Mod the Mall (Love at Westbrook Mall #2)

1. Error

1

Error

I wished people had the good sense to look at their phones while I debugged their porn-ridden laptops. I had stuff to fix.

This middle-aged guy glared at the side of my face like he had to watch me, or I’d do something sneaky. What made him think any girl in her twenties cared enough to snoop into his personal life? I worked for a tech store at the mall, not the FBI. Plus, even if I did stumble upon something private, if it wasn’t illegal or relevant to why his computer crashed, I’d move on. Everyone had weird stuff on their devices at some point: angsty poems, sexy selfies, and sim-worlds populated by crushes. Eventually, everyone got rid of it. Or lost access because of software updates.

The point was: It was private. An outlet. We all needed outlets. I glanced at the power strip on the desk and sighed. This store was better designed than my ex-college’s robotics lab. I wouldn’t have to fight for a plug or worry about overloading a circuit. I’d even have some privacy if this customer wasn’t leaning over the help desk dividing ledge. It creaked under his weight.

He flicked his stubble. “You look familiar,” he said, alcohol faint on his breath.

I tugged down my black baseball cap and ground my teeth. “I doubt it. ”

“How long have you worked here?” the customer asked.

“Long enough to fix your laptop.”

A far-off cooling fan buzzed in my ear like a mechanical gnat. Was someone overheating one of the demo laptops? It was definitely a motor…

The customer narrowed his eyes through tiny square glasses. “Are you one of those streamers?”

“No.”

The motor whirred louder…closer.

The customer frowned. “Huh. Maybe you bought something from—”

“Hold on.” I kicked back my rolling chair and peered over the help desk ledge. Shrieks and chatter flowed through the mall. Kids played Craft Cove in here all the time. Didn’t they have tablets? Or parents?

A voice carried from across the mall walkway. “Who’s ready for the drone show?”

Kids cheered.

Who the hell was stupid enough to pilot a drone indoors? This was a mall, not a playground.

The hungover customer gestured to my breasts. “A professional place like this ought to have name tags.”

If only my glasses filtered out assholes as well as blue light. I knew too many leering, smug tech bros—guys who thought their chromosomes meant I had to answer to them. For all I knew, he wanted my name so he could try to contact me outside this professional setting.

I crossed my arms to close my store-branded fleece jacket. “Techs don’t need name tags. It’ll be about ten more minutes. You can browse the store or the attached mall until then.”

His hand went as limp as his no-doubt useless dick now that I’d banished him. “Fine. Do I get a receipt? ”

I eyed the printer on the corner of the desk. That brand was famously temperamental. “I’ll send it to your email.” Two clicks later, he had all the pertinent information, including my tech handle.

“Your name’s Zero? And you’re not a streamer?” He snorted.

God, I’d forgotten how annoying people could be.

“We’ll contact you when your laptop is ready.” I plopped giant soundproof headphones over my ears and swiveled away.

He could leave a shitty review if he had to. Men like that weren’t worth the indignity of caring. Or my real name. Besides, I didn’t need this job or his attitude. I’d fix what I had to. But I didn’t need fixing. I needed my boundaries. My chest tightened, so I cracked my fingers to redirect my brain, then focused on the screen.

Once the customer shuffled off to the outer mall, I was free. I tapped my toes to the beat of low-fi trance music and optimized his laptop settings. It was almost like a rhythm game: Delete. Delete. Toggle. Delete.

A few things caught my eye from a debug standpoint: one was a naked modification for a game he recently downloaded. Such a red flag. It was easy for scammers to bait horny gamers. I deleted the mod file, then ran the game from one of his saves to make sure nothing else would crash. A scantily-clad woman bared her fangs and glided toward the player to attack, her boobs bouncing all over the place. Stupid physics. But it did have a good stealth system. No wonder this game trended over Halloween last week.

My phone pinged with a text from my brother.

Victor: How’s your first day going?

Me: Fine. Have you heard of the game Vampire Mansion 13?

Victor: Yes… I considered playing it with Kat.

His new girlfriend wasn’t exactly the target audience, although she did wear black lipstick, so maybe she was into the horror element.

Me: Don’t install the naked mods. They’ll make your laptop crash.

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji.

Victor: Thanks. I’ll stick to looking at my girlfriend.

I shuddered and pushed my phone onto the desk. Kat was beautiful; no doubt about that. But did he have to get all romantic about her in my virtual presence? I’d already caught them making out on our home security cameras.

I spritzed my hands with sanitizer to scrub off the memory of their tryst and whatever layer of funk was on this guy’s laptop.

At least my little brother and Kat stopped pawing each other in the living room when I reminded them about the cameras. Now, they usually went to her place. Which was fine. Good for them. Who wanted to share space anyway?

I stabbed the escape key. What next? I had to call that middle-aged jerk back to pick up his laptop. Call. Not text. I double-checked my onboarding notes. Yup, I had to follow their selected preference. Surely, it was more efficient to text. Or email. No one answered unknown numbers anymore. Hopefully, that meant I could just leave a message.

I twisted my headphones on one side and fitted the receiver to my free ear to dial nine for outside calls. I plugged in the customer’s number. A buzzing motor flew closer, drowning out the ringtone. What if he answered? Or worse, what if he called back? Would it come to me or the store in general? Was I supposed to answer? And how? What if he called again? And again. That guy… He wanted my name. He probably got kicks out of handing me his naked woman, game-breaking shit. I didn’t want to talk to him. Bile sparked up my throat, and the drone show outside elicited more childish, high-pitched shrieks. My brain sizzled with panic.

I jammed the phone into its cradle.

No. I wasn’t going to call a creep and invite him in. My job was to fix shit. Not talk to customers.

“I’m going on break,” I called .

My boss glanced up from her tablet, but kept pitching the newest model to the customer. I’d take that to mean it was fine.

I secured my headphones and beelined into the mall. Victor should be at the theater. He could find me a safe space or call that fuckwad customer for me. As I typed an S.O.S. message to him, a breeze fanned my face. Why would a vent be in the middle of a hallway?

A muffled shout joined the background buzzing.

Was my boss calling me?

I twisted around, and a winged motorized being zoomed right by me. Threat incoming. I shrieked and backhanded the damned thing. It spun, then smacked into the glass wall of True Tech with all the grace of a cannon ball.

Cracks shattered across the source of impact. The drone sputtered, then fell. Smoke curled out in a spiral above it. Some guy in an orange, button-down T-shirt holding a controller ran toward the crash. He gestured wildly, his shouts garbled.

I slowly lowered my headphones. Dread thudded through my brain: liabilities, insurance claims, and lawyers. My brother was going to be so disappointed. Day one of normal human interaction and I already had collateral damage.

The pilot slumped over his drone’s husk, then widened his cartoonishly big eyes. “Well, fuck,” he said.

Fair assessment. I wasn’t sure how, or if, I could fix this.