Disaster Girl

“Who wants dinner?” I shouted, banging on Roz’s door. My seventy-two-year-old next-door neighbor had been hobbling on the stairs when she went out for her copy of the Trib this morning. Like me, she rarely cooked. Unlike me, she hadn’t quite mastered the variety of Chicago’s food delivery apps. If her bad ankle was acting up again, she was probably scowling into her fridge right now.

But in my hands I held the answer to any hungry woman’s dream. Spicy fried chicken sandwiches, along with sides of mac and cheese and peach cobbler for dessert. All courtesy of the Roost restaurant, conveniently located three blocks from our apartment building. Possibly I did their takeout a little too often; the guys who worked there had taken to yelling my usual order, “Extra pickles,” in unison whenever I walked in.

Roz’s door swung open, and she peered up at me through an enormous pair of cat-eye glasses. She looked down at the bags and up at my face. “Is this a bribe so I don’t mention the revolving door of dick coming out of your apartment?”

My lips quivered, and I barely managed to hold a straight face. Roz’s need to enter every single conversation with some sort of shocking statement or question was a quirk I adored.

“Not at all!” I answered. “I’d love your commentary on the amount of dick around here. And please, don’t limit it to my apartment. I’d love your thoughts on the whole building.”

Her nostrils flared, a sure sign she was amused. She raised an eyebrow and looked at the bags again. “Is there cobbler in there?”

I waved one of them under her nose. “Of course.”

She sniffed. “Then I’ll restrain myself to one more remark.” She waggled the raised eyebrow. “That young guy you brought home the other night looked like a poor man’s version of Channing Tatum.”

I burst out laughing. Scott—I think that was his name—the guy I’d brought home from my favorite neighborhood pub on Friday night, did vaguely resemble Magic Mike. He hadn’t exactly rocked my world in the bedroom, but he was cheerful and friendly and he knew the steps to the dance as well as I did. Drinks, laughs, sex, good-bye. A wonderful Friday night had by all. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.

Roz snatched one of the bags out of my hands. “As self-control isn’t really one of your strengths, I suppose I should take this before you eat it all yourself.”

“I love you too, Roz.” When I was a senior citizen, I wanted to be just like her: a single, sassy, foul-mouthed, city-living workaholic who did whatever she wanted. Actually, minus forty years, I was basically her already. Well, plus the revolving door of dick.

She grinned at me and gestured inside her apartment. “You want to come in? I was just about to open a Bordeaux and start on season two of 'Outlander.'”

Ooh, tempting. Roz was a wine snob and always had good bottles on hand. Plus, there was nothing more hilarious in the world than listening to her thoughts about kilted Scotsmen drinking whiskey, fighting, and indulging in Starz-channel sex.

But I hung out with Roz all the time, and I knew how easily we could make one bottle turn into two, and two episodes into four. I shook my head. “No thanks. Early night for me.” I had a 9:00 a.m. presentation to a new client in the morning, and my boss had stressed the importance of the meeting multiple times, which wasn’t like him. I wasn’t worried though. I’d done my homework and I was completely prepared. Weekend Tess might revel in unpredictable spontaneity, but Workweek Tess always had her shit together.

Roz’s eyes twinkled. “Early to sleep, eh? I guess that makes sense. You’re definitely dressed for bed.”

I opened my mouth wide and put my hand over my heart in mock offense. As alike as we were in other ways, Roz was old-school in matters of one’s appearance. She’d barely left her apartment today but she was wearing tailored slacks, a perfectly ironed cardigan, and a face full of makeup. Along with my black leggings and thigh-high boots, I was wearing a thin T-shirt I’d slept in the night before. With no bra. It said: “Feelings are boring. Kissing is awesome.” My hair was in an untidy ponytail and my eyes were smudged with last night’s liner.

“I’m surprised Kat let you wear that to brunch,” she said.

“Ha-ha. Good night,” I answered, my smile fading a bit. Unintentionally, Roz had scored a point.

Roz winked. “Thanks for dinner.” She slammed the door without another word.

In my own apartment, I threw the bag of food on the coffee table and unearthed my remote from the pile of books and blankets on my couch. Before I turned on the TV, I pulled out my phone and looked at the text message from my sister I’d received first thing this morning.

'I can’t make brunch today.'

I frowned down at the screen, just like I’d done when it first popped up. It was an unusually short message for Kat, and it was pretty weird for her to cancel on our standing tradition without explaining why. Year-round, rain or shine, we met at the same diner at noon every Sunday.

Dinner could wait another minute. Biting my lip, I tapped the Facebook app on my phone.

Technically, I’m not even on Facebook. I took a mouthy stand against it more than a dozen years ago to everyone who’d listen. “Why do I want to see people I secretly hate posting filtered photos of how fake-great their lives are?” That kind of thing.

But then I kind of wanted to see those stupid photos. And when Kat got old enough to have her own page, I figured it was only responsible that I be able to monitor her online activity. So I did what any intelligent, semi-sneaky person would do in such a situation. I created a fake profile using a stock photo I found of a generically cute girl jogging. Then I sent out friend requests to everyone I knew. People are more careful now, but for a while it was all about how many friends you had, so no one turned me down.

I navigated to Kat’s page…and inhaled so sharply the sound bounced off the walls in my quiet living room.

Well, at least I knew why Kat canceled on me. She’d had other brunch plans.

The photo was shocking enough. But her comment underneath broke my heart.

I stood and started to pace. My beloved small apartment suddenly felt claustrophobic, like it was going to collapse and smother me. I needed air; I needed a drink; I needed a distraction from the memories that now threatened to ruin my night.

“You can’t eat that in here, Tess.” My friend Micki, the bartender and owner of Fizz, glared at me as I perched on my regular stool and spread my enviable supper in front of me on the bar. “We have a kitchen, you know.”

I took a huge bite of the sandwich and rolled my eyes back in my head. So, so good. I chewed slowly, enjoying Micki’s scowl. “Yeah, but your food sucks.”

The other regulars hollered in agreement and raised their beers at me. “Cheers to that.” I smiled at them and kept eating. Micki wouldn’t do anything other than glower. In addition to being friends, I was also one of her most valuable customers.

As the calories hit my bloodstream, I blew out a long breath. I was feeling incrementally better after the short walk to the bar and hearing the crunching sound the dried leaves on the sidewalk made as I stomped on them with my boots. It was a good move, to get out of the apartment and into the company of others. As my therapist liked to say, “Nothing positive comes from stewing in guilt about old mistakes.”

Micki huffed. “Give me a damn biscuit, at least.” I generously handed her half of my extra. She popped it in her mouth, wiped a few crumbs from her coat of bright red lipstick. As always, her classic makeup was the perfect contrast to her edgy black faux hawk. “You want a bourbon?”

Normally, yes. All Friday or Saturday night long. But I had that presentation in the morning. “Since it’s a school night,” I said. “Just one.”

“I saw you in here on Friday,” Joe called over, waggling his eyebrows at me. No surprise there. Joe practically lived at Fizz. I didn’t think I’d ever been there when his ass wasn’t parked in the stool closest to the waitress stand. “Made a new friend, eh?”

The other guys laughed, and I flicked my eyes to the ceiling. They loved giving me flack about the Magic Mikes in my life. “You finally gonna keep this one?” Joe yelled.

I swallowed some bourbon and cocked an eyebrow. Joe knew I couldn’t stand the double standard about men and women and casual sex. “You gonna keep that girl with the nose ring you took home last week?”

Joe snorted. “No,” he admitted. He looked up at me again, eyes twinkling. “You didn’t get locked out again, did you?”

The rest of the guys at the bar hooted. The Lockout Incident was one of their favorite Tess stories. I’d been a little over served one night last winter and hooked up with a guy just as drunk as I was. When we got back to my apartment, I couldn’t find my keys in my purse. Never one to give up, I concocted a brilliant plan to climb on the roof of the building’s entryway and lower myself through a skylight. My inebriated new friend agreed to let me climb on his shoulders to try to reach the roof. I’d grasped the snowy gutter for a glorious twenty seconds before the guy lost his balance, sending us both into the bushes. We’d reappeared at Fizz twenty minutes after we left, covered in snow, leaves, and bruises. At which point, we ordered a round for the entire bar. The Fizz guys’ favorite part was that I’d had my keys in my coat pocket all along.

Now, as they made fun of me, I just shrugged and took another bite of the spicy chicken sandwich. I never minded their good-natured, big-brother-like ribbing. And hell, I had plenty of silly stories to keep them entertained. Per usual, Joe immediately teed up another one. “At least you weren’t in a dancing mood on Friday. Remember when you climbed up on the bar to do the Whip/Nae Nae and kicked Micki in the face?” He mimed wiping a tear. “That one gets me every time.” Behind the bar, Micki shook her head, less amused. She’d sported a nasty-looking shiner for weeks.

“Let her eat in peace.” Not surprisingly, the request came from Toby, the youngest and most recent addition to Fizz’s ragtag team of regulars. When he’d started coming to the bar last year, he’d watched every move I made. Hung on every word that came out of my mouth. It was extremely flattering, especially because he had a dimpled chin and was built like Thor. But I stayed far, far away. He practically had “I want a girlfriend” written in neon on his forehead. Toby was a total sweetheart, and despite whatever his hormones were telling him, the last thing he needed was a romp with me. I would have trampled the poor guy.

I took my time finishing my dinner, occasionally forcing a laugh to one of Micki’s jokes or an eye-roll to one of Joe’s pronouncements or a smile to one of Toby’s earnest remarks. But I couldn’t get Kat’s Facebook post out of my mind.

I wasn’t the only one staring at my phone. Usually the guys were more focused on their beers or the Sunday Night Football game showing on the flat-screen TVs, but tonight they were huddled over their phones while gossiping in low voices like a bunch of gangsters at a racetrack.

“What are you looking at?” I finally demanded, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Joe gave me a semi-sheepish look, while Toby flushed downright crimson. Clearly, it was something dirty. They’d show me anyway. I’d established my “one of the guys” cred a long time ago.

Joe shrugged. “There’s this dude. Calls himself the FSG. About six months ago, he started an amateur sex tape site. He releases new ones every month. It’s kind of a clearinghouse. He buys sex tapes from anyone who sends them in, and he releases at least one of his own every month too. You can sign up for his newsletter and he sends you teasers and announcements.”

“Pervert,” I said without heat, already losing interest.

Micki brought Joe another pint. “So guys are into porn. What else is new?”

Joe held up his phone and gave it a little shake. “Actually, this is a little different. From a marketing standpoint, the way he’s released the videos has been kind of brilliant.”

Micki and I both let out a long-suffering sigh. Joe was doing a marketing degree program at one of the city colleges, and he loved to talk about it.

Undeterred, he went on. “He’s done a regional rollout. Six months ago, he released his California girls videos. Five months ago, his New York City files. Four months ago, the ladies of Texas. So there’s all this localized interest; his site gets a brand-new boost every month. It’s all over social media.”

Toby put his elbows on the bar and leaned forward. “Don’t sound impressed! He’s a total creep! The videos are disgusting. I haven’t watched them, of course—”

“Of course!” Joe and Micki said sarcastically in unison.

Toby glared at them. “He says on the site that all of the videos were created consensually, but even if that’s true, I’ll bet you a million bucks that the women aren’t cool with him putting the videos on the internet.”

I frowned. “That is really shitty. What’s the FSG stand for?”

The guys groaned. Joe shook his head. “On his site, he says it can stand for ‘Fucking Sex Ghost’ because no one knows his real identity. But he personally prefers Fucking Sex God.”

I gagged and lurched forward, like I was throwing up in my mouth. “It’s truly hard to comprehend that level of douchebaggery.”

“He’s releasing a set of Chicago videos in less than a month. Right at midnight on Halloween,” Joe said. “In the past, he’s dropped ten or twelve per city.” He wiggled his phone in the air again. “We were just wondering if we’d recognize any of the Chicago girls.”

“Don’t support him!” Toby protested. “Don’t pay to watch stuff on his site. He’s a criminal.”

“I’m not going to pay for anything,” Joe assured him. “But I did sign up for the free newsletter. I guess he puts stills from the videos in it, enough so you can see who’ll feature in the upcoming release. Those pics are being sent out any minute now!” He rubbed his hands together maniacally.

My stomach started to hurt in sympathy for those poor girls. “Don’t be such an asshole,” I snapped. “That kind of thing can be a life-ruiner for women.”

Joe lifted a shoulder. “Then they shouldn’t have been so stupid to make a sex tape in the first place.”

What?! I aimed my patented death stare at him and pointed a fingernail in his smug face. “You’re seriously victim-blaming here? You’re saying that if a woman chooses to be sexually adventurous and makes a recording, then all bets are off? That she shouldn’t be allowed to decide what happens with that recording?”

“Don’t get in a snit, Tessie. Christ,” Joe sniffed.

My eyes flared. He knew I hated it when he called me Tessie. Although it was better than “Hair, Boobs, and Boots,” his old nickname for me. “But it’s perfect!” he’d protested slyly when I’d told him to knock it off. “It’s your signature look.” He wasn’t exactly wrong, but I’d dumped a pint of Guinness over his head the last time he’d said it. Which meant I was kind of stuck with Tessie.

Now, he held up a mollifying hand, a physical gesture that said “calm down.” Which, as everyone knows, was a surefire way to transform irritation into full anger. “I’m not sayin’ it’s right for this dick wad to put the videos on the internet without the girls’ permission. I’m just sayin’ that it’s not smart to make one in the first place. I’d never do anything so dumb.”

“Reeallly,” I drawled, throwing back the rest of my bourbon. As if I’d rung a bell, Micki appeared with the bottle of Knob Creek and a questioning eyebrow.

I ignored her because I was about to go on a roll. “Really, Joe? So if the hottest woman you’d ever seen, a Selena Gomez lookalike, took you home and said that her number-one turn-on would be to make a sex tape with you…you wouldn’t do it?”

A minute of silence passed as Toby, Micki, and I stared him down. Joe’s stubborn face eventually melted into a conciliatory smile. “Well, maybe in that one very particular scenario.”

Toby and Micki laughed, but I wasn’t quite ready to let him off the hook. “Women are allowed to define any scenario they want,” I announced.

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe conceded. “They—you—can do what you want, I know that. Get off your feminist high horse. I guess what I really mean, then, is that they just should been more careful about what happened to the videos.”

The TV above the bar returned from commercial to 'Sunday Night Football.' Joe, Toby, and the rest of the guys erupted in cheers as the Bears’ defense intercepted a Viking pass. Micki left us to serve a bunch of meatheads howling for Bud Light.

I tapped my empty bourbon glass against the bar, listening to the ice clink. I argued with Joe about something just about every time I came to Fizz, but it was usually just for fun. We both enjoyed sparring.

Tonight I was truly vexed.

“Try to be more deliberate with your emotions,” my therapist always suggested. “When you’re feeling upset, really try to understand why.”

Maybe I was just transferring my hurt about Kat into anger at Joe’s comments about the internet’s latest sleazy celebrity. Anger was so much easier to deal with than hurt.

Kat wouldn’t mention her special little brunch to me. I’d pretend I didn’t know about it…and we’d move on. And the hurt would fade.

Sighing, I dug in my purse for my credit card, put it on the bar, and went over my Sunday night checklist: my Monday morning alarm—ringtone assigned to the fabulous ’90s song “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks—was set and ready. I’d picked up my dry cleaning yesterday, so I had all my favorite pencil skirts to choose from. There’d be plenty of time to review my presentation notes on the “L” ride downtown in the morning.

Yep, I was good to go for the week. If Micki would get her butt back over here to take my card so I could pay for my drink and leave. I raised my head to call for her—

Wait, why was everyone looking at me?

Still partially hunched over their phones, Joe and Toby were doing a comical sort of down-and-up move with their heads. Their eyes flicked down to the screen of Joe’s phone and then back up at me. Down, up. Down, up. Down, up.

Behind the bar, Micki was twisting a rag around her hands and staring at me with brows drawn together over stricken eyes.

“What?” I snapped. This wasn’t a prank or a group sympathy card reaction. This was a “You’ll never hold your head up in Fizz again” full-blown stare of horror.

The three of them remained uncharacteristically silent. Micki’s lips were tight with her cheeks slightly puffed out, like she was holding her breath. Joe picked up his fresh pint and downed half of it in a single gulp.

“WHAT?” I said again. “Tell me.”

Toby jumped to his feet so fast his barstool crashed to the floor behind him. “Uh, sorry about that. I, uh, need to get home.” He yanked the stool upright with one hand and grabbed his wallet and phone off the bar with the other. “See y’all later.” He purposely avoided my confused gaze as he headed out.

Micki and Joe were still frozen in place. I stood on the rungs of my stool. “What is wrong with you guys?”

Joe turned to Micki. “Rock, paper, scissors? Loser shows her?”

She nodded quickly, and they each shook their fists three times before flourishing a symbol. Joe’s fist-rock crushed Micki’s finger-scissors, and he let out a loud whoop. “Thank Christ! I’m gonna take a leak.” He hopped off his stool and headed to the men’s restroom.

Micki threw her head back and briefly closed her eyes. “Let’s go to my office for a minute.”

She motioned for one of the waitresses to cover the bar, and I followed her to the dark back area. Usually Micki only let me into her precious office if she needed my help with something, like distributing copies of the NCAA bracket for the bar pool or figuring out how to get her nightly specials marketed online in new ways.

In her tiny office she brought up a browser window on the old desktop computer and slowly typed a URL into the address bar. Before hitting Enter, she turned to face me. She didn’t make eye contact though. Her gaze went to the floor, the walls, the ceiling. “Joe noticed it first. I think because of that summer when you wore a lot of backless shirts.”

“Huh?” I asked, utterly confused. True, backless shirts were very in style a few years back, and I’d embraced it. Not the most flattering look I’d ever worn, but why would Micki be discussing my poor wardrobe choices now?

She cleared her throat. “That’s how Joe remembered your tattoo, I mean. You already know how much I like the anchor on your back.”

“Yeah…” It was one of the nicest compliments she’d ever given me, actually, since I’d drawn the design myself. Micki was a bit of an ink aficionado. Her forearms were completely covered in intricate art. But again, what did this have to do with anything?

Micki ran her hands along the close-cropped sides of her head, still avoiding my eyes. “That FSG sex tape site Joe and Toby were talking about…”

A sick shiver started at the base of my spine and crawled up until the hairs on the back of my neck rose. No. No way. “Micki. What?”

She hit enter and a webpage loaded quickly. “This is a teaser image, a still from one of his personal Chicago conquests. Joe got a link to it from the newsletter.”

A banner continuously scrolled across the bottom of the screen in a font you might see on a TV commercial for a monster truck show: “Check out my Windy City Good Time!!!” And then there was a countdown timer. “25 Days, 3 Hours, 48 Minutes.” The seconds were clicking by too fast for me to focus.

I leaned forward, praying my eyes were lying to me about the image on the screen. It was of a woman sitting on a bed with her back to the camera, looking out of a dark window at the lights of nearby skyscrapers. The woman had strawberry-blond hair that hung in ringlets past her shoulder blades, and she was topless. She had a small tattoo of an anchor at the bottom of her back.

Abruptly, I lost all of the air in my lungs. I saw stars and swayed on my feet.

“Jeez, sit down before you topple over.” I let Micki shove me into her rickety office chair even though I didn’t physically want to be closer to the screen.

“I hoped we were wrong.” Micki shoved her hands along the sides of her head again. “The hair and the tattoo were giveaways, but the girl in the picture is skinnier than you, so we weren’t one hundred percent sure.”

Glaring, I gave her a poke on the hip. “We were all skinnier in our twenties, Micki.” I looked at the screen and shuddered. “This was years ago.”

Five years, to be exact. A one-night stand. A handsome stranger I met in a bar. An impulsive decision. A short and wholly forgettable encounter I hadn’t even thought about in ages.

My brain whirred and chugged, unable to process. How was this possible? I’d made one recording in my life and it was with a semi-famous sleazebag? The FSG was fairly new to internet stardom. Had that predator been stockpiling sex tapes for years?

In my head, I heard Joe’s declaration that the girls should have been more careful about where their videos ended up. I sat up straighter in my chair. I had been careful. I met Micki’s sympathetic gaze. “But I deleted the recording. I know I did.”

I cringed, hearing my plaintive voice. Oh, the irony. I specialized in data recovery for a fucking living. I should know, better than anyone, that nothing is ever gone. Yes, I very distinctly remembered hitting the delete key on the guy’s laptop keyboard. But that asshole could have had cloud backups running every minute. It wouldn’t matter that I deleted the video off his hard drive if the file had just been synced to a server somewhere.

I put my head between my knees. There was a very good chance I was about to vomit on Micki’s floor.

That night had been so long ago, and my brain was too panicked for the memories to become clear. “Do you know anything about the FSG videos that are already posted? Are they explicit?”

Micki hesitated. I could almost see her debating whether to ease in or rip off the Band-Aid. “Yeah. It’s amateur porn.” She went for the rip. “It shows everything.” Her voice lowered. “Tess, this guy, this FSG—he has a huge mailing list. The hype for his Chicago release is blowing up everywhere. Joe is not the only customer I’ve heard talking about it this week.”

Tens of thousands of people. Maybe more. All of whom could simply click twice to see a video of me getting… Oh God, I was going to be sick. I lunged out of the chair and through the office door, almost knocking Joe over as he came out of the restroom. Luckily, the women’s room was right there, and I made it to a toilet stall before my dinner came up.

I looked in the mirror while washing my shaking hands. My eyes were huge and dark in my white face. If my coworkers or my sister saw that video, my life would be over. I was unapologetic about my active sex life; I liked men and felt no shame about it. But enjoying sex and knowing the people in your life had watched a video of you having sex—a video I never agreed to share—were very different things!

Oh God. Oh God. This couldn’t be happening. I hadn’t felt this sick and horrified in years.

“Tessie?” Joe rapped on the door. “You OK?”

“No!” I shouted.

“Well, don’t lose it,” he yelled back. “Maybe you can get it taken down. Sue his ass or something. You have, like, twenty-five days before the video goes live.”

Twenty-five days.

“The interesting thing about global deduplication is…” My boss droned on and on as our potential new clients struggled not to yawn. We were fifteen minutes into our Monday morning meeting, and he was already off the rails.

Nothing, Paul! I wanted to scream at him. There is nothing interesting about global deduplication! There was no way we should be this deep in the weeds at an introductory meeting. The clients didn’t want technical jargon. This early in the process, they simply expected a sales pitch.

I flicked my eyes from Paul’s face to the clock on the wall. Even that tiny movement was a mistake. Ow. Ow. Ow. Everything throbbed. The hangover headache was so bad I could feel my pulse in my nose, and I was definitely sweating bourbon out of my pores. Drinking too much on a Sunday night was a huge Tess no-no, but exceptions could be made when one learned they were about to star in a porno—

No. I could not think about that right now. Compartmentalize, Tess. I’d promised myself. Just get through today and then I’d figure something out. I always did. At this moment I needed to focus on work.

As Paul continued to use words like data compression technology, the three young execs across the conference table gave up on him and began to jab at their phones. I respected my boss, I truly did, but these initial client meetings were not his strength. Paul was excellent at actually delivering our technology solutions, but he was not a schmoozy kind of guy. Why our sales team couldn’t handle these pitches on their own was beyond me. Those guys were just plain lazy.

Companies hired our disaster recovery solutions firm to make sure that if their business was ever hit by a disaster—an earthquake or a hurricane or unexpected power outage—all of their IT and business processes would keep working seamlessly.

I’d worked here for six years, steadily shoving my way up. Paul was the best boss I’d ever had; he meandered around with an absentminded-professor vibe, but he was wonderful at seeing big-picture solutions and at mentoring people. A mentor was a valuable thing, so I’d made sure I was his number-one go-to person.

The dude directly across the table from me began to play a game on his phone. I could tell because the 'Fortnite' music wasn’t muted all the way. Wearing expensive jeans, trendy sneakers, and button-down shirts tailored to be worn untucked, these guys were from a company called Away-Ho, a newish tech-travel business that claimed to be a perfect mix of Expedia and Airbnb. This year, Away-Ho was first on Crain’s Chicago Business magazine’s list of fastest-growing companies.

Our target clients weren’t the huge guys. We didn’t go after Fortune 500 companies. No, we went after companies that were just past the start-up phase, the ones that didn’t get bought by Google and who didn’t crash and burn when their first round of VC funding disappeared. We went after companies that were just starting to put their big boy pants on. There were hundreds of companies in Chicago in that position, and I wanted them all.

Just as I was about to cut Paul off and put the Away-Ho bros out of their misery, the door to the conference room opened. To my shock, Jack Sorenson, the CEO of our company, let himself in and took a seat at the far end of the room. If Paul was surprised to see his boss, he didn’t look it. He simply interrupted his own monologue to say, “Jack’s just here to observe.” I didn’t share his nonchalance. I hadn’t been in many meetings with our CEO.

I sat ramrod straight in my chair. Under the table, I began to twist the thin silver ring I wore on the longest finger of my right hand. It was the only ring I ever wore, and I’d bought it for myself. I saved it to wear on days when I had big meetings or presentations. I even kept it in my purse instead of a jewelry box on the off chance I’d need to slip it on in surprise stressful situations. In high school I learned that my hands shake when I’m nervous or tense—and I didn’t like people noticing that sign of weakness. When I twisted my silver ring, the shaking stopped.

I stared at Paul, willing him to start wowing our potential new account—and our CEO. Instead, oblivious to my wide-eyed plea, he said, “Where was I? Oh yes. Most data stored on disk today has at least some statistical redundancy…”

Damn it. I didn’t want Jack Sorenson to see Paul foundering. Paul was absolutely amazing at his job; this was not representative at all. Everyone on the technology side of the company loved him. He shouldn’t be forced to do this sales crap; he wasn’t good at it.

Wait a minute. I was in the room and I was good at it. Enough was enough.

I cut off my boss, sweetly and with a modest smile. “Paul, I think what you’re discussing would be essential for us to talk about with Away-Ho’s DBA team, but maybe we should go a bit higher level for now since this is our introductory meeting. What do you think, Chad?”

Surprised, the 'Fortnite' player put his phone on the table. “Huh? Uh, yeah, OK. Whatev.”

Eloquent. “Wonderful, thank you so much.” I’d been silent for much of the meeting thus far, so all three guys looked at me with interest. After watching them the last twenty minutes, I was pretty sure what they’d respond to. I just hoped it wouldn’t come across as unprofessional to Paul and Jack.

I plunked my elbows on the table, leaned forward, and put my chin in my palms. “I think we all know the world is going to hell, right?”

They blinked, laughed a little. “Climate change, pandemics, the threat of war, mass shootings, et cetera. I hope I don’t offend you when I say that lately…shit is getting a little real.” Fortnite Chad laughed louder and nodded.

I continued. “Every single company in existence right now has some sort of disaster recovery plan or is scrambling to put one together. That’s good. But your disaster recovery solution should be as individualized to Away-Ho as it can be. Too many DR solutions try a one-size-fits-all approach.” I widened my eyes for emphasis. “We don’t. Our team is focused on learning the nuances of your business and designing a custom, scalable, cost-efficient solution for you.”

I hadn’t said anything of substance, but I had their focus back and they were nodding. Good. “Let me show you some testimonials from other companies your size.”

The sales team finally reappeared to retrieve the Away-Ho contingent and take them out to an overpriced lunch. I shook hands with them and exchanged business cards, relieved the meeting was over. I was ready to escape to my office and chug a bottle of water. I needed to fight through this hangover and figure out a way to get my video off the Fucking Sex Ghost site.

Paul and Jack Sorenson remained seated at the conference room table. As I was about to excuse myself, Paul gestured for me to sit back down. “Stick around a minute, Tess.” Jack closed the door and took the seat right next to me this time.

Oh crap. Maybe they hated the way I’d handled things. I glanced over at Paul. He never swore, and I’d noticed his lips thinning when I’d done so with a client in the past. “Hope you didn’t mind that I stepped in or the way I approached them.” I swallowed and fell back on one of my favorite handling-Paul themes. “You know millennials,” I scoffed, cheerfully throwing my own generation under the bus. “They just need that drama to actually pay attention.”

He shook his head in disgust. “Indeed. So juvenile, isn’t it?” He turned to Jack. “Didn’t I tell you? Tess handles herself perfectly in meetings with new clients.”

A rush of heat hit my cheeks. This was unexpected. Paul was always good at handing out praise when earned, but a shout-out straight to the CEO was pretty special.

“You were right,” Sorenson said. “And your replacement is going to need to hold their own when dealing with some of these forceful young tech guys.”

Wait, what? “Your replacement?” I blurted, looking at Paul. “You’re leaving?”

He smiled at me, the wrinkles around his eyes growing deep. “Retiring. At the end of January.”

That was only four months away. I blinked a few times, disoriented. This place wouldn’t be the same without Paul. Whoever stepped in to replace him would have huge shoes to fill.

As both Paul and Sorenson waited for me to catch up, I cursed my hungover and slow-moving brain. “Are—are you considering me for Paul’s role?”

Sorenson lifted one shoulder. “I’d prefer to promote internally rather than hiring from the outside. Paul has nominated you as the person he’d feel most comfortable taking the reins.”

I didn’t know whether to cry over the lump in my throat or scream for joy. I did sit on my hands so I wouldn’t do a huge fist pump in the air. I met Paul’s kind eyes. “Thank you.” This was incredible. If I moved into Paul’s role, it would be a career-changer. A big jump in salary, a VP title, and an office with a window.

“But,” Sorenson went on, a clear note of warning in his voice, “I don’t know you as well, Tess, and I need to feel confident in your abilities before offering the promotion.”

“Of course.” Bring it on. Whatever he needed to see or hear from me, I would show him. I forced myself to make eye contact and speak calmly. “I’d be thrilled for a chance at this opportunity, and am happy to formally interview—”

Sorenson waved a hand. “You’re a good talker, Tess. Even I know that. I don’t think an interview is what would make me feel comfortable.” He folded his hands on top of the table. “What I need to know is if you can handle the tough stuff, the truly tricky situations.”

Tricky situations, eh? Like figuring out how to get a sex tape off the internet? I quickly stuffed the panic back in its designated compartment.

I nodded at Sorenson as if I understood but snuck a questioning glance at Paul. Tricky situations? What was that supposed to mean? I handled sensitive and complicated circumstances all the time. We planned for—and reacted to—actual disasters, for God’s sake. Wasn’t that the tough stuff?

Paul understood my confusion. “Jack wants to be sure that the new VP can instill confidence in difficult clients.”

“Naturally,” I responded, still unsure what that meant in practical terms for me getting the promotion.

“Let me be blunt—and a touch politically incorrect,” Jack said. “These young tech guys come through the door with a lot of ego. Piss and vinegar, we used to say.” I smiled at the older expression. I knew what he meant. The Away-Ho guys had been a little rude but in a quiet way. A lot of the execs we met with brought more attitude with them. They swaggered in, daring us to impress them.

“Our sales team does a good job bringing in clients,” he continued, “but the technology team is what gets contracts signed.” I nodded in total agreement. Our products and service were top-notch. Jack sighed. “I think these young execs look at Paul and see an established man with a long career… He’s immediately trustworthy. He reminds them of their fathers.”

He lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head apologetically. “You would be a very different person to have in the role. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but you have to agree that it’d be a very different first impression.”

I knew he was just trying to be honest, but the implication that I would somehow be seen as less trustworthy because I was a thirty something woman…it stung. I stifled my irritation. “I understand your hesitation,” I said. “But I’m very confident I can represent the technology team and assure new clients that we’re the right solution for them.”

“I agree,” Paul said firmly.

Jack moved his head from side to side. “Well, I’m going to give you a chance to prove it, Tess.”

Challenge accepted. Eyes flashing, I leaned forward in my chair. “How?”

Jack gestured at the empty seats across the conference room table. “Away-Ho. I want them. You can’t buy the kind of press they get. If we land them, it’ll bring six or seven other clients through the door—and that’s a conservative estimate.”

My brow furrowed. Away-Ho? Those guys weren’t the kind of alphas he was worried about. Why would they be such a challenge?

Jack grinned, following the direction of my thoughts. “Those fellas weren’t the decision-makers. They were just a scouting team. Their CEO is a guy named Zack Morris, and he’ll personally be deciding which firm they go with.”

Zack Morris? The theme song from Saved by the Bell popped into my head. I ignored it. “So this Zack Morris is…demanding?”

Jack snorted. “He’s a hyper-aggressive little shit, actually.”

I had to laugh. “Sounds like fun.”

He pushed his chair away from the table. “It won’t be easy. He’s turned down two of our competitors already. But Away-Ho is the consummate example of the clients we need to bring on board to meet our goals. It has brand-name recognition, a strong projected forecast—and, unfortunately, a difficult leader.”

Sorenson stood and shrugged. “Those are your marching orders, Tess. Keep up everything you’re doing for Paul—and land us Away-Ho. I’ll be watching you.”