’s. Come to think of it, your score may be the same, actually. Looks like we’re here. I hope you enjoyed your ride! Have a great day!”
Hard rain pelted from all directions and I sprinted to my building’s main entrance. I arrived just in time for the morning meeting and sat down in the back row, next to Kat. She leaned over. “You look a lot better today.”
“Thanks, I finally got some sleep,” I said, peeling off my raincoat and hanging it on the back of my chair. “But apparently I might need a new car.” I jotted “fix/buy car” on the gajillion-item to-do list in my notebook. It was something I needed to solve quickly before I got kicked off Liftr.
Ian strode to the front of the room and looked right at me as he made his big game announcement. “Everyone, I have big news! Ultimate Apocalypse is a new feminist game concept recently approved by the executive team and the board.” As the crowd chatter faded to silence, he explained that I would be taking on a big role by assisting Maggie (the only female senior producer at this company) on this “brilliant female-friendly game that is destined for greatness.” He also named Kat as a core member of the team. I tried to feign surprise as he disclosed the news to the entire company that we’d be developing a game featuring shirtless male strippers while every other person genuinely looked shell-shocked. Those whose mouths were not hanging open in incredulity murmured in hushed tones to one another about how this game would no doubt be an epic failure.
The dude sitting to my right whispered to his neighbor, “She’s gotta be sleeping her way to the top.”
First of all, gross. Ian and me?
Second, how sexist! I shot my neighbor a look so deadly it could castrate him. He held my stare a couple of seconds but then looked away. How was this my fault that the board wanted female leadership and I was one of the only two females on the production team at the company?
Ian fiddled with the button on his shirtsleeve, answering questions as if this new project had been in the works for a while, and was not, say, an absurd joke mentioned in passing on a coffee break by two women making fun of sexism in gaming. Plenty of naysayers sat in this meeting, but no one dared to openly speak out in dissent. But at the same time, people weren’t nodding along as usual, like Ian had spoken the word of God himself. Ian had instantly lost credibility with this male-dominated crowd, and it would be hard to gain it back.
Ian fixed his stare on me. “Melody.”
I gulped. What else could he spring on me?
“The quarterly board meeting is coming up. I’ll need budget projections and preliminary revenue forecasts of Ultimate Apocalypse from you as soon as possible. Consider this your number one priority.”
I shook my head. “I’m in production, budget projections and revenue numbers belong to those guys.” I pointed to Jagger the clueless product manager and John the schmoozy brand marketing lead. Two guys that talked a good game but did absolutely zero when it came to work. Ian loved them, of course.
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “But I’m assigning this to you.”
“It’s not part of my job responsibilities,” I replied.
Crossing his arms, Ian growled, “Your job is to be a team player, Melody.”
I cocked my head. “So you’re telling me to make the revenue and finance projects my number one priority, and to also get this game launched on time as my number one priority. Which is it then? I’m perfectly capable of doing all these projects, but that won’t get UA released on time if I’m busy with forecast and budget assignments.”
Match point. Melody.
He balled his fists and his lips pursed to a thin line.
No one in the room dared to move. It was like everyone collectively held their breath to see what Ian was going to say next.
He panned the room to look at everyone’s faces. Jagger and John looked down at their notebooks, feigning an attempt to look busy. Avoiding eye contact so they wouldn’t get called on to actually do any work.
Ian inhaled a long, deep breath. “Nolan,” he said on the exhale.
His nephew straightened his posture. He had on a red-checkered shirt today, making him look like a picnic basket. “Yes?” he gulped.
“You’re good with numbers. You’ll work on this and Melody will supervise.”
Nolan’s laser beam glare shot right at me, which I returned at double intensity. Hey, I wasn’t happy about this either, Mister Intern.