“The name is blocked out—ironically, by your underwear. But that’s how they know. They saw your badge.”

I straightened. “Ah…” I said to express understanding, but I was still confused. Because that was not my badge. My badge looked a lot like that badge, but the company logo and name and everything else was printed in blue on my badge to denote my status as an unpaid intern. Regular employee badges were printed in black lettering with a black logo—like that badge showed.

The guy dressed up as Falco the Bounty Hunter. The man with the hot hands and the huge cock. That guy was a Draco employee.

I took a deep breath, held it and then let it go. Holy crap. I was so fucked. This thing got worse and worse the more time that passed.

Because that person was probably angry as hell that a video of him having sex was posted on the Internet. Sooner or later this guy would find out who I was and want to know why the hell I’d jeopardized his job for no good reason. I’d have to find him before it came to that. But I had no idea how.

“Speaking of having access to your phone, it was completely dead so I plugged it in for you this morning when I woke up. The notification screen said you had five missed calls and two voicemails from your mom.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Sid paused. “You aren’t even going to listen to the voicemails?”

“No. I’m deleting them. Whatever she wants, I’m sure her new hubby can take care of for her. Gunnar is a trust-fund brat so he can buy whatever her little heart desires. She only calls me when she wants something. And I’m not in the mood to argue with her.”

“You never argue with her, April. You just put up with it.”

“See? This is a good way to avoid the entire mess. If she never gets a hold of me, then I never have to feel disgusted with myself that I didn’t stand up to her—yet again.”

Sid nodded. “Good point. Hey, my mom wants to know when you are coming over for dinner again.”

Sid often took pity on me when speaking to me about my mom. She liked to offer her own mom, who was an amazingly sweet lady, as a surrogate.

“Oh, that sounds amazing. I could go for some more Persian food, but I don’t even know when I’ll be able to break away from this hellacious job to do more than eat and run. And that would be so rude to her.”

Sid shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll be filling up our freezer soon anyway.”

“Yum. Hope she makes that great stuff with the pomegranates and walnuts again.”

“Fesonjān. I’ll put in the request.”

I got up, and with rounded shoulders opened up my laptop to check my email. Speaking of mothers…there was another one from Rebekah in there. I still hadn’t answered her last one.

This one had the subject line: Israel Birthright Info. My stepmom was concerned about my dire lack of education with regard to my heritage and had made it her personal mission, of late, to get me on board with the family plan. My half-sister, Sarah, was going to have her Bat Mitzvah in a few years, and I was sure Rebekah had visions of one big happy family gathered together in the synagogue to celebrate.

Or maybe she thought I was a crappy role model for her daughter to look up to. And Sarah did idolize me. Despite the fact she was only ten, it felt good. At least someone on this planet thought I was pretty great. Nevertheless, I sighed as I contemplated how to respond to Rebekah’s question of whether or not I’d go to temple with them. It seemed that religion was yet another barrier between them and me. It set me apart, made me different from those I should have called my closest family.

With a sigh I sat back, opened another browser and Googled the program in question. Maybe I could take off on a trip to Israel, and when I got back this damn video would be wiped from the face of the Internet forever.

When it snows in the summer, as my German grandmother would say. Or when pigs fly, as I would say.

After a quick breakfast, I dressed for work, making sure to wear clothing that would keep me adequately covered. Given this second chance from a grumpy, yet remarkably understanding boss, I’d make every extra effort to be the best assistant ever.

But the boss got surlier with each passing day. And he nitpicked every single goddamn thing I did. I fought hard to maintain a smooth exterior—to never show my emotions, my self-doubt. People like Jordan Fawkes could smell fear, and so I knew I had to try my best to hide it.

Meanwhile, when I wasn’t stressing about job stuff, I was agonizing over the Falco question. Vital questions like ‘who was he’ and ‘did he know who I was’ and—more importantly—‘was he ragingly pissed off at me’ plagued my mind.