Two Guys, a Girl, and a Tripod (For the Love of Corn #1)

1. Chapter 1

1

Brody

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I’ve read the same five lines of code at least three times without processing anything. Now I have to re-read them because of my stupid roommate and his stupid determination to finally get me laid.

“I’m making you sign up for one of those dating apps.”

Miles said this with the same determination as when he claimed he’d kick my ass in high school for failing to realize Amanda Sheridan was into me.

He didn’t kick my ass, but only because we’d been interrupted by the algebra teacher as he shouted at us to get to class. For the record, Amanda was into Miles. Not me.

I’ve been thinking about those words all goddamn day because I know–I just know – he means them. He means every single word.

It’s not that I hate women. I fucking love women. Really, I do. Unfortunately, they’ve always intimidated me more than I care to admit. When Miles and I go out, they gravitate toward him because he flashes those charming smiles and has those brown eyes that women want to fall into. That they want to look into while they scream his name.

I grunt and return my focus to the monitor in front of me.

The new system update for Harp Solutions has been on the fritz–likely because I wasn’t the one who created it. I keep telling Mel not to let other specialists touch my stuff. I keep telling her they aren’t qualified, but she keeps bringing them in and I have to clean up their messes while doing my own job. The computer screen glows black, a result of the dark mode I have enabled on every product where it’s available. While the long strings of code look like gibberish to many, to me, they’re the inner workings of one of our more important systems.

Harp Solutions prides itself on privacy–for our clients and within the company. It’s probably for the best. Otherwise, I’d end up throttling the programmer who fucked this up. I run my hand over my face and rub my eyes. The only sound in my small office is the cracking of my neck as I twist it side to side, breaking the silence.

Before I can return to the task in front of me, a notification pops up on the top monitor to my left. The background on this one isn’t mine. It belongs to a client’s wife. The conniving bastard wants to catch her cheating and it turns out that, despite her deceit, she trusts her husband implicitly. She downloaded the program that’s been spying on her simply because he suggested a new virus protection program.

The stupidity of some people.

The notification I’ve been waiting three days for is finally there, in the bottom right corner of the screen: Email from Grace Harden deleted.

It’s not hard to find a recently deleted email. Most people never empty their trash, though some providers automatically delete things older than thirty days. Mrs. Rawley is indeed one of those people. You’d think someone who’s trying to hide an affair would be more careful, but not this woman.

I save the file and use our secure system to send it to the definitely-cheating husband because he’s paying our company to catch his definitely-cheating wife. It’s going to be a nasty divorce, but that’s none of my business.

An impatient message comes in from Mr. Rawley. I reply, asking if there’s anything else he needs and his response is similarly short. I’m done with him for the day.

I return to the code but get distracted again when a notification comes through from Mel. A new client referred to only as C-120483 has been assigned to me. The information within the file pertains to a company they intend to either disrupt or fully destroy. It’s obvious that whoever their target is, they’re shady as fuck. This company is into something serious and it’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder just what else Mel is hiding from me.

Harp Solutions usually focuses on jealous spouses, adult children in a hurry for their parents to die, business partners in need of dirt for blackmailing purposes, and corporate espionage. Am I happy that the company I work for exists solely to destroy dignity and invade privacy? No, but I made my peace with it. None of the people involved are innocent, I learned quickly. Besides, if we don’t do this, another company will.

Mel Ashcroft has always been a shrewd businesswoman and we’ve run under the radar for nine years, serving clients in their less-than-savory activities. We rely on word of mouth to gain new clients. The scum of the world really do seem to know each other.

This new target for client C-120483 is a little worse than usual. Part analyst, part not-so-ethical hacker, part software engineer, my first step is to determine what their shipments contain. My initial guess would be either drugs or weapons. Human trafficking doesn’t seem likely and Mel has never dealt in that, as far as I’m aware.

Then again, people change.

A notification flares on the bottom right corner of my main screen as I scan the new documents. An email just came through to my personal inbox, inviting me to create an account, and it’s from…

“ KinkRink ?” I snort.

My text to Miles is more for his benefit. I don’t need to click the link to know where it'll take me.

I will. No one knows how to pull the guilt strings like my best friend, so why fight it?

Turning to my personal laptop, I quickly open the email and click the confirmation link. It pulls up a white screen with red and black writing all over it. “ KinkRink ” is in bold along the top left side and I’m prompted to create a username and password.

I stare blankly at the laptop screen. I hate creating usernames. BrodyTorrence30 just won’t cut it–I need to be anonymous. I sigh and my fingers twitch over the keyboard for several minutes before typing out the only thing that comes to mind: technerd94.

“Very creative,” I mutter to myself, but it’s done.

I quickly create a password and am provided access to the site. Immediately, it prompts me to upload a photo–yeah, right–and input profile information such as my gender, sexual orientation, relationship status, and more. I can’t focus on the About Me section now.

Yes, I’ll do it because damn it, Miles will find a way to make me. I won’t meet anyone. I won’t go on a date. I’ve been on dates. I’ve tried to meet women, both organically and on dating apps. It never works. They never want to see me again.

What makes this site any different?

You’d think he grew up having to fight for every scrap, the way he scarfs down his food, but I know that’s not the case. I’ve been slowly, almost carefully, stabbing at the pasta dish Miles made for dinner while he’s been shoveling enormous bites into his mouth. I’m not even sure he's paused to take a breath.

“You know,” Miles says through a mouthful of food, “you're going to have to-”

“I’m know,” I interrupt and send him a sideways glance.

“You don’t have to show your face,” Miles urges.

“I wasn’t going to.” I was never going to. I don’t have co-workers I worry might recognize me on the site–though that would mean they’re on it too, I suppose–but I still don’t want my face on it.

“Just run the photos by me before you add any.” Miles means well, wanting to make sure I show my best side, but I’m self-conscious all the same. “You can be fully clothed,” he adds.

“I don’t think that was ever in question.” I shudder at the thought of posting nude photos, even faceless ones.

“What are you gonna say in your profile?” The question has to make its way through another mouthful of pasta.

“Computer nerd looking for love?” I ask. “I don’t know, this is fucking weird. I hate writing about myself.”

“Want me to write it?”

The offer startles me and I meet his gaze. He’s still chewing, his brown eyes indicating he's sincere. He swallows, waiting for my response, and my eyes drop to his Adam’s apple as it bobs beneath his inked skin. The man is fucking covered in tattoos.

“Er, yeah, ok.” I look down at my plate and use my fork to move the bowtie pasta around, creating a trail through the creamy pesto sauce. I stab a piece of grilled chicken and pretend to examine it, though my eyes won’t focus. “What-what would you say?” I can’t look up, can’t meet his gaze.

“I’ll text it to you later.”

Great. I’m in for a treat, I’m sure. He’s either going to make me sound like a bad boy who finally wants to settle down or some reclusive computer nerd who can’t find a girlfriend without his best friend’s help. While the latter is true, I really hope he doesn’t go that route.

For several minutes, the only sounds echoing through the kitchen come from Miles’ fork stabbing at his pasta and hitting the plate below. I continue to stare at my own meal, not feeling particularly hungry. Abruptly, I stand from my stool, muttering something about having a lot of work to do before rinsing my plate and setting it in the dishwasher.

“Leave the other dishes and I’ll take care of them in a bit.” I disappear into my office before he can respond.

Miles has his side of the house and I have mine. My office and bedroom are connected by a bathroom so that, if Miles is working from home, I don’t need to venture into the main part of the house and risk overhearing his latest project. His studio has its own ensuite bathroom and there’s a third one accessible from the hallway outside his bedroom. When he came house hunting with me five years ago, we knew immediately that the place was perfect. At the time, he’d only had his then-side hustle for a year, but in the years since it has become a full-blown career.

Talk about ironic. My roommate’s an amateur porn star and what am I? A goddamn loser.

The room is well-lit with floor and desk lamps. I never use the harsh, overhead lights. I’m not even sure the last time I turned them on.

In addition to four monitors and my personal laptop, my office is also home to a few game consoles and a huge television mounted on the wall opposite the desk. I’d once thought about joining the trend of people who live-stream themselves playing video games, but I’m not entertaining enough for that. Instead, I sit alone in my office, pulling the Nintendo Switch controllers from their perch. It’s time for an evening of solo adventuring in a fantasy world.