Shot in the Dark (Blackbridge Security Book 2)

by Marie James

  “I’m not going to invade his privacy.”

  “Why? If he’s as interested in you as you claim, he’s probably already been through your backdoor.”

  I chuckle. “Please stop saying backdoor.”

  “Still,” she argues.

  “There’s no way for him to get through my firewalls. Plus, I’d know it if he did. They’re impenetrable.”

  “Nothing is impenetrable,” she disagrees.

  I mean, unless he’s the real W45PN357, he wouldn’t have a chance, and I don’t imagine the real hacker would spend his time playing games online—not with pandemics, pizzagate, Benghazi, and a million other things going on that he’d probably feel obligated to research.

  “You already know my opinion.” She sighs. “I don’t know why you don’t just agree to go out with him.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be murdered?”

  She scoffs. “Does he seem like a murderer?”

  “Ted Bundy was very charming.”

  If she were in front of me, she’d be rolling her eyes. I don’t doubt she’s already doing it all the way from California right now.

  “Go during the daytime, in public. Tell a local friend where you’re going. Hell, have them follow you to make sure you’re safe. He asked to meet for coffee, not at some sleezy hotel off the highway with a no vacancy sign.”

  There is so much to unpack from her statement. I won’t admit that I don’t have local friends because saying it would make me feel even more like a loser.

  “Why does your mind always go to sleezy hotels?” I ask after realizing she’s made the reference more than half a dozen times since I’ve known her.

  “My traumatic childhood isn’t up for discussion,” she responds in a chipper tone, but I can still hear some of the pain she tries her best to hide.

  That’s a conversation for another day, I guess.

  “I’ll come to Missouri and do it myself if I have to!”

  I laugh at her ridiculousness.

  “I’ll change the sheets on the guest bed.”

  “Perfect. So, what else has been going—”

  “Fuck,” I hiss. “Sarah, I have to call you back.”

  “Are you ditching me to play online games?”

  “No, it’s work. Talk soon.”

  I hang up before she can respond. Actually, I’ve been ignoring Wasp’s messages on TalkToMe and the ping I get occasionally from the Orc’s Realm game I have running in the background because the assignment I’ve been working on has become more difficult than I ever anticipated.

  Mr. Jones paid very well for this research—the stuff he all but said is an investigation on a high-stakes player in the organization—but it isn’t exactly leading me to where he was thinking it would.

  I’m finding suspicious activity, but it isn’t related to the Bureau. The things that are popping up are more personal in nature, as in what I’m staring at right now confirms that William Theold isn’t screwing over the FBI, he’s screwing over his wife.

  Big time.

  So hard.

  I take another look at his travel schedule, the one that was easily grabbed from the records in an FBI database. He splits his time between Boston and San Diego—offices literally the entire length of the country apart.

  He keeps a home at both locations because of the extensive traveling. His wife and two sons live with him in San Diego. His mistress and son live at his home in Boston.

  This man is literally living two separate lives.

  “What a piece of shi—no! Fourteen years?”

  I dig deeper, the Jerry Springer episode playing out before my eyes as more information flashes across my screen. I’m mining it in quick succession, so I’ll have to dig into the details later. It’s never safe to stay in one spot electronically very long. It increases the chance of leaving a footprint behind.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  He has two fucking sons with the same damn name. Does that make it easier when he’s home lying to both women?

  I wonder how old little William Theold, Jr.—either of them—will be when he Googles his own name online only to discover another kid that looks nearly identical to him because of course, good old Willie has a type. Seems thin, blonde, and oblivious is what appeals to this guy.

  I know I’m removed from the situation, but I can’t imagine the firestorm that will occur when these women find out about each other.

  The dossier I was provided to start my research on Mr. Theold questioned his loyalty to the Bureau and suggested he was taking bribes. I have several other programs running to dig deeper, but this isn’t FBI related. Although they may have a morality cause, in which case, he’s in big trouble.

  Even as shitty as this guy is, if I don’t find anything related to what Mr. Jones is looking for, I don’t know if this is something I should hand over to him. I mean, if I don’t find anything professional related, it’s not going to stop me from setting this man’s world on fire because no one deserves to be swindled like these two women, but that doesn’t mean Mr. Jones is privileged to what I’ve found. He does have three children to take care of after all.

  “What the what?”

  My head snaps back when I check dates. The wife, a beautiful woman named Amanda, was actually the second relationship. He was in a domestic partnership with the equally gorgeous Rebecca for two years before anything with Amanda started tracking. Amanda got the ring, whereas Rebecca was stuck with some shoddy-ass common law label?

  I can’t even make this shit up even though it’s reading like some damn twisted novel.

  “Oh no,” I whisper when I delve into their social media. “Make that five kids.”

  You guessed it, both women are currently pregnant.

  “Disgusting.”

  I shove the drawer holding my keyboard closed and stand from my desk. I’ve dealt with some horrible stuff. Honestly, stuff worse than this—there are a lot of predators online.

  This man. God, a man that’s supposed to be a beacon of integrity. Right now, he’s just trash, but so help me if I find one slipup, one unpaid parking ticket, one crumb of a crime, I’m going to personally make sure his head rolls.

  “Men are trash,” I tell Simon as I scratch behind his ear, pausing on my way to the kitchen for a snack.

  He purrs. As always, my little faithful companion rolls over on his back, instigating tummy rubs.

  “Are male kitties just as bad?”

  He gives me a tiny meow, instruction to keep rubbing his belly as his eyes grow soft and squinty.

  “I know they are.” My voice is soft and comforting. “But we don’t talk about the way you acted before I took you to the doctor, do we?”

  His purring falters, but my fingers must feel good because he doesn’t pounce off the couch and hide under the coffee table like he did for weeks after I had him neutered. He hated me, but it was the responsible thing to do. Also, I was exhausted from him scratching on the window and bellowing like a lady cat was nearby and I was stopping him from a little midnight visit.

  Standing in the kitchen, I drink a bottle of cold water until I drain it dry and nibble on a granola bar until l feel calm enough not to send Rebecca a link to Amanda’s social media and vice versa.

  When I sit back down at my computer, I log the data that I’ve mined and start up a couple more programs. Now that I’ve found the connections to these two women, I can easily branch out and see where those limbs take me.

  I log off, continuing to ignore the messages sent by Wasp because honestly, I don’t know if I can control my attitude tonight, and it’s not Wasp’s fault that William Theold is scum.

  I fall into bed with Wasp’s husky voice in my ear as the man on the elevator watches me, biting his lip and asking me out for coffee.

  Chapter 9

  Wren

  “She’s agitated,” I grumble.

  Even from the shitty camera angle in the gym, I can tell Whitney is frustrated more than usual. I’ve discovered she
hates working out, even though she does it daily. This is her second workout today; the first time she’s doubled up since her box was handed over to me.

  Something is bothering her, and as much as I want to comfort her, I can’t hint at knowing she’s in a foul mood.

  “She’s hot!” Puffy squawks, and all I can do is nod in agreement.

  “Anna’s gonna smash!”

  I snap my head in his direction.

  “Let Deacon hear you mention her name,” I warn.

  Then I turn my head back around and notice movement on the parking garage cameras.

  “Oh… OH!”

  Another camera angle reveals that Flynn is heading down in the elevator, so I fire off a text to him after darkening the screen for the parking garage.

  Me: Tell Deacon that I’m going to put the video footage of him and Anna on the BBS website if they take things any further and label it “Special Attention from the Owner.”

  I watch Flynn on the elevator as he reads the message, and I have to chuckle when he throws his head back on a laugh.

  Me: And tell them congrats on their engagement.

  Flynn snaps his head in the direction of the camera, but the door opens before I can send another text.

  Deacon Black is a man of action—when he decides to actually take action. Two days ago he was pouting outside Anna’s apartment, last night he went to the gala I mentioned and swept her off her feet, and today they’re engaged. Not only engaged, but the wedding is in three short weeks according to her mother’s social media post half an hour ago.

  With all of that taken care of, I turn my attention back to Whitney in the gym, smiling when I see her practically growl at a guy who tries to approach her. I don’t know much about interacting with women in person, but only a fool would think he had a shot with a woman who looks like she’s about to commit murder.

  “Idiot,” I whisper, the smile never leaving my face.

  She doesn’t stop at forty-five minutes like she normally does. She’s an hour and fifteen minutes in when my damn door swings open.

  “Put your dick away!”

  I blacken the screen, but hell, what’s the point in hiding anymore?

  Anna chuckles, and I turn to give her a smile.

  “What’s going on?” Deacon asks, and I’m hoping he’s distracted enough by his new fiancé that he didn’t see my screens flash.

  “It’s not what it looks like!” Puff Daddy assures him.

  “Who were you watching?”

  “No one,” I lie, the instinct too strong to confess the truth.

  “Who’s the girl with purple hair?” Anna asks, and I’ve never felt betrayal burn so deep.

  “Nice, Anna,” I snap. “Thanks.”

  Deacon gives me a look that seems more like a command so I press a few keys until the screens come back to life.

  I know what he’s seeing. Whitney is on the treadmill in one shot. The mail area of our apartment complex is on another. Her front door, 913, is visible from how zoomed in the shot is.

  “Wren.” His tone is all warning, and despite the happiness I know he’s feeling for the awesome turn of events in his life, I can sense his disappointment.

  I could call him out right now and tell Anna how he’s been a creep himself, but I’m not one to gaslight.

  “Uh oh!” the bird squawks. “Busted!”

  “You still haven’t given that girl her stuff?”

  “She’s pretty,” Anna says as she leans in a little closer to the monitor.

  “Wren,” Deacon repeats.

  “I can’t!” I snap. He has to know I can’t do that.

  “What’s going on?” Anna asks, confusion clear on her face because she hasn’t been around the last month to witness my shameful behavior.

  “You have to,” Deacon urges.

  “I can’t just walk up to a girl and hand her a box of dicks!”

  Anna laughs, which sets the damn bird off. Puff Daddy throws his head back and cackles like a fool. Tonight may be the night I follow through with the threats of cooking his ass for dinner. Where’s the damn loyalty?

  “You can’t stalk her like a damn creep either!” He points to one of the video feeds behind me. “Is that her fucking apartment?”

  “It’s not in her apartment,” I argue, needing to clarify that I’m not that big of a creep.

  “You need to get this shit straightened out.”

  “He’s in love!” I glare at Puff Daddy because I feel like I’m being chastised by my nana. She wouldn’t approve either.

  “I mean it, Wren. Give that girl her stuff and stop being a creep.”

  “So it’s okay when you do it? But no one else is allowed?”

  Anna laughs, touching him on the chest, and somehow it seems to settle him some. Did he tell her what he’s been doing? What he’s been having all of us do each night? Surely, she’s creeped out by that.

  “Stop living in your computer, and get out into the real world,” Deacon insists. “It’s making you weird.”

  Unable to come up with a better argument, I turn around and begin shutting down the feeds I’ve been monitoring for the last month.

  “Let’s let him grieve,” Deacon tells his woman as they leave my office. “We have a lot of time to make up for.”

  He can’t imagine how right he is. It does feel like grieving, like I’m losing something. In actuality, it just means I may be working more from home so I can watch those feeds from there. Determined to get home and set up quickly, I make sure Puff Daddy has food and water. I even turn the wildlife channel on so he can watch, but I leave his ass in my office. I grab the offending box and cart it out of the damn office, refusing to acknowledge the chuckles behind me, accompanying my walk of shame to the elevator.

  The drive home is quick, and after I make a quick stop to check my mail, I can get this damn box stashed away never to be seen again.

  As I walk inside, I consider throwing the entire thing in the dumpster out behind the building, but that doesn’t seem right.

  “Teach that bird any more foul language?”

  I stop in my tracks, one hand holding my mailbox key, the other arm wrapped tightly around the damn box of sex toys.

  “He already speaks too much,” I tell Whitney with a grin.

  A quick look down tells me that the label on the box is folded inside, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I found him entertaining.”

  “I’m glad you were entertained by my embarrassment.”

  She grins even wider. Damn if she isn’t the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

  “So, I got the filthiest he had to offer?”

  Does she even realize how damn sexy she is?

  “He gets worse.”

  I’m just grateful he didn’t see her and squawk something about Major, the character she resembles. Maybe he does have my back when it counts.

  “I’d love to hear that sometime.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, shuffling toward the door. “Fuck!”

  If trying to get away from her because I don’t have a damn clue what to say isn’t bad enough, I manage to trip over the damn threshold in the doorway.

  Cheeks flaming with heat, I run to the elevator, grateful the damn box didn’t spill all over the fucking floor. I’d never be able to explain away having a butt plug, ball gag, and twelve-inch rubber cock. I want to disappear into a hole as it is.

  “Come on, come on,” I chant, pushing the call button on the elevator.

  “It’s slow all the time.”

  I freeze when I hear her voice again.

  Luck is just not on my side today. First Deacon and now having to deal with Whitney when I’m not prepared. Someone hates me for sure.

  “They just put a new one in two years ago. I think the building is cursed.”

  The elevator finally dings its arrival, and I step to the side to let her enter first, pulling out my keycard that allows it to move to the twelfth floor.

  “Twelfth? Sw
anky,” she says with a smile after pushing the nine for her floor. “You don’t have your bird in there do you?”

  She eyes the box, and my pits begin to sweat thinking she may be brazen enough to peel open the top.

  “No. He stayed at the office tonight.”

  “I had to smuggle my cat in inside of a backpack. He wasn’t very impressed.”

  “I can’t imagine he was.”

  “It was nice to see you again. Tell the bird I said hi.” She waves as she steps off the elevator, but all I can manage is a quick head nod.

  Man, I’m such an idiot.

  To make matters worse, I fucking trip over the damn threshold getting off the elevator and again walking into my apartment. After shoving that stupid box to the back of my closet, I strip naked and get in a cold shower. I may not leave this apartment for a week with the shit I’ve been through today.

  I begin to prepare a quick dinner, spent watching the bowl in the microwave spin around and around all the while trying not to picture the way Whitney looked earlier in her workout clothes. I burn my mouth on the food, stub my toe on the coffee table, and spill an entire glass of soda. How can I walk confidently one day and the next I seem to be a walking advertisement for clumsiness?

  Refusing to self-diagnose a brain tumor, I grab my computer and head to my bed. At least there I’m relatively safe.

  My luck changes when I find Whitney already online and running a raid with some of the other players in the group. I’ve done some stuff with them recently, and their attitudes changed very quickly once I had a better handle on how the game worked. I’ve even managed to impress some of the ones that were the biggest assholes to me. Daniel, the guy that had the most to say when I first joined, must’ve gotten a nasty computer virus because he hasn’t been back since.

  As we play, I shoot Whitney chats, and she responds with short answers. Things have been a little off with her this last week. So much so that I haven’t even harassed her about getting a coffee with me in four days.

  She had what appeared to be a permanent scowl while she was on the treadmill, but her smile was quick enough in the mailroom earlier, so I try again.