Love and Wargames: A Bad Boy Hacker Romance

by Kiss, Tabatha

  “Will you please let me go?” I ask, my voice shaking.

  Thomas says nothing, he never even turns back to acknowledge that I spoke. We climb the wooden porch steps and stop in front of the door. He reaches out and knocks twice.

  Before I can take another breath, the door flies open and an older man stands in the doorway. He’s taller, a little taller than Thomas, but carries the exact same buzzed black and silver hair and mustache that every man I know born in the 1970s carries around with him like a badge of honor. I look up at him and we lock eyes for a brief moment.

  “Come on in,” he says.

  Thomas’ hand drops from my arm and he stares me down. “Go on,” he gestures me inside.

  My eyes scan the entrance. I stand firm, not wanting to take another step. “Please take me home—”

  “Get in the damn house, Claire.”

  I look at my stepfather and my hatred for him multiplies. A chill glides through my body. I wrap my arms around my chest to keep the warmth inside. The early summer air does little to help. I quake and shiver. My body doesn’t feel like my own. I feel out of focus, lost in my own skin.

  Thomas’ hand touches my back and he shoves me inside. I stumble, but keep myself up right as I walk into the large farmhouse. He tosses my suitcase inside after me and it lands with a loud thud at my feet.

  “Goodnight, Thomas,” the man says to my stepfather before closing the door behind me.

  We stand in silence as I listen to the sounds of Thomas’ boots on the porch outside and the car engine roaring with life before rolling down the gravel road.

  The shock hits me. They left me here. They actually left me here. They left me behind in some strange house with some strange man out in the middle of nowhere. I look around the entryway. The stairs to the second floor sit right ahead of me and a living room sits just to the right of the front door. This house is obviously old, worn, and hasn’t seen a woman’s touch in quite some time. The furniture in the living room doesn’t match. The throw rugs are worn down from feet walking on them for decades. The television is small and just as old as I am.

  “Come with me,” the man finally says.

  He steps out of the living room and I reluctantly follow him into the back of the house. We enter a kitchen with white counters and a white floor. White appliances, white everything.

  “Sit down.” He pulls out a wooden chair from the round dinner table in the corner and points it towards the center of the room. As I sit down, I feel like it might break beneath me, it’s so old. I cling to my purse like a security blanket, the only sense of familiarity I have here.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” the man asks. He reaches up and grabs a drinking glass from the cupboard and fills it with water from the sink faucet.

  I scoff, but say nothing. My teeth chatter together in my head. My thumping heart fills my ears. He walks forward and holds the water glass out for me to take. My tongue twitches, begging for it after the long and hot car ride. I take the glass and gulp the water down. It tastes old and strange, but it’s better than nothing.

  “Your parents believe you’ve gone down the wrong path and they sent you here for my guidance,” he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter near the sink.

  “What makes you so special?” I set the glass down on the table behind me.

  “My name is Charlie Eastwood,” he says. “We’ve never met, but I know who you are.”

  “Right…” I sigh, recalling the name. “Uncle Charlie. Thomas’ brother. The cop.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore,” he says. “But back then, I was the one they called to deal with situations like this.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “You’re in withdrawal, Claire,” he says. “You’re twitchy. You can’t get warm.” He furrows his brow. “How long since your last hit? Two days? Three?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Your parents aren’t sure what you took, but I’d guess cocaine, maybe a little bit of something else.”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed?” I ask.

  “You have a drug problem, an attitude problem, and…” he takes a breath, “a boundary problem.”

  “What boundary problem?” I scoff.

  “They told me about you and Rick,” he says.

  I shift in the chair. “Oh, come on…”

  “You two are family—”

  “He’s my stepbrother!” I shout. “Step. We’re not actually related. You people know that, right?”

  “Family is more than blood, young lady.”

  “Okay, yeah. Sure. Fine. Whatever. But Rick and I did nothing wrong!”

  He pushes himself off the counter. “Calm down,” he warns. “Now, I don’t care about that as much as they do. The cops didn’t pick you up for fooling around with your stepbrother. They picked you up for being a minor under the influence of drugs and alcohol. And to be honest, I’m more concerned with the bruises on your face right now than anything else.”

  I flinch. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “He’s not here, Claire. You don’t have to cover for him—”

  “I shouldn’t be here,” I interrupt. “This is bullshit.”

  “I won’t tolerate swearing in my house.”

  “What is this, 1962?”

  “While you’re here in my house, you will follow my rules,” he says. “You should consider yourself lucky—”

  “Lucky?”

  “The officers that picked you up could have booked you with enough to put you away for a long time. I’m not just talking jail, I’m talking rehab and lots of red marks on your permanent record. Your life, ruined, in one night — over something as stupid as getting high—”

  “Thanks for the recap, Dudley Do-Right.”

  He pauses and stares down at me. I expect anger in his voice, but he holds it back, calm and collected. “Claire, you’re lucky,” he repeats. “You might not think so, but the other kids you were arrested with didn’t have the connections with the law your stepfather does and they’re all sitting in concrete cells right now. You aren’t.”

  “May as well be…” My eyes wash over the bright kitchen again. “You can’t keep my here. This is kidnapping.”

  “The law says otherwise,” he says. “You’re a minor and your parents have transferred you into my care for the summer—”

  “Only for another month,” I interrupt. “I turn eighteen soon and when I do, I’m walking out of here.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he nods. “In the meantime, you’ll follow a strict schedule for meals, chores, and bedtime—”

  “I have a bedtime?”

  “And you’re late for that tonight, so I better see you to your room.”

  I scoff. “It’s nine o’clock.”

  “Oh, and also…” He reaches out and snatches my purse out of my hands.

  “Hey!” I shout.

  He fishes inside of it and grabs my phone. “You’ve lost all phone privileges. And we don’t have wi-fi out here, so it’s basically useless to you.”

  “What the hell—?”

  “I said no swearing.”

  “Hell isn’t a swear,” I argue.

  “It is the way you use it.”

  I take a breath and it clatters throughout my body, knocking my insides around. “This is crap,” I say.

  Charlie glares down at me, his eyes falling down my face. “You want to tell me how you busted your lip open?” he asks.

  I press against the cut with my tongue and the near-forgotten pain fires up my cheek from my bottom lip. “Slipped on a banana peel,” I quip.

  “I bet you tumbled right onto a doorknob, too, didn’t ya?” he asks.

  I say nothing.

  He sighs and drops the empty purse back into my lap. “Let’s go.”

  I follow him back to the entryway and I grab my suitcase off the floor. My eyes wander upwards and I see a long rifle mounted above the door. I missed it earlier, but it’s clear as day now from this angle.


  The floor creaks beneath us as we climb the stairs. It’s loud, annoying, and completely eliminates the possibility of sneaking out. I get the feeling Officer Killjoy here sleeps with one eye open.

  There are four doors in the second floor hallway. Charlie points to the left, targeting the nearest door to the top of the stairs. “That’s my room,” he says. We head to the right and he pushes open the next door. “Bathroom here. If the toilet won’t flush, just jiggle the handle a little.”

  “Of course,” I sigh.

  We continue on to the next door. “This is your room,” he says, pushing the door open.

  I step inside and look around with curious eyes. A canopy bed lines one wall with a pink bedspread, decorated with a floral pattern, with a small vanity and mirror next to it. The closet sits open and I spot various articles of women’s clothing inside. There’s a bookshelf in every corner, lined with dozens of novels and textbooks. “Whose room is this?” I ask Charlie.

  “Yours.”

  “No, I mean… whose stuff is this?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s yours to use while you stay here.”

  “Do you have a daughter or something?”

  “I said don’t worry about it.”

  I turn back around, startled by the firmness of his tone. “What’s in there?” I point to the fourth and final door just across the hall to change the subject.

  “That’s my son’s room, Tobias. You probably won’t see him much. He works nights.” He steps back and grips the doorknob.

  “Where’s your wife?” I ask.

  “She passed many years ago,” he says. “It’s just me and him now.”

  I pause. “Oh.”

  “Get ready for bed. Lights out in ten minutes.”

  “Lights out?”

  “Lights out.” He steps out into the hall and quickly closes the door behind him.

  “Jesus Christ…” I mutter to myself.

  I drop my suitcase onto the bed and glance around. It feels strange to live in another person’s private space, but as I run a finger across the vanity desk next to the bed, I find a layer of dust. Whoever lives here hasn’t been by in quite some time.

  I sit down on the stool before the vanity and stare into the mirror. My brown hair is tangled and in desperate need of shampoo. My eyes are bloodshot. My lips are chapped, making the thin reddish-black scab stand out even more against my pale skin. Black circles ring around my eyes. My gaze falls to the pale blue bruise just below my left cheek.

  I think, for a moment, that maybe they’re right. Maybe I do have a problem.

  But it doesn’t make me feel any better about being stuck in this dump for the next few weeks.

  ***

  I stare at the clock and watch the numbers climb to sixty then jump back down to zero. It’s quiet, far too quiet for me to be comfortable. I miss the city buzz. The constant chatter of voices, cars, and life. The country silence of 3 A.M. sounds deafening in my ears. I lick my dry lips, feeling a deep hunger I can’t satisfy.

  Charlie was right before. I’m in withdrawal. Right now, I’ll do anything for another hit — anything to distract myself from the sounds of my body screaming at me.

  The sudden grind of an engine brings me out of it. I sit up and turn to look out the window behind the bed. It’s dark, but the darkness is quickly cut by an approaching headlight. The motorbike comes into view with a lone rider guiding it slowly to the red barn across the driveway. A lamp above the barn illuminates the ground around him as I watch him dismount and pull the black helmet off his head. I can barely see his face, but I can tell that’s he’s young. He places the helmet on the bike’s seat and rolls the thing inside the barn before sliding the door closed behind him.

  I spin back around and lay my head against the pillow. It’s soaked in my own sweat. I flip it around to the other side, hoping that sleep will somehow come, but my eyes pull towards the window again. I see the boy walking towards the house. This must be Charlie’s son, Tobias. The one that works nights. His eyes look up at the house and immediately drift towards my window. I fall back down, hoping to avoid his gaze. His shoes hit the front porch and I listen carefully as he enters the front door.

  I climb off the bed and press my ear against the door to listen to him move. I feel a presence on the other side, but I never heard him climb the stairs.

  My doorknob turns and I jump out of the way as the door suddenly swings open.

  “Who are you?” he asks through his teeth. He steps forward fast to grab me by the shoulders. “What are you doing in her room?”

  I blink repeatedly as his dark face fills my vision. He has the same black hair as his father and my stepfather, but it’s longer and more casual. It falls down to his angry eyes and he stares back at me with jade green irises.

  “I’m Claire…” I whisper. I scan his face again, placing him somewhere in his early-twenties. He reminds me of Rick. His demeanor is so wild and intimidating, I’m scared to move.

  “Why are you in my house, Claire?” he asks.

  “Believe me — I’m not here by choice,” I say, my limbs shaking. “I got into some trouble and my parents brought me out and left me here…”

  His grip on me loosens. “Right…” he nods slowly.

  “I guess no one told you I was coming…” I mutter. I lick my dry lips again. “They didn’t tell me either until I was in the car.”

  He takes a step back and drops his hands to his sides. His eyes wander around the room with a protective vibe before finally falling back on me and staring at my bottom lip. “Sorry if I hurt you.”

  “You didn’t—”

  Before I can complete the thought, he’s out the door. He steps inside his own room and quickly closes the door behind him.

  Once again, I look around the room and wonder who the hell lives in it. My teeth graze along my lips in thought, making me cringe as they slide along the scabbed wound.

  Rick never spoke much about this side of his family. I’m not sure why, nor did I ever think to ask. Talking isn’t our strongest suit anyway. My relationship with my stepbrother isn’t conventional. We party. We do drugs, and yeah, we almost ended up in bed together once, but it’s more than that. I feel a strong connection with him, stronger than I ever thought possible.

  He loves me.

  He told me that he was the only person in the world that did.

  I believe him more and more every day.

  Each passing moment has me reaching for my phone, but of course, it’s been taken from me, along with what was left of my freedom. The instinct remains. I want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice, smell his skin. I want to get out of this hellhole and go back to the city to be with him where I belong.

  I climb back into the bed and wrap the blanket around me to get warm. My skin quickly breaks out in a cold sweat and I find myself begging for another glass of cold water.

  Chapter 2

  I’m A Prisoner

  “Rise and shine!”

  I roll over to find Charlie standing over me, completely dressed and ready to start his day. “What?” I mutter.

  “It’s 6 A.M., Claire,” he says. “Time to start your chores.”

  I sit up. “What?” I repeat.

  He chuckles. “Get dressed, wear something you can move around in. There’s some extra eggs and bacon downstairs. Get something to eat. Meet me at the barn by 6:30, not a minute after. Got me?”

  The words blur together in my mind. I’m so tired, I can barely hear him. He walks out of the room, leaving me behind in my exhausted confusion. I sit up and look out the window. The morning sun sits barely above the horizon.

  I fall back down onto my pillow and close my eyes.

  “Claire!”

  The force of his voice shoots me upright. “What?!” I yelp. I peel my eyes open to see Charlie standing in the doorway.

  “It’s 6:15,” he says. “You’ve officially missed breakfast.” I stare at him, shooting the best daggers I can at him until he chuckl
es again. “I’ve taken the liberty of picking out your outfit for the day. Put it on.”

  I look at the foot of the bed and spot a pair of over-sized men’s jeans and a red flannel shirt. “I’m not wearing that,” I mutter with an upturned nose.

  “Too bad. Put it on. Tomorrow, wake up on time. Then, you can pick out your own clothes.” He grips the doorknob. “Downstairs. Now.”

  I push the blanket off and stare at him until he closes the door. The jeans are way too big and easily fall off my hips, but I find a belt in the closet that doesn’t make me completely gag. A quick scan of the clothes inside tells me the story of a young girl, most likely around my age. Probably boring, quiet. No real party clothes in sight at first glance. Lots of cardigans and long skirts that sit just below the kneecap.

  I push farther back into the closet and smirk. Just like me, she keeps the good stuff in the back. I find a few shorter skirts, some tube tops, and some nice, fun blouses that look to be about my size. Excellent. I make a mental note to inspect them further before throwing on the disgusting flannel shirt Charlie picked out for me. It’s also far too large, but I tie it off in front to make it fit tighter around me.

  I check out my reflection in the bathroom mirror and cringe at the sight. Dark make-up sits smeared around my eyes, stuck there after a day of not washing it off. I look older, but not in a good way. I lean forward and splash water on my face to wake me up and clear off the remaining old make-up and oil from my skin. My breath tastes sour, my head hurts, and there’s been a ringing in my ears for the last ten minutes that I can’t seem to shake away.

  I brush my teeth and step back into the hallway.

  “Pull your hair back,” Charlie says as I come down the stairs.

  “You get to decide my hair styles, too?”

  He holds up a rubber band and I take it from him. “No,” he says. “But it’s warm outside and I know you’re going to want to eventually.”

  I put my hair up into a loose ponytail. “Now what?” I ask.

  “Follow me.” He pulls open the front door and I follow him outside.