“What’s wrong?” I open my mouth. But I can’t speak. I turn my head, look. The door clicks, shut. Hammer nods, index fingers to lips, a silent “Shhh.” He steps away from the cam and peeks through the closet door. “Marci. Music? The box is in back’a you.” I reach back, press Play and music—tribal, house back beats—pours out the speakers. I feel light-headed, filled with helium. I’m about to float off, too. “Who you got the hots for?” I type his question. “No, I’m asking you.” His shirt plays hide-and-seek, flashing gold skin, muscles and sex. He plants his feet and takes a wide stance, moving his hips side-to-side. Hammer’s a human sextronome. I can’t look, I look away. The way he’s moving—two feet away from me!—makes me excited. Dot, dot, dot: again. I reach under the desk and adjust myself. Bling! Bling! Bling! Bling! Bling! Bling! The computer goes ape-shit crazy. The activity saves me from answering and extreme embarrassment. “They’re say—”
