Risky Business

by Bethany Jadin

  I decide not to push my luck. But there is something I need to give her before she leaves. It might be our last chance to help set things right, and I want to put it in her hands, if she’ll accept it.

  “Wait,” I say, scrambling to grab the folder from the seat beside me. “There’s one other thing, before you go.”

  I hold up the folder. “This is for once you’re free of BHC. You deserve a fresh start. Inside here is an agreement for a lawyer, on retainer. You’ll see our names are nowhere on the contract, but yours is. He’s been paid upfront, and he’s all yours for whenever and whoever you sign a contract with. Hell, you can use him for anything you need. The fee will cover months’ worth of legal work. He also drew this up.”

  I open the folder and tap a thick bundle of papers inside. “It’s a rental agreement with Srutmeyer Corp. Three years’ worth of rent have already been paid, and it’s enough to cover almost any size office facilities you might need. They own commercial spaces at hundreds of locations across the country. You can go wherever you want.”

  Emma doesn’t touch the folder I’ve opened in front of her, but her eyes trail across the papers. “Why are you doing this?”

  Because I’ve got it bad. Because we fucked up, and we’re trying to make it right. Because we’ve all fallen for you, and we want you to chase your dreams. “Because it’s the right thing to do after everything that’s happened,” I tell her quietly.

  She runs her teeth along her bottom lip. My heart races as I watch her face. She’s thinking about it.

  “One more thing,” I say, turning to the last item in the folder. “These are contacts, all of whom would trip over themselves to do business with you. Whether that’s bringing you on as a programmer or buying your software for an outrageous amount of money — these companies would all love a chance to talk with you.”

  Her lips twist into different shapes as she looks down at the folder. I can tell by the way her eyes are unfocused that she’s retreating into her own world for a moment, running things through that brilliant head of hers.

  “Does this mean you guys—” she stops short and takes a breath. “Does this mean Pentabyte is formally withdrawing the offer you presented me? Not that I’m entertaining it,” she quickly adds.

  Sonofabitch. My stomach drops for a second before I remember that I reluctantly stuffed the envelope inside my jacket at the last second. To think I almost left it behind. I send a quick appreciation glance at Daniel, who had convinced me to bring a copy of our final offer. I retrieve the small envelope from my coat.

  “Not at all,” Daniel says. “We’d be honored to work with you.”

  “Fuck all this polite corporate language,” Gunner says, shooting Daniel a look before turning his gaze to Emma. “What he means is, we miss the hell out of you. All of us.”

  There are nods all around the table as Emma stares at us. After a second, she swallows hard and averts her eyes, dropping her gaze back to the folder.

  “But, of course, you’re free to choose whomever you wish,” Trigg says quickly. “Or delete every line of the code and pretend it never existed. Whatever you want to do. We just wanted you to know you have a lot of options.”

  I try to read her body language as she reaches forward and slowly closes the folder, but other than a heaviness in her body, she’s gone blank, expressionless. She picks up the folder and tucks it under her arm. “Thanks. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  20

  Emma

  It’s evident the guys have been here.

  For one, everything in the apartment is ridiculously clean, and I know I didn’t leave it that way when I was rushed out of here by Desmond the day the fire alarms went off. But also, the kitchen is a disaster. I mean, it’s so clean I could eat off the floors, but it’s obvious that five bachelors have been at work. They’d told me they had been over the apartment with a fine-toothed comb, but it looks like they emptied each cabinet and drawer to scrub and polish every inch — and then couldn’t remember where anything goes.

  I love that the guys have taken such care to clear the apartment of any possible trackers, cameras, or audio bugs BHC might have tried to plant during the fire alarm mess. The Ice Queen said they’d be watching, and I wouldn’t put it past them to mean that literally. I’m sure they’d have a spy cam in every room of this place if they could. Going about my life as usual — just like they told me to do — means coming back here to the place I call home, but I can’t imagine BHC trusts me being back under the same roof as the men of Pentabyte any more than I have faith they won’t pull another stunt.

  But I’m not going to let those thoughts ruin this moment. Just being in this apartment again — standing here in this space again — it feels good. Plus, the place is stocked to the brim with groceries. To the point that there are stacks of stuff on the counter because the cabinets are too full.

  I find myself laughing as I open each cabinet. It’s like a game show — what’s behind door number two? It makes for an interesting treasure hunt as I try to track down where the guys thought it would be best to store the lasagna noodles. I know there were some in here, but they’re no longer with the fusilli and bowtie pasta.

  I open the next cabinet to be greeted by the vast collection of hot sauces — and ah-ha! There are the noodles! I smile, the corners of my eyes crinkling. Must have been Gunner restocking this cabinet — it’s stuffed with all his favorite foods. Come to think of it, I bet he’d love Mom’s lasagna with some pepperonici and — no, not Frank’s Hot — maybe one of the exotic Mexican hot sauces Daniel bought. I find my hand hovering over the hot sauce collection, on the verge of picking one out to add to the lasagna.

  Instead, I grab the noodles and shut the cabinet, trying to refocus my brain. The guys are why I’m here early, ready to dive into making another massive batch of Mom’s recipe. Not because they’re coming to dinner, but because I need to come to a decision about their plan, and cooking is the fastest way I know of to clear my head and think straight. Which I need to do, fast. I need to decide before Zoey gets here. I want her first night back to be a celebration, not a night of discussing my list of pros and cons.

  On the way over, I stopped at the grocery store. This time, I didn’t wander around in the aisles for hours — I grabbed the ricotta, eggs, and cottage cheese in record time. I couldn’t wait to get here. Home. It’s an odd feeling — thinking of this apartment as my home now, rather than my parents’ house. Of course, I haven’t lived in my childhood home in years and years, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought it would always feel like my true home, no matter what address I had. But now, this place right here — my apartment in the guys’ building — it’s the place I’ve longed to be more than anywhere in the world.

  I go to retrieve the items from the grocery bags I left sitting on the coffee table in the living room. As I pick up the bags, my eyes lift up to the painting above the couch out of habit, and it makes the breath catch in my chest more so than it usually does. It’s an abstract acrylic painting Jax did. I loved it as soon as I laid eyes on it and brought it down here to hang up before the paint was even dry. It doesn’t have a frame yet, but I don’t even care. It’s spectacular.

  He named it Belonging. And it feels very fitting today, especially since I’m returning here for the first time in a while. Actually, it hasn’t been all that long I suppose — people go on vacation longer than the time I’ve been away at my parent’s house. But so many things have happened in that time — the fire alarms and the crazy car ride and the meeting with BHC and then working on the code in my old room and then, finally, the meeting with the guys. On one hand, it all went by in the blink of an eye. On the other, I’ve missed them so deeply that every hour has felt like an eternity.

  Speaking of missing people — Zoey is coming home later today. She’s flying back from her brother’s with her security team, and they’re bringing her straight here. I can’t wait to see her and hear all about her visit. From the sound of
her voice on the phone last night, it seems like the trip has been a really good thing — she sounded more relaxed and carefree than I’ve heard in months. And I want things to stay like that, so that’s why I need to get to cooking and figure this shit out, pronto.

  But here I am, procrastinating by staring at a painting instead of what I’m supposed to be focused on. Time to get to work. I heft the bags and make my way back to the kitchen.

  I can’t believe the guys want to break into the BHC offices. It would be so vindicating to see Jackass and the Ice Queen and all the rest of those assholes lose their precious secret files. As crazy as their plan is, the guys could probably make it happen. I didn’t ask for the specifics of exactly how Jax planned to get inside, or what they were going to do with the files once they had them, but I have no doubt the guys know how to pull off a clandestine operation.

  I set the bag of groceries down in the kitchen, closing my eyes. I’m drifting again. Black ops missions, infiltrating an enemy base — it’s exciting to think about and damn, kinda sexy, too. I can’t even help myself — instead of seeing the lasagna ingredients laid out on the counter in front of me, I’m thinking of Jude in tactical gear. Rifle slung high on his chest, big black boots, ammunition and gear strapped to his legs and torso, those piercing eyes the only bit of him visible from behind that mask.

  Jesus Christ, my pulse is racing from just thinking about it. I’m ready to say yes if only so that I get to see that in person.

  I hunt until I finally find my largest pot and set it on the counter. Getting the water running, I point the sprayer into the pot and fire, waiting patiently as the pot begins to fill. I give myself a little kick in the pants mentally — get on with it, Emma.

  Okay, so.

  They want to break into BHC and steal some secret files.

  I need to think of all the angles.

  Do they want the files because they’re implicated in them, or are they really looking to take BHC down?

  They have no love for Jeremy, that much is obvious. I know that, for two reasons. First, because I believe the tone of disgust in their voice when they’ve talked about him is authentic. It’s hard to fake that level of hatred for someone.

  But also, I’ve been a bad girl.

  The second reason I know there’s no love lost between the guys and Jeremy is because of something I learned when Callie and Cora came to see me at my parent’s house. After the sisters told me they’d heard that Jax beat the ever-loving shit out of someone a few months ago, about a week after the Gala event, it raised my curiosity. So, I hacked into the hospital’s records.

  Bad, bad, bad. But… my hunch was correct.

  Callie and Cora weren’t exaggerating about what they’d heard — Jax really did do a number on Jackass. He was hospitalized for several days due to brain swelling and multiple broken bones. Apparently, he also had several rounds of physical therapy afterward to regain use of his right arm. And what the hospital records didn’t provide were easily filled in by the police record about the incident.

  As I’d sat there staring at the records on the computer, I’d remembered back to that night at the Gala, how Jax had stepped in and rescued me when Jeremy cornered me. How he’d looked like he wanted to rip his throat out the entire time. How he’d practically spit on Jeremy as we walked away, his arm around me protectively.

  It set my mind whirling, dots connecting all over the place.

  Jax confessed that knew whose devices he wiped, that they were mine. There was no doubt he would have seen my name popping up everywhere in the files while he worked on deleting all traces of the program.

  That’s all it was to him back then — just a name. He didn’t know me. But once he did — once we actually met at the Gala, he hunted Jeremy down and nearly killed him, from what the medical and police reports indicate. If cops hadn’t arrived when they did, I know he wouldn’t have stopped at just putting him in the hospital. I’ve seen what he’s capable of.

  I let out an uneasy sigh and turn the water off, moving the pot over to the stove. I get the gas flame going full bore to boil the water for the noodles.

  Alright. Think, woman.

  What do I know for sure?

  I don’t believe the guys are working with BHC. I can check that off the list of worries. There’d be more signs of it. From what I can tell, there has been zero collaboration. So, if they aren’t all in on it together, then I’m inclined to think that the situation at hand boils down to one thing: failure to communicate.

  Which isn’t a small thing. But neglecting to disclose that they once worked with Jeremy, or that they occasionally see him for business-related events — that’s at least in the realm of forgivable. If I truly thought they were actually friends with Jeremy or anyone at BHC, I would never have met with them. I’d be a ghost in the wind right now.

  Leaning down, I check to see if my baking dishes are in the same spot as before — the bottom cabinet next to the oven. No luck.

  I skip to the next cabinet over and open it. Jackpot. I set three of the glass casserole dishes on the counter and start adding ingredients to a giant mixing bowl.

  As I work, my eyes keep straying over to the manila folder I set on the counter. The folder which gives me everything I need to make my dreams come true — a chance to have my own office, to reap the financial rewards of my hard work, to join forces with prominent, cutting-edge companies where I can have creative freedom. One would think it sounds very nice.

  But I wipe at my eyes, which are becoming inexplicably teary, and crack another egg. The issue is that the folder no longer represents all of my dreams. Everything in there — all the amazing opportunities and money waiting… it just doesn’t have the same luster it might have had a few months ago. Because none of it offers a future that includes the guys.

  I sniff back a runny nose. I can’t get around the fact that there is nothing I would like more than to put pepperonici in Mom’s lasagna and watch Gunner’s face as he digs in. That chocolate covered cherries atop a pink champagne cake would be an amazing desert to surprise Daniel with. That it would be so fun to experiment in the kitchen with Trigg, trying different flavor combinations to create a new breakfast shake. That I would much rather be binge watching a car show while nestled between the twin’s muscular bodies than watching reruns of my favorite sitcoms alone.

  My gut clenches, and I bend over the counter, trying in vain to hold back the sobs. Trigg would tell me it’s toxic to one’s soul to hold the pain inside, and the thought just makes me cry harder. I slide down to the floor, turn my back to the cabinets, and sit my ass on the tile, my head in my hands. The thoroughness of how deeply they’re immersed in my every thought is what gets me. How almost everything that makes me smile or brings a feeling of joy is somehow associated with them. I don’t know when they climbed this far into my heart, how the five of them managed to become nearly my entire world, but it happened.

  Pull it together. It’s your strength they love, too. Love. The word slips out of my mouth once, a lone word breathed into the air, but it continues to echo softly in my mind. I believe that, despite what they kept from me, they are good men. And that the plan they presented to me is their way of trying to make it up to me, to do their best to show me how much I mean to them.

  And they’re willing to risk everything to do it.

  I remember the envelope Jude handed me at the end of our meeting, the one with Pentabyte’s final offer. As I left the pub, I tucked it inside the folder, and it’s still there under the stack of papers, unopened.

  The sound of water boiling vigorously on the stovetop catches my attention. I stand and shut the burner off. It will have to wait. I reach for the folder and remove the envelope. The truth is, it doesn’t matter what it contains.

  I already know the decision in my heart.

  21

  Emma

  “I thought you’d enjoy a quiet night at home after staying at your brother’s house, that’s all,” I laugh.

 
; Zoey didn’t show up alone when she arrived from the airport. Apparently, she’d texted Callie and Cora to meet her here. And they came bearing gifts. A lot of them.

  “What?” Zoey says. “And miss out on this free booze? Sorry, sorry — I mean this very elegant wine collection.”

  I eye the two cases of wine bottles the sisters carried in. “Did you guys rob a winery on the way here?”

  “We can’t claim responsibility for this,” Callie says. “Daniel signed us up for a couple of those wine of the month clubs, and we have boxes of the stuff coming out of our ears.”

  Cora clears her throat and gives Callie a sideways look.

  “Oh, shit!” Callie snaps a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Daniel. I’m sorry!” She darts a glance over to her sister. “I swore I wouldn’t bring up any of the guys tonight.”

  Cora rolls her eyes. “You made it a whole twenty minutes. It must be a new record.”

  “Sorry,” Callie says again. “I forgot.”

  “No, no,” I say, waving my hand in the air. “It’s okay! I don’t mind talking about them. In fact, I met with them, and it was all very polite and civil.”

  Zoey blinks. “Really?”

  “Yes. They gave me a lot to think about, which is... what I’ve been doing. And I’ve got things mostly figured out, I think.”

  The sisters both nod. “You’re handling it better than I would be,” Callie says. “If Don kept stuff that big from me, I’d have his head on a platter.”

  “Oh, I’ve had my moments,” I assure her. “But I’m working through it.”

  “If that’s the case…” Cora exchanges a look with her sister, giving her that should-you-or-should-I look.

  “What is it?” I ask, a pinch of anxiety in my stomach at the glances they’re exchanging.