Chapter 15
Ophelia ducked out of the shoe store, stuffing the paper bag into Sam’s arms. She dragged him around the corner to an empty alleyway that vaguely reeked of liquor and piss.
Sam frowned. “Someone has urinated here.”
“Someone’s urinated on every corner of the city. Be quiet and put these on.”
He gave her a haughty look but bent at the waist and carefully swapped out his starkly white uniform shoes for the soft leather boots she’d bought him.
He was passably human when wearing Logan’s clothes, but the shoes were a dead giveaway. No one wore white slip-ons anymore, not since they’d become part of the required uniform for androids.
Gustav had eyed her as they’d left the apartment, but she trusted the doorman to keep things to himself. He wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had in his position if he were the type to narc.
To narc? What was she thinking? By her very nature, she was a born narc. Now, she was helping an android impersonate a human, courting an eye-watering fine from the government if they got caught.
When he was done, he tucked his shoes into the bag and straightened, testing the thick-soled boots.
“I like them,” he told her, looking up.
She couldn’t help the smile that stole over her face. “Good. Now come on.”
It only took ten minutes to walk to her father’s office building.
If she wanted to, she could have come to have lunch with the man any day of the week without hopping on the metro—that’s how close he worked to her apartment.
Even so, she’d only visited a handful of times over the years.
The last time had been when she graduated.
He’d ensured that she got through college without any debt, and his only request had been that she come and have dinner with him to celebrate.
It had been an awkward occasion filled with stilted conversation.
At the end, he’d clapped her on the shoulder like a colleague, told her she’d done well, and they hadn’t spoken for… well, years.
In front of Optima headquarters, people in business attire poured in and out of the building, dodging one another, mingling, arguing over projects and budgets.
She grabbed Sam by his elbow and slipped through the small side-door, unwilling to deal with the chaotic revolving door.
The damp soles of her shoes slid a little over the polished marble tile as she stepped off the welcome mat. Shoe squeaks and snippets of conversation echoed off the walls of the cavernous lobby, compounding the sensory overload. She stood still, reeling, trying to reorient herself in the space.
“Ophelia?” Sam murmured in her ear, his hand finding the small of her back.
She blinked, shaking herself. “Sorry. It’s just so… chaotic.”
“Yes. I dislike it.”
“Are you sure?” She stepped out of the way with him as someone burst through the door behind him. “Do androids really dislike things? Why would they program you like that?”
His lush mouth thinned, suggesting he very much could dislike things—things like being second-guessed.
“Who knows why you humans do anything?” he said evasively, eyes casting around the room as though he couldn’t decide what to look at. “Where is your father?”
She straightened, remembering why she’d come. “Stay behind me and let me do the talking.”
He gave her an amused look, promising nothing, though he did trail a step behind her as she approached the front desk. The woman standing behind the counter ignored her, typing busily away at a holographic keyboard.
Ophelia cleared her throat.
The woman frowned, but she didn’t look up.
“I’m here to see Sebastian Sinclair,” she said loudly, leaning over the counter.
The woman’s frown quirked into a smirk. She stopped typing to eye Ophelia up and down. “Of course you are. And do you have an appointment?”
“No.” Ophelia rubbed the back of her neck as it heated. “But usually he’ll still see me.”
“Ah. Well, unfortunately I can’t help you if you’re not on the books. You’ll have to call his assistant and schedule something… if you have his number.”
She did, but her father didn’t like texting and calling him gave her phone anxiety.
Her hands trembled faintly. Maybe she could tell her mother she’d tried, and that would be enough to quell her outrage.
She could even look for some cheaper luxury apartments, look into movers, and get a whole portfolio ready to have the inevitable argument with her mother about relocating.
Sam stepped up beside her, leaning an arm over the counter. His hair fell rakishly past one ear, tickling his high cheekbones.
“I think you’ll want to call up to Mr. Sinclair,” he rumbled, flashing a brilliant smile at the woman.
She stared blankly at him for a moment, clearly drunk on his preternatural beauty. Her mouth worked before words finally came out. “I-I can’t just call up to the CEO’s office. I just work at the front desk. I could lose my job if I piss him off.”
“You won’t,” Ophelia said, holding up her hands peaceably. “I promise, you’re not going to get in any trouble.”
The tentative headway they’d made with the woman seemed to sour as she remembered Ophelia was there. “Listen, Miss—”
“Mr. Sinclair is her father.” Sam leaned toward the woman, drawing her back into his orbit. “And Ophelia has something urgent to discuss with him.”
“Ophelia?” The woman’s eyes bugged in her head. “You’re his daughter?” Her look turned appraising, and Ophelia knew the moment she was found lacking. “No. No way.”
“My name is Ophelia Sinclair,” she grated, suddenly pushed past the point of niceties. “My father is Sebastian Sinclair, and when I get up to his office, I’m going to let him know that”—she squinted at the woman’s chrome nametag—“Lacey from the front desk refused to let me speak to him.”
Lacey paled, eyes darting to Sam for confirmation.
He nodded seriously.
She snatched up the gleaming metal phone set into the desk, stabbing a number of buttons in rapid succession.
“Yes, this is Lacey at the front desk. Would you please let Mr. Sinclair know that there’s an Ophelia Sinclair here to speak with him? Yes, I’ll hold.”
Lacey’s gaze darted nervously up to Ophelia, as though she was sure she was about to be told off for falling for a scam. Instead, her eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll send her right up.”
She hung up the phone, staring at Ophelia with open disbelief. “You… you can go right up, Miss Sinclair. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Satisfaction suffused her. She didn’t often wield the clout of her father’s name—well, she didn’t ever wield it, actually—but there was a sort of headiness to the sudden politeness that followed it.
No wonder her mother was so addicted to being perceived as important.
“Thank you,” Ophelia said politely, offering the woman a smile despite her earlier doubts.
Lacey’s shoulders sagged as she returned the gesture.
There. Her mother would never have done that.
Sam followed her toward the security line, and she braced a palm on his chest to stop him. Her eyes darted toward the metal detectors. There was no way she was going to explain why she had an unregistered android out of uniform in her father’s place of business.
“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Just don’t talk to anyone.”
“I’m coming with you.” He took a step forward despite the weight she put behind her hand.
The soles of her sneakers squeaked as he forced her to slide back.
“No,” she said emphatically. “You can’t.”
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to the palm, walking right past her. “I don’t want to be parted from you. Just follow my lead.”
“Your lead?”
She sputtered as he dropped her hand and put his own between her shoulder blades.
His posture changed, stiff and alert, somehow giving him the air of being even more absurdly tall.
He steered her toward the security guard standing next to a gate meant to bypass the detectors, looking into the distance and cupping a hand over his ear as they approached.
“Yes, we’re about to go up now,” he murmured to seemingly no one.
The security guard straightened, his hand falling to his taser. “Sir, you’re going to have to go through the line.”
Sam dropped his hand, turning a hard look on the guard. “That’s not going to happen. Miss Sinclair values her privacy. We’ve just been given the all clear to go up to see her father, if you don’t mind?”
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at parade rest, his chin tipped up arrogantly.
Ophelia couldn’t stop gaping at him.
“Miss Sinclair?” the guard repeated skeptically. “Look, whoever she is, she’s gotta go through the security line.”
“My father won’t be pleased to know you made me late for our meeting,” Ophelia said in her best imitation of her mother. “What’s your name, again?”
The security guard scowled at her, opening his mouth to argue when another guard hustled across the lobby. “Dave, that’s the CEO’s kid. Just let her through.”
Dave’s jaw shut with an audible click, and he gestured at Sam. “Well, who is this guy supposed to be?”
“Samuel Nolan, private security,” Sam said smoothly.
Nolan? That was the name of the contestant who’d been sent home on last night’s episode of Island Inferno.
He lied? He couldn’t lie!
Dread coiled in her gut. Between this and his impossible defense against the Next Gen cyborgs, she had a feeling that either Automata was violating the stringent laws around artificial intelligence… or Logan was. But why?
Dave huffed, rolling his eyes as he popped open the security gate. “Fine, just go through.”
Sam nodded at the man, putting his hand back between her shoulder blades when she didn’t start walking on her own.
Numbly, she allowed him to guide her to the elevator.
He put himself between her and the other employees who filed on, tucking her into a corner with only his broad back to look at.
She fisted her hand in his shirt, reeling.
The employees thinned as the elevator climbed, until at last, it was just the two of them.
He turned to look at her, gently prying her hand from his shirt and holding it in both of his big, warm palms. “What’s wrong? Is it your father? Does he make you uneasy as your mother does?”
“You lied,” she whispered. “Back there, with the guard—you lied to his face. How can you do that?”
His face shuttered, making her heart skip a beat, but then he flashed an easy smile.
“I’m programmed for all sorts of roleplay situations, Ophelia,” he said in a teasing way, backing her into the corner.
His hands gripped the rails on either side of her as he dipped his head, bringing his lips to her ear.
“Do you have any fantasies you’d like to play out?
I’m a convincing actor, as you now know. ”
The tip of his tongue traced the curve of her ear, and her core fluttered as she grew wet in the space of a heartbeat.
The elevator let out a cheerful ping before she could answer.
An embarrassing wheeze came from somewhere deep in her chest as Sam pulled away and faced the doors.
He stepped off and looked back at her expectantly, forced to catch the closing doors for her before she’d recovered her mind enough to move.