Risky Business

by Bethany Jadin

  God, he must think I’ve lost it.

  Maybe I have.

  Suzanne nods at me good-naturedly as I slide into the backseat, setting the tub beside me as I buckle up. I stare at the ice cream as I snap the seatbelt into the latch. Double shit. Did I just pick up Jax’s favorite ice cream? I can’t eat that.

  But the vodka waiting at home — that I will drink. All of it.

  I lean my head back against the seat, my gaze tilted to the roof as Desmond gets into the passenger’s seat and Suzanne starts the vehicle. I want to go home, and I don’t mean my parent’s house. I want to curl up with Zoey on the couch and watch movies until the sun comes up. I want to sleep in my bed — the beautiful one Daniel bought me — and wake up with Jax’s strong arms wrapped around me, and Trigg’s fingers entwined with mine. I want to curl up in Jude’s lap, with Mabel at our feet. I want to spend all day cooking for the guys, and watch Gunner go for seconds and thirds until he’s stuffed. But I can’t. I can’t do any of it.

  Because everything is too fucked up.

  I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but this right now — knowing what home feels like and not being able to return to it — this is a pain I never knew existed. It hollows me out and leaves me empty.

  Except for the tears.

  Those finally come.

  15

  Trigg

  I give up.

  Unfolding my legs, I push my hands on the floor and stand up. Morning meditation just isn’t going to happen. I can’t focus. I can’t relax. I can’t let go. My mind just keeps wandering back to the phone call from Emma’s security team saying she wasn’t coming home. Then to Jude and Gunner yelling at each other in her apartment. And finally, to the phone call from Emma, which confirmed our suspicions that BHC had, indeed, pointed out all our transgressions to her, in vivid detail.

  My running shoes are sitting against the wall next to my nightstand, and I reach for them, lacing them up. Perhaps one of the reasons I can’t meditate properly is I’m trying to do it on my bedroom floor. On the mornings it was too rainy or cold to go for a run, Emma would join me in the Zen Den for meditation or yoga. I can’t go back there right now. I can still smell her perfume lingering in the air.

  I need to go for a run. Maybe that will clear my head.

  An energy starts working its way through me. It’s being driven by anger, if I’m honest with myself. I make my way to the elevator and down to the lobby, wishing that when the door opens, she would be standing there, smiling at me. But she’s not there. And neither is Jax, or Jude, or Gunner, or Daniel. We’ve barely spoken in the past couple days.

  Out on the sidewalk, I take a look around. The city, humming along as usual, completely oblivious to any one individual’s turmoil. I point myself east and begin at a jog. That nervous, anxious, angry energy is telling me to go. To go faster and further and to just keep fucking going until I can’t feel my legs or the burning in my lungs or anything else. Adrenaline hits me, and I’m too antsy to do my usual slow jog to warm up. I pick my pace up into a moderate run. And then more and more until I’m flying.

  It brings me to the park where I usually stretch — to the little grassy knoll where Emma stretches with me, and I can’t stop. That ball of frustrated hurt rises front and center, and I whip by at a pace that will have me breathless soon.

  But the heat building in my chest and legs is good. I need to feel that burn. My thighs are already protesting, but I grimace and push through it. More. Faster. Farther.

  Even though I know — deep down — that it doesn’t matter how far I go or how fast my legs carry me, she’ll always be with me. I can’t ever outrun this.

  But, I can try.

  16

  Jax

  My eyelids blink open, and I try to pull myself out of the heavy fog of a substance-induced sleep. The fabric under my cheek is rough and itchy. No. Fuck. That’s me. I haven’t shaved in days, something I’m not used to anymore.

  My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels thick. And my head. Shit. I slow my attempt to raise myself from the couch cushions in order to give my head a chance to keep up. Unlike last night, the hard metal that has been playing non-stop in the main room is turned down to Sunday morning volume, and my throbbing brain is thankful for that. Not that any of these assholes give two shits about their neighbors; they’re probably just as hungover as I am.

  I get my eyes open wide enough to take a good glimpse at last night’s leftovers, which will now be serving as my continental breakfast. Bottles and baggies. Thousands of dollars-worth from the best dealers in the city. The kind of guys you wouldn’t catch dead peddling their high-class goods in a dark alley. And yet, this apartment looks like shit. You’d never know how much cash flows in and out of this place by the look of it.

  “Why don’t you fuckers get a goddamn cleaning service!” I yell. Holy shit, was that my voice? Sounds like I gargled with glass.

  “Hey!” Tony’s looking like day-old shit this morning, but he’s already at work. He pushes away from one of the tables lining the walls of the dark room, gliding toward me on his rolling desk chair. “Look, Cinderella woke up.”

  I push myself to a sitting position, the grogginess weighing down my entire body not dissipating fast enough for my liking. “What the fuck did you slip me?”

  “Scott palmed me a few downers.” Tony leans back in his padded chair. “You’d been up for three days straight, man. You needed to chill the hell out.”

  “That’s not your call, asshole.” I run my hand over my face, hating that I’m in this drug-induced cloud. I lean forward, nearly missing placing my forearms on my thighs.

  “I’m the asshole?” Tony rolls his chair toward the door. “Whatever, man. You punched Scott in the face last night. Remember that?”

  “Yes. And I should have punched him harder. He’s fucking up the job. You idiots need to keep your goddamn mouths shut when we’re working.” I squint at the array of orange bottles, trying to remember what the pills look like that I’m searching for. Something to lift me out of this swamp.

  “Shit, man, you’re so uptight.” Tony opens the door and leans into the hallway of the apartment without getting out of his chair. “Cinderella’s awake.”

  “Stop fucking calling me that.” I find the one I’m looking for and pop a couple, chewing them into bits to get them working faster before swallowing them down on a dry throat. Shouldn’t take too long to fire me back up.

  “Whatever, man,” Tony shrugs. “You need a drink? It’ll help with the hangover. We have work to do.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have slipped me those goddamn pills.” I try standing, balancing myself precariously. “I was on a roll. I would’ve had that backdoor open in another hour, but Scott started running his mouth on whatever the fuck forum he was on. I don’t want to go to jail again.”

  Tony rolls back to his desk, using one fist to mimic bored masturbation. “Fucking Cinderella. Old Jax wouldn’t have given two shits. You would have been plastering your handle all over that forum and had those credit card files last night.”

  “There he is.” Scott enters, cigarette in hand and a deep black bruise over his cheekbone from my fist. “You good? We only have a short window. Let’s finish this.”

  I glance over to where I’d set up shop. My laptop is open, every data port connected to the shit ton of tech gear in this piece of shit apartment complex. It’s a place I used to frequent, back when I didn’t care what the accommodations were like as long as the drugs were expensive and the women were easy. The Mulligan brothers have this entire floor to themselves; eight apartments playing host to enough drug dens, orgies, and dark web contracts to keep me blissed out of my fucking mind for weeks on end.

  But now, looking at those two amateur-hour pieces of shit standing in front of me, I’m wondering why the fuck I came back here.

  Probably because it’s the world I know best. I used to rule this goddamn place. It was my kingdom. I loved getting my cock sucked while breaking int
o the bank accounts of corporate big-wigs. Nothing like coming in some hot young thing’s mouth while I watched six figures being siphoned into my account. Then I’d blow every fucking, goddamn penny of it on stupid shit. More black hat gear, more drugs, more booze. Expensive spur-of-the-moment trips full of, yep, drugs and booze. Outlandish bets on boxing matches I didn’t even watch. High-priced hookers for the newest recruits. Who gave a shit? It was just money. I knew I could always get more. I fucked, drank, and blew through cash like the apocalypse was coming.

  I stand and move to my desk, trying to focus on where it was that I left off last night. The credit card company had no idea I was into one of their major processing networks, but Scott running his mouth online last night might have tipped them off, and then the plug would be pulled — quite literally, perhaps.

  “I know how to get your blood pumping,” Scott says, smashing his cigarette out in an ashtray on the nearest table. He opens the door to the hallway and yells something I don’t quite catch.

  When he turns back to me, his hands are in his pockets, and there’s a devious smile on his lips. “This is a big fucking score. We haven’t been able to pull a job like this off since you left. Seven figures, no problem. Not bad for a few days’ work.”

  Three women appear in the doorway behind Scott, their eyes moving directly to me. I recognize them immediately, not because I’ve ever seen them before, but because of their expressions — all bedroom eyes and adoring smiles, looking at me like I’ve been served up for dessert. They’re fucking fan girls. The depraved tech world’s version of groupies.

  A blonde with a tight-ass mini skirt approaches me first. “You must be Jax,” she says, her eyes lighting up.

  Her friends appear on either side of her, and the brunette’s eyes travel down my face and linger on my bare chest. “Scott’s told us so much about you. How you like to party after a big score.” She waves a finger in the air, gesturing at her friends. “We know how to party.”

  The third one, tall and slender, wiggles up to my side, running a finger down my abdomen. “I heard you’re good at more than just hacking. That you fuck even harder than you fight,” she whispers with a smile. Her hand reaches the top of my jeans, and her fingers curl under the edge of the fabric. “Which is perfect, because I like it rough.”

  “Not interested.” I slam my wrist against her hand and shove her back. “Keep your fucking hands off me and let me work.”

  She draws in a sharp breath and moves away, holding her hand like a wounded animal. But her blonde friend takes it as a challenge, winding her way toward me like a snake.

  “What’s the matter, baby? You seem tense.” She leans toward me as she approaches, her voice going low. “Maybe you need that big cock sucked to help you relax?”

  Yeah, my head is clearing rapidly now, but it isn’t the pills I took. It’s the anger welling up inside me. If that bitch lays one hand on me, I’m going to fucking lose it. Everything about her is fake. Even that goddamn purr in her voice is put on. I glance at Tony and Scott, and they’re grinning like a couple of schoolboys. It dawns on me that they think this is as good as it gets. As if anything these three women could offer would hold a candle to Emma.

  My lip curls with the thought. Emma. I thought I had a chance at redemption. But I went after a woman I deserved least of all, and she finally figured that out. Her absence has created a vacuum in my life, and it’s sucking everything into a black hole.

  The blonde detours over to the couch and sits down, but not before she wiggles her ass a bit. She pats the cushion beside her and sends me a sultry smile. I curl my lips in disgust.

  Scott finally catches the look in my eye and jerks his thumb toward the door. “Ladies, time to go. You can come back later, right now Jax needs to get to work.”

  Work. I look back to the desk, my computer waiting on me to finish the deed. I stare at it, my hands balling into fists as the pills kick in hard and my rage jumps off the charts. Everything in here just reminds me of the void in my life now. The anger and despair are worming their way under my skin so sharply, I want to peel my own flesh off. Fuck this job. Fuck this room. Fuck this entire goddamn hellhole and everybody in it, especially Scott and Tony. Those two shit stains barely share a brain cell, and I can’t stand breathing the same motherfucking air as them.

  I pull the rolling chair out from the desk, and Tony must think it’s his cue, because he starts talking. “I have the files backed up and ready… hey, what the—”

  He jumps out of his seat as I lift the chair over my shoulders, leaning into a powerful overhead swing. I let out a scream of rage as the legs of the chair smash into my laptop. The screen shatters, and the keyboard fragments, popping out of the chassis in pieces.

  “What the fuck, man?” Tony yells, but he doesn’t move to stop me. He knows way goddamn better than to get in my way.

  I drop the chair to the ground and start using my hands as sledgehammers, pieces flying as I bring my fists down again and again, obliterating my computer, the two extra monitors, network boards, everything. The girls scream and flee the room. Scott stands by, holding his head in shock as I wreak havoc. I yell out my hatred with every blow, wishing I could turn my fists inward. My knuckles split, leaving blood behind. The equipment splinters with loud cracks and bright sparks erupt, giving me the first ounce of satisfaction I’ve had in days.

  I turn toward the Mulligan brothers and the group of men who’ve come running into the room since my rampage began. They shrink back. I kick the mangled chair out of my way and grab my leather jacket and helmet. Those are all I need. My keys are in my pocket, and my Harley is in the parking lot. I storm out the door, all those goddamn motherfuckers parting to give me a wide berth.

  The entire floor has gone silent, people staring wide-eyed from open doorways as I stride down the main hallway and take the stairs. My jacket is on in the few seconds it takes to reach the bottom, and I shove the side door open. The harsh daylight hits my eyes, but not for long. I pull my sunglasses out of my jacket pocket and slip them on my face. By the time I reach my bike, I’ve got my helmet on. I strap it tight as I swing my leg over the saddle.

  My fat boy roars to life with the first kick, and I leave the parking lot behind, pulling hard to take a sharp left, steering her away from the city. I set my eyes to the horizon, an endless expanse of blacktop calling my name.

  Fuck this place.

  Fuck everything.

  17

  Emma

  I startle, nearly jumping out of my skin, when Mom sets the coffee cup at my elbow.

  “You’ve been up all night again?” she asks, her voice kind but concerned.

  Rubbing my eyes, I realize they’ve gone out of focus, and I’ve been staring vacantly at nothing for some time now. “I’m so close. Closer than I’ve ever been.”

  “Honey, it’ll still be there after you have some rest. I think I should take this back to the kitchen. Your father can drink it. You should go to bed.”

  I pursue the retreating coffee mug with outstretched fingers. “No, no. I need to keep going. The sooner I finish this — well, I won’t have to worry you anymore. I’ll be able to get out of your hair.”

  Mom rubs my arm. “It’s our job to worry about you, sweetheart. And you aren’t in our hair — we’ve enjoyed having you here for an extended visit.”

  I give her a warm but tired smile. “Thanks, Mom. I just want to get this finished. I want to be done with this program and be able to move on with my life — focus on something else.”

  She sighs with a smile. “I understand. Is there anything I can get you? Do you need something to eat? Some breakfast?”

  “No, no — I’m fine,” I promise her. I return to staring at the screen, but it’s all just a blurry swirl of keystrokes that aren’t making any sense in my head right now.

  “Emma?” Mom’s soft voice pulls me back from the melancholy. “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

  I open my mouth to tell her no,
but I pause, a million thoughts whirling through my mind. “Actually, can I ask you something?”

  She nods and sits down on the chair beside the desk. “Of course, anything.”

  How to start this? I think for a minute, trying to get my bearings. “Have you and Dad ever had any really hard times? I mean, between the two of you. Where… maybe you weren’t sure if you were going to make it through?”

  Her eyebrows raise, and she draws in a long breath before nodding solemnly. “Yes. We have. I think difficult times hit every relationship at some point. But we worked it out. Is that what’s bothering you?” She reaches for my hand. “Sweetheart, your dad and I — we’re fine now, I promise.”

  “Oh, no — I know you are,” I assure her. “I was just wondering if you ever went through a rough patch.”

  “Of course, sweetheart. I mean, we tried to shelter you from those moments, but sure, we’ve had our ups and downs. Some were harder than others to get through, but we managed.”

  I swallow hard on a throat growing itchy with the urge to cry. “You know, ever since I started thinking boys were cute, I’ve wanted what you guys have. I just don’t know if I’ll ever find it.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sure you will.” Mom brushes my hair away from my shoulder, like she has since I was five.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s like every time I think things are going good, suddenly everything gets pulled out from under me.”