The Asshole App

1 GAME OF THRONES

Evelyn Simmons stepped inside the diamond-shaped lift and regretted it immediately. She had hated her adventurous Sky Walk Tour of the Grand Canyon last summer and had to be rescued from the glass bridge like a deer frozen in headlights. Now she was about to hurtle up thirty corporate floors inside a transparent cube?

What am I, a glutton for punishment?

The glass door closed behind her and the elevator ascended above a canopy of lush treetops with a smooth whoosh. When she looked down, CENTIEN's verdant ground floor shrank at an alarming rate. She grabbed the lift's gold-toned railing and stumbled in the lift. Her smoky-quartz sunglasses flew off of her head and skidded into the elevator's invisible corner with a faint clatter. Two cups of coffee wobbled precariously in a cardboard takeout carrier as  struggled to find her balance

Damn this Wonkavator contraption.

Who wanted to see the ground drop out from under them and lose their breakfast to boot?

Most  of CENTIEN's employees avoided the futuristic elevator like the plague, but the modern tower-of-terror was the fastest route to the thirtieth-floor conference hall. The silk lining of her crisp,  toffee-colored skirt brushed her thighs as she bent down to retrieve her Gucci sunglasses. A wave of dizziness assaulted her, and she closed her  dark brown, amber-flecked eyes.

The things I endure for this job. I hope this internship pays off.

The vertigo-inducing momentum ended, and her body lightened. Her heels lifted, then settled on the clear polycarbonate flooring. As she waited for the elevator's glass panel to slide open, she tugged at the lace thong she had on.

Hearing a rumor that her boss's stormy relationship with Satoshi Nakamoto had  gone down in flames, she'd splurged on the minuscule piece of fabric that was now riding up her ass. A stunning Agent Provocateur  sales girl had convinced her to buy the matching lipstick-red bra. Maxing out her credit card guaranteed that she would be late with this  month's car payment, but if her billionaire boss was on the market, then she would have to up her game of seduction.

Stabilizing the coffee carrier with both hands, she exited the heart-stopping  transport. She paused on the diamond-patterned tiles as a text from Charlotte Grayson, one of the senior interns, vibrated her phone.

𝖶𝖧𝖤𝖱𝖤 𝖱 𝖴? 𝖧𝖳𝖥𝖴! 𝖬𝖮𝖥𝖮 𝖭𝖤𝖤𝖣𝖲 𝖧𝖨𝖲 ☕️

"Shit—." The twenty-four-year-old's heart fluttered. She gripped the compostable  tray and took off at a trot. Being the gopher for CENTIEN's demanding  CEO had its perks, but it also had a downside. Picking up his favorite  coffee from the corporate canteen had thrown her behind schedule. The  takeout counter had been overrun this morning, and she had waited in  line for fifteen minutes. The reason none of the other interns had volunteered for the task.

Pink spots blossomed on her porcelain cheeks as she raced down the tech company's sweeping corridors. Her Valentino cream-colored flats echoed a staccato beat on the marble tile flooring. She couldn't be late—this  was the most important meeting of her life. CENTIEN's powerful CEO would  go ga-ga once he learned about the colossal senior market she had  unearthed. He would realize she wasn't the idiot coffee girl.

Anticipation quickened her pace. She arrived at the thirtieth-floor conference room  at 7:59 am. Her sleek, shoulder-length ponytail bounced wildly as she rushed through a set of burnished glass-steel doors.

The  conference hall buzzed with a swarm of competitive interns. Vicenarians in their early twenties who gossiped amongst themselves while they  waited for the weekly marketing meeting to begin. Catching her breath,  she scanned the rows for a place to sit. If she was left standing, she would be branded a loser in their hokey game of musical chairs—ridiculed  worse than an idiot coffee girl. None of the waspish interns  acknowledged her arrival. She searched their animated faces.

Throw me a frickin bone, people.

Of  course, no one would help. They were vying for the same marketing assistant position as her. The opening would place the lucky candidate on a fast track to be within a heartbeat of the cutting edge, brilliant CEO.

Noting her anxious gaze, a middle-aged, female executive with intense blue eyes and a razor-sharp buzz-cut waved her over. The woman's androgynous appearance and her lack of  makeup were softened by a haze-blue cowl-neck blouse under a sleek navy  pant suit. "Over here, Evie." Lori Jacobs, the Senior VP of Tech  Development pulled her messenger bag off one of the brown ribbed pleather chairs. "I saved you a seat."

Evelyn  walked over and placed the cardboard carrier on the arm of the chair. She sat down with a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Lori."

The  Senior VP leaned forward and whispered in the intern's delicate,  shell-shaped ear. "Don't make yourself a target. Sinclair's been tearing everyone a new one since his Tokyo affair imploded last week." Despite her mannish build, the large-boned woman handled herself gracefully.

Evelyn's coral lips parted in surprise. The high-powered executive knew every crumb of gossip circulating in the company, but the coding savant seldom  engaged in trafficking even the juiciest tidbits. Jacobs had the reputation of being gruff, but Evelyn found her surprisingly personable for a software engineer. Intelligent and insightful, the more  experienced woman had taken Evelyn under her wing when she arrived at  the company.

Her heart leapt.

The rumor was true.

This  could be the lighted runway to land a ring on her finger. Lowering her voice, she suppressed a smile. "I can't believe his love life is in worse shape than mine," she whispered. The subject of their discussion,  billionaire Raymond Sinclair, arrived, and she tensed. Her pulse quickened as the air around him charged with electricity. Glimpsing his  hawkish profile, she noted dark smudges under his charismatic green eyes. Her heart thumped in her chest.

His breakup must have been brutal.

Maddeningly aloof, the thirty-two-year-old tech genius exuded the IT  factor perfected by Hollywood royalty. Six foot one, lean and muscular with a graceful swimmer's build, the dark-haired CEO wore a slate-gray  button-down shirt and a burgundy power tie. His face was a study in controlled focus as he strolled to a lectern and positioned himself  under the room's key lighting.

His piercing gaze scanned the group of hungry, dog-eat-dog competitors. "All right, people. I need volunteers. Who wants to blow me?"