Single Sashimi (17 page)

Mika’s jaw fell to the floor. Jasmine’s smile made her eyes almost disappear. A few of the other saleswomen gasped.

This was who she wished to be.

The dress hugged her curves like water, swirling at her feet in a waterfall of satin. Ruby beads sparkled and winked, making her hair glisten as if more beads hid in the strands. She was grace and light, powers imparted by the nature of the dress. Every movement had an elegant swish of fabric, a bright flash of crystal.

The sight took her breath away, while at the same time a part inside her scolded for how much she enjoyed being beautiful.

Her head was
so
messed up.

She wasn’t used to walking slowly, so her first steps tangled in the cloth. Then she took more languid strides—reminding herself of her grandmother—letting the dress carry her, versus herself carrying the dress. She felt like the Queen of England, or a cover model, or a bride waiting for her groom.

At that moment, she looked up and out the doorway of the shop, and saw Drake frozen and staring at her.

H
er heart stopped.

Her breathing stopped too, but since her heart had stopped, it didn’t matter if her lungs were working or not.

He was arrested mid-step, as if he’d been passing the shop and only happened to look inside. Why had he looked in
this
shop? Why had he been walking past it at
this
moment?

Someone called his name, but he didn’t turn. His eyes, even across the twenty yards that separated them, captured hers as firmly as if his hands clasped each side of her head to keep her from looking away, from retreating. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She was going to pass out.

Suddenly one of the high school boys ran up to him, and he dragged his eyes away from her.

Venus picked up her skirts and escaped into the dressing room.

“You spent
how much
?”

“Daaaaad.” Venus shifted the phone to her other ear as she scrubbed at her toilet rim.

“For a dress?”

“It was a
Marchesa.”

“Do you intend to get married in it?”

“It’s for Grandma’s Christmas party.” She swiped at a lock of hair falling into her eyes and inhaled deeply the nostril-searing cleanliness of bleach. She attacked a non-existent bowl ring.

“Grandma invited you this year?”

Not everyone in the family was invited, since it was a special gathering put on by the bank. “She’s going to introduce me to some people for my company.”

“Oh. And you didn’t have anything else you could wear?”

Grandma’s Christmas parties were always formal attire. She had a simple black number she used for evening parties—floor length, unadorned, scoop neck. The opposite of the Marchesa.

But how she wanted that gown. And she felt so guilty in wanting it that she thrust it in the back of her closet as if she could convince herself she hadn’t given in to her vanity and laid down quite so many thousands of dollars for it. “This dress will make me memorable. Remember? You always told me to be memorable, especially when meeting important business contacts.”

He sighed. “I guess.” After a short pause, “Are you cleaning your bathroom?”

“Uh…yeah. How’d you know?”

“I hear you scrubbing.”

“Oh.”

“Is, uh…everything okay?”

Venus sat up on her heels and adjusted the cordless phone closer to her ear. “What do you mean?” She tossed the sponge into her bleach and water bucket.

“Well…you always clean the bathroom when something’s wrong.”

Hmph. Dad knew perfectly well she cleaned when she was upset, but in all her years living at home with him, he never said anything to her about it. This was the first time. “I’m fine, Dad.” She wasn’t about to discuss with him what her counselor had told her, that she went on a germ hunt every time her life felt “out of control.”

“Do you need anything? Money to pay for that expensive dress?”

Dad’s fix-it side was showing. “No, I don’t need anything.”

“So how’s work? It’s a computer-based company, right?”

“I had enough experience with PC games that it hasn’t been a problem.” Not too much, anyway. “I’ve got a rhythm going by now.”

“How’s your software coming along?”

Venus poured the bleach water into the toilet and flushed it. “I’ve been working on it at night. It’s still having problems with MoCap data.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” As if her father actually knew what she was talking about. But he’d always loved listening to her about work.

“The tool worked fine with our first batch. I need new data to keep testing it, but I need to rent a MoCap studio to get it. I’ll have to look around for one.”

“You’re working with Drake Yu. Ask him for one.”

No
. She didn’t want to ask him for anything. She didn’t even want to put herself in the same room with him alone. “Um…maybe.”

“You don’t want to ask him?”

Man, why was Dad being so persistent about this? “I’ll wait for a good moment.”

“Well, I’ll let you go.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Don’t forget to ask Drake about that Momo-thing. Bye.”

She clicked off She needed to shove her attraction to Drake in the back of the closet, just like the Marchesa gown. She didn’t want to like him. He might have changed, but that was like buying a refurbished computer—too risky She had more important things in her life—his sister’s company, her own. No time to waste on handsome, mesmerizing, possibly still-immoral men.

She had to admit to herself that she’d never been so afraid of a man before in her life. Afraid and excited at the same time.

She didn’t fear what he’d do, but what she’d do to him.

The cold South San Francisco air flapped at her cheeks as she got out of the car. She shivered, but not with chill. No one walked the cracked street, and the tall industrial buildings blocked out any sunlight on this cloudy day, casting gloomy shadows on the dirty walls and browned windows.

She prayed as she set the alarm that her car would still be here when she got back. Which hopefully wouldn’t be too long—she’d called in to Darla not to expect her this morning, but Mondays were always busy, so she could expect a mountain of work when she arrived that afternoon.

But it had enabled her to avoid Drake, because she couldn’t yet face him when he’d seen her in that gorgeous dress less than twenty-four hours ago.

She entered the MoCap studio, a nameless old warehouse with boarded-up windows, which she’d only found because a remnant of the building number was still painted on the curb. The metal door creaked open. “Hello?” Must, sweat, and Lysol hit her in the face. Not a pleasant combination.

A woman with platinum blonde curls hurried into the open area near the door, screened off from the rest of the warehouse with tall partitions and a few ficus trees. “We’re in the middle of a session.” She motioned toward the back of the building, where Venus heard grunting, running, and bodies crashing.

“I’d like to speak with Jeffrey Stuart.” Venus surreptitiously tried to peek through a crack in the partition, but she only saw a glimpse of some blue gym mats set up on the floor.

“He’s…in a meeting.” The blonde’s gaze flickered away.

Venus narrowed her eyes and flexed a muscle in her jaw. Her feet itched to turn around and walk out. Slapped in the face with his questionable work ethic, she certainly didn’t want to work with this guy, even if his studio was the closest to San Jose.

But she was desperate and short on time to finish ironing out the wrinkles in this program. She only needed a few hours, and she could pay top dollar for them. “I’ll wait.” She crossed her arms and studied the blonde’s face.

The woman gave a sharp inhale, and the whites of her eyes flashed against her blue eye liner. In the next moment she recomposed her face, although her hands smoothed her white button-down cotton blouse with fluttering fingers. “We…don’t have anywhere for you to sit.”

Venus glanced around at the sparse reception area, if the ten-foot-radial semi-circle around the front door counted as such. She sighed. “If you bring me a chair, I’ll wait here.”

The woman gave her first smile and hustled away to return with a plastic garden chair. Venus sat to oblige her, but as soon as she disappeared behind the partition, she got up and kicked at the bottom of a partition to nudge it aside. She situated her chair in front of the crack to watch the MoCap session.

Looked like a game or a movie. Probably a game. A man ran over the blue gym mats that covered the concrete floor, dressed in what looked like a black diving suit covered with ref lective sensors. Cameras had been set up around the blue mat area—Venus counted twenty. Hmph. The website mentioned thirty-two cameras, which was what she needed. Jeffrey Stuart better have an extra twelve cameras stashed somewhere in this warehouse.

She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the computer setup in the corner. The technician sat like a king behind his wall of equipment. Venus squinted, but couldn’t see it any more clearly. She’d ask Jeffrey to give her a tour later.

The actor in the MoCap suit now walked over to where a huge blue mattress lay in a corner. A few men directed him, discussing with the technician. Venus strained to hear but only got her earring tangled on a screw protruding from the edge of the partition when she leaned close. Good thing she hadn’t punctured her skull on that thing.

They took forever to figure out what they were doing, to adjust cameras so they’d pick up the sensors on his suit better. Venus took her latest issue of
InStyle
magazine out of her purse and flipped through it while they discussed the action being recorded. After more gestures, they seemed to have decided what to do. Venus put down her magazine.

The man walked a few yards back from the mattress, then did a running leap. He held both hands out as if he were firing twin guns at a target to the side of the mattress, before landing in a heap.

Venus heard his shoulder pop even from where she sat.
Ouch
.

People ran toward the poor guy from all directions. Venus sighed. Game over.

She checked her watch. It had already been twenty minutes? She dropped her magazine back in her purse. The warehouse couldn’t be that large. She’d go in search of Jeffrey’s office. Everyone seemed to be focusing on the injured actor, so she could probably sneak around without being caught seeing anything she wasn’t supposed to.

She peered around the partitions. Doors lined one side of the warehouse, while the majority of space had been used for the MoCap studio setup. No one in sight.

Most offices had the old-fashioned glass-paned doors, so she glanced in as she walked past. Some doors were ajar. Nobody home, in any of them.

Oh, wait. The last office held a man seated at his computer with his back to the closed door. He apparently hadn’t heard the anxious calls from other people rushing to the injured actor. No name on the door. She drew up to the window in the door to see if he had a name plate somewhere on his desk.

She didn’t
mean
to glance at his computer screen. In fact, she tried really hard not to, because she didn’t want to view anything proprietary and hush-hush. But something about the movement on the screen reminded her of some animations she had seen done, and she leaned sideways to get a better view around the man’s head.

Terrorwars III. No way!
She hadn’t worked on that game, but she’d known the other Game Lead at Oomvid, and she’d seen the animators and programmers working on it.

It wasn’t out yet. Oomvid had paid megabucks to hype up the release, especially since it had been almost two years since
Terrorwars II
had come out.

This was an advanced copy.
Way
advanced. No one except Oomvid employees had access to this game.

Well, apparently not anymore.

Then she caught a gleam on the desk, and a tumbled name plate.
Jeffrey Stuart
.

And suddenly, Venus understood everything.

She turned the knob and slammed into the room. “You slime.”

Jeffrey jumped in his ergonomic chair and whirled around. Confusion dotted his pale eyes for a second, but then they relaxed into a half-lidded perusal of her person, from head to toe. “What can I do—”