Geek Mafia | Page 4

to him.
"You know, Chloe, you've got a pretty fucked up sense of humor," Paul
said. "I like that in a woman."
"Hold your horses there, sport. Let's not get into what you like inside
women yet - we just met after all." This sudden sexual spin on his
comment conjured up a couple of graphic images he couldn't have
ignored even if he'd wanted to, which he didn't.
Chloe stared at Paul for a long moment with something he hoped was
attraction, or at least interest. Then her phone buzzed and she looked

briefly at the display screen before turning her gaze back on him. "Paul,
have you had lunch yet?" she asked.
"No, not yet," he said, liking the direction things were headed now.
"Well, I skipped breakfast and, quite frankly, I'm feelin' a bit more buzz
from these drinks than I'd expected. I need to get some food in me."
"You want to get a table?" Paul asked, motioning towards the
restaurant section.
Chloe dropped a wad of bills on the bar as she stood up. "This place?
No fucking way. It's over priced, under spiced slop." She walked right
past Paul towards the door and he struggled to sweep up his sketchbook
and belongings as he followed her.
"We're going to my place."
CHAPTER 2
Chloe's house reminded Paul of a cross between a used bookstore, a
computer repair shop, and a college dorm. A wall of bookcases
dominated the living room, each shelf crammed with two, sometimes
three layers of books, videotapes, CD's and DVD's. More stacks of
books and magazines stood in every corner. Paul was certain they
would have taken over all the other flat spaces as well, were it not for
the half-assembled computers and three dusty old monitors occupying
the coffee table, end tables, and everything in between. The only
semi-open spaces were the two couches that faced each other from
across the room. A large red and black checkered blanket covered one
of them, while the other was cracked but still serviceable brown leather.
Thrift store purchases both, Paul thought.
"The computer stuff belongs to one of my roommates," Chloe said.
"She's always fiddling with those things to get better performance or
whatever. The books are mostly mine or my other roommate, Kurt's.
Come on into the kitchen and we'll rustle up a sandwich."

Paul followed her back into the open kitchen area, which (given that he
was ostensibly here to have lunch) he was relieved to see was clean.
There was clutter in there certainly, but no dirty dishes or leftover
foodstuffs appeared in evidence. Along the left wall was a cheap,
plastic patio table with long wooden benches on each side and
miss-matched chairs at either end. Newspapers, books, and a laptop
occupied most of its surface area, but the end closest to Paul seemed
clear enough to see actual use as a place for dining.
"Is peanut butter ok?" she asked, motioning him towards one of the
chairs.
"Sure," he said and sat down at the table. As she started to prepare a
couple of peanut butter sandwiches on white bread she said, "So, tell
me Paul, why are you getting fired tomorrow?"
"I'm not really entirely sure," he said, although this was a stalling tactic.
He knew pretty well why he was getting fired; he just didn't quite know
how to put it into words. It'd only been a couple of hours since his high
school friend and CEO had told him what was happening. "I mean, they
gave me reasons, but they're not really reasons. They're not things I did
wrong."
"What does that mean? They didn't like your looks?"
"Yeah, basically," said Paul. "More to the point, they didn't like the
look of how I was doing things. What I mean is, I'm not a tech guy
right? I'm an artist and a writer. I'm used to working at home and
scribbling away and meeting my deadlines. So when I helped start this
company, I figured it would be mostly the same. I figured I'd sit in my
office and do my work and hit my deadlines and go to my meetings and
all that."
"But you didn't do that?" asked Chloe as she placed a plate with a
sandwich in front of him and went back to the refrigerator.
"No, that's exactly what I did, which was part of the problem."

"Do you want a beer or a coke or something?" she asked.
"Coke's fine."
Chloe brought back two cokes and set them down on the table before
taking a seat next to Paul. "So, wait. How was doing your job a
problem?"
"I don't work like a programmer," he said. "I don't sit and draw or write
for twelve or