Break Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 2)

by Tiffany Snow

“Yes, because he was testing for weaknesses.” I turned to Derrick. “I’m assuming the IP trace led nowhere.”

  He nodded. “Bounced around through a dozen countries before we hit a dead end.”

  “How long was he in?”

  “Four minutes before we blocked him.”

  “And you’ve addressed the weakness he exploited?”

  “Yes. He won’t get in that way again.”

  “What did he do while he was in?” I knew a hacker didn’t need a lot of time to plant a back door so they could come back later. Or a bot that would send data to him via our network.

  “Looked around, basically. We’ve run file checks and he left nothing behind. It was like he was curious and that was all.”

  Hmm. “Okay, well it looks like you’ve done everything I would have done. Good job. But it can’t happen again.”

  “I’ve called in Mazie to harden the perimeter firewalls.”

  I nodded. Mazie was head of network security. She was going to be royally pissed that someone had hacked her firewall.

  “Let’s work again on tracing that IP,” I said. “Put Roscoe on it. He can sniff out IP trails better than anyone. Even if we didn’t get him live, chances are he probably uses the same pattern when he’s online. We might get lucky. And by Monday, I want to know everything that the hacker saw.”

  “Will do.” Derrick hurried away, pulling out his cell to make the call.

  I turned to Clark. “Give me a ride home?”

  “Sure.”

  Back in the car, I asked, “So how did you find out?”

  “I was working in my office when Derrick and his minions suddenly started going apeshit, running around and chattering in technese—” Clark’s term for when he couldn’t understand what we were saying “—so I asked him if I should bring you in.”

  “He could’ve just called me.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal. Got me out of doing paperwork for a while.”

  Clark liked to be in the field. Having to do the administrative part of his job drove him batty. And made him cranky.

  “Want to grab some food?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

  My initial response was to say no—spending time with Clark outside of work wasn’t high on my To Do list—but I was hungry and I didn’t really want to go home yet. Now that the work emergency was out of the way, my confusion and vague unease about Jackson had returned. I didn’t want to think about that. Not yet, anyway.

  “Sure.”

  “Any preference on food?”

  I glanced at the clock on the dash. “It’s getting late, so anything spicy would be bad for digestion, which rules out Thai, Indian, and Mexican. Most traditional restaurants are probably going to be closed except for a pub or bar-and-grill. As it’s Halloween, there’s a high probability that the number of holiday revelers imbibing will be significantly more than usual.”

  “Got it. Greasy burger dive coming right up.”

  That hadn’t been what I’d suggested, but it sounded good, so I didn’t argue. Ten minutes later, we were parking in the lot of a diner so old it looked like it had grown out of the concrete and the rest of the city block had been built around it.

  “Best burgers in the city,” Clark declared, beeping the car locked and leading the way inside. The handwritten sign on the window proclaimed the shop open twenty-four hours.

  There didn’t appear to be a hostess to seat us, but Clark seemed to know where he was going, heading into the rear and sliding into the last booth with his back to the wall. I sat opposite him. A peppy waitress with black-and-purple hair approached us.

  “Happy Halloween,” she said brightly. “What can I get you?” The fluorescent lights glinted off her nose piercing.

  “Two double-patty-bacon-burger specials, with everything. Extra fries, two Cokes, two chocolate shakes,” Clark ordered.

  She jotted it down on a little pad of paper. “Got it. I’ll be right back with those Cokes.”

  “You ordered for me,” I said, surprised. “Why would you do that? What if I’d wanted something else?”

  “Trust me. I got the best thing on the menu. It’s not like you want to eat a salad in this place. And the spaghetti is nothing but mush. I made that mistake once.”

  When our Cokes came, I sipped mine, staring glumly at the worn tabletop. Would Jackson call me? He hadn’t texted, though I’d checked a dozen times. Even as I thought it, I checked my phone again.

  “Spill,” Clark abruptly ordered. “What happened?”

  My eyes narrowed. “Why should I tell you?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Why would you want to help?”

  “Because, Mack, as smart as you are—and I can’t believe some of the shit you can do—your social skills are lacking, to put it nicely. Plus, I’m a guy, so I can give you a guy’s perspective.”

  He did make sense. And yet . . . “You’ll just laugh and make fun of me.”

  “I won’t.” He drew an X on his chest. “Cross my heart and pinky swear.”

  I considered, then decided I’d chance it. “Okay. We were at this fancy party and basically, he said that he’s off the market and that if I’m not seeing our relationship as serious, then we shouldn’t bother continuing to date.”

  Clark let out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s harsh. He really said that?”

  That didn’t sound good. “Yeah. I told him I didn’t know, that it seemed unwise to . . . settle . . . on the first man I dated.” I waited to see what Clark’s reaction would be to my word choice. Maybe it was just Jackson who was offended. Alas, Clark’s eyebrows flew upward.

  “That’s what you said? That you shouldn’t settle on the first guy you dated?” He laughed out loud. “I bet that went over like a shit ton of bricks.”

  I grimaced. “Yes, apparently that was the prevailing opinion.”

  “And you hadn’t discussed your relationship status before?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “We’ve been sleeping together and I’d just assumed we’d take it slow—”

  “Classic rookie mistake,” Clark interrupted. “Jackson’s ready to settle down and get married. The minute a man hits that point, it’ll be with the next woman he dates.”

  That didn’t sound good. “It’s not that I’m opposed to settling down,” I lied. “I guess I was just . . . surprised . . . at the high level of commitment and weight he’d given to our relationship. Marriage is a big step.” Surprised was putting it mildly. Dismayed was more like it, but I didn’t want to reveal how shocked I’d been at the idea of marriage.

  “You’ve been together . . . what . . . almost two months?” I nodded. “That’s usually a make-or-break time frame, so he wasn’t totally out of line by wanting you to put up or shut up.”

  That was a lot of idioms back to back. I shook my head in confusion. “What?”

  “I mean . . . after two months of dating, you should be able to tell him whether you’re thinking along the lines of a serious, monogamous let’s-see-where-this-goes or if it’s just a fling.”

  “Oh.” Good to know.

  “What do you want?”

  My eyes met Clark’s. “I don’t want to lose him. But I’m not ready for talk of marriage. So . . . I don’t know.”

  We had to stop talking for a moment as our food arrived. The plates were laden with fries fresh from the fryer and massive burgers dripping with cheese and bacon. The chocolate shakes were proportionally gargantuan-sized, topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

  “Wow,” I breathed. My mouth was already watering.

  Clark laughed. “Your eyes are about as big as these plates,” he said, still smiling. When he smiled—which wasn’t often—a dimple appeared in his cheek. With looks rivaling the best Superman Hollywood had offered and a physique to match, Clark didn’t exactly blend in.

  “It looks amazing . . . and extremely unhealthy.” I picked up a fry and popped it in my mouth. My eyes slid shut. Pure heaven.

  “Everyone wh
o eats carrots dies,” he quipped, picking up his cheeseburger and taking a large bite. I cut mine in half before attempting to get my mouth around it. “I’d rather eat cheeseburgers.”

  I didn’t want to discuss Jackson and me anymore, so I fell back on my trick of asking questions when I didn’t want to worry about having to talk. “You used to be intelligence,” I said. Clark nodded, eating three fries at once. “Wasn’t that difficult, given your physical appearance?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Intelligence officers should be able to blend in, not be memorable. You don’t.”

  Clark’s eyebrows lifted. “Did you just give me a compliment?”

  I felt my cheeks warm. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m merely hypothesizing that you aren’t considered average in appearance and that it would have complicated your job, perhaps even complicates your current job, which affects me.”

  “So you’re doubting my ability to do my job?” His eyes narrowed and the smile was gone.

  “No, I’m not—”

  “Because you really shouldn’t go there. By all appearances, you shouldn’t be able to do what you do, either.”

  That gave me pause. “What’s that supposed to mean? Because I’m a girl?”

  “Yes. And because you’re young—twenty-three, right? You barely top five feet, I could bench-press you, and God help the person who changes your schedule.”

  I sucked down a long swallow of chocolate shake. “For your information, I’m five foot two and three-quarters. And I’ve been very flexible lately with my schedule.” Which had irritated me no end, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Oh really? So did you go crazy and order pizza on Thursday instead of Monday?”

  Asshat. “No, but I did order extra cheese,” I retorted.

  He burst out laughing again. I watched him, then it tickled me, too, and I couldn’t help a laugh. It broke the tension I’d been sensing and I relaxed, eating more of my burger.

  “Okay, so here’s some free advice,” he said. “Despite his wanting to ‘put a ring on it,’ men like the chase, so you did the right thing, holding him at arm’s length, especially if you’re not ready. Give him a few days to think it over, see that you’re not being unreasonable, and he’ll come crawling back.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem because he has yet to call or text me,” I said, glumly holding up my still-silent phone.

  “He will. Trust me.”

  “So what do I do then?”

  “If you want to stay together, that’s up to you. But if you need time, tell him that. He shouldn’t rush you. Nothing worth having ever came easy.”

  That made sense, but still . . . “It feels like playing a psychological game. Why can’t we just agree to date for a predetermined time agreeable to us both, then decide at the conclusion whether or not we’re suited for matrimony?”

  “Because it is a game. The kind of game men and women play and if you want to win, you gotta learn how to play.”

  “But if both sides know that they’re playing a game, how is it effective?” It didn’t make sense. My burger and fries were gone so I drank my shake, my gaze on Clark as I sucked the ice cream.

  “People are human,” he said, using a napkin to wipe the grease from his fingers. “They’re more than logic. They’re the accumulation of millennia of urges and instincts and survival of the fittest. They’re emotion and feelings and all the messiness that implies.”

  My shake was gone and I sat back, turning this over in my head. “It’s sound advice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” He glanced at my empty plate and shook his head. “I don’t know where you put it.”

  “I have a really high metabolism.”

  A full stomach and the late hour combined to make me sleepy. By the time Clark had dropped me off and I was unlocking my door, I was more than ready to climb into my Endor Star Wars pajamas (my autumn nightwear) and go to bed. Especially since it was over two hours past my usual bedtime of ten thirty.

  But I came wide awake when I saw the man sitting on my couch. It took me two frantic heartbeats to recognize him.

  “What the hell, Jackson? Why are you sitting in my living room? In the dark?” I flipped on the nearest lamp.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  I gave him a look. Nothing was ever “obvious” to me when it came to social cues. I would guess and hope that he was here to apologize, but I’d read enough Cosmo articles to know that the only thing harder for a man to say than “I love you” was “I’m sorry.”

  “You were angry with me. I took you by surprise,” he said, “and I thought we should talk.”

  “I’m not sure what to say. I think we’re at different places in our lives.” Clark’s words came back to me. “I don’t know if I’m ready for a ring and marriage yet.”

  “I understand that, now. I should’ve realized it sooner. You’re new to relationships and then I start talking love, marriage, and a baby carriage. It’s no wonder you got spooked.”

  I supposed getting spooked was one way to put it, though that felt slightly demoralizing. As if he were putting me on the same level as an animal with no cognitive capabilities.

  “I don’t want to end our relationship,” I said. “But I do need to take it slow, without the pressure of knowing you’re in a rush to get married. When I marry, I want it to be forever.” I wanted the kind of love my parents had.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to lose you, either. I can go slow. I just hope you eventually feel the same about me as I do you.”

  That was pressure, too, but I let it pass. It was amazing and frightening how much better I felt at his words, a realization of how much power I’d given Jackson—power to make me happy . . . and the power to hurt me. It had a sobering effect on the relief and gladness surging through me. I’d been hurt before, but not by a boyfriend and lover. The feeling was different, an acute pain somewhere deep inside at the thought of him not being in my life.

  “I’m glad we can make up,” I said, “and I accept your apology. I’m wondering, though, why you seem so sure of this relationship, when you haven’t yet been in a relationship that hasn’t ended.”

  “You and I are cut from the same cloth,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve never been with someone that I can relate to as much as you and I connect. Not just on an intellectual level, but on an emotional level. Do you understand?” I nodded. He was right. I felt it, too. Jackson was the first person since my mother who seemed to understand and accept me for who I was—not who he wanted me to be.

  He nuzzled my neck, kissing the sensitive skin underneath my ear. “Now we can have make-up sex.”

  My eyes slid shut at his touch. “Is make-up sex better than regular sex?”

  “Absolutely.” He slid my glasses off and carefully set them aside, then returned to kissing my neck.

  I didn’t care what he called it. Since Jackson had introduced me to sex, I liked it all. I didn’t know if we were particularly well suited, or if he was just inordinately talented, but we had a really good time together in bed.

  His hand slid up my thigh and underneath the hem of my borrowed dress, pushing it out of the way. Hooking my leg underneath my knee, he rearranged me so I was straddling him, and my skirt was up to my hips.

  I pushed at his tuxedo jacket, shoving it down his arms and off, then tugged at his bow tie. He began kissing me, which was distracting, but worth it. Jackson was a good kisser. I could get lost in the softness of his lips, the heat of his tongue, the gentle pressure that gradually grew more demanding.

  I managed to get the bow tie off and three buttons undone before his hand slid between my thighs. The matching dove-gray lace-trim hipkini panties I wore didn’t stop him, his fingers slipping underneath the satin to touch me.

  For a computer programmer, Jackson had talented fingers, silencing my thoughts as he stroked me, leaving only instinct and senses. I moaned into his mouth when he pushed one, t
hen two fingers inside me, slowly moving in the way he knew drove me crazy.

  Reaching down, I grabbed the hem of my dress, tugging it up over my head.

  “Ow ow ow ow!”

  I couldn’t see a thing. The damn dress was half on and half off.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?” Jackson asked.

  “The damn zipper caught in my ponytail,” I explained, wincing as it pulled at my hair. My cheeks were burning as I sat half undressed on his lap.

  Jackson gave a low chuckle. “Hold on.”

  I felt him reaching behind me, then a little tug, and I was loose. The dress floated free and I could see again.

  “Now where were we?” he murmured against my lips.

  “You were showing me how much better make-up sex is.”

  He stood, lifting me with him like I weighed nothing. He did that a lot, ever since I’d nearly broken both our necks on his staircase a month ago when he was trying to help me up it. Now he said it was just safer if he carried me, especially when stairs were involved.

  We made it up the stairs with my legs firmly latched around his waist and my lips attached to his neck. The cologne Jackson wore was subtle and expensive, and when added to the scent of his skin, was completely addicting.

  Jackson set me on the bed and I grabbed his shirt, pulling him down with me when he would have stood. I kissed him just like my granny’s Harlequins had taught me to, and I could tell he appreciated it by the press of the hard length of him between my thighs. Which reminded me . . .

  I pushed on his shoulders and he broke off our kiss. “Turn over,” I said. Jackson was a particular fan of blow jobs. Though really, from a man’s perspective, what wasn’t to like? I’d been tentative at first and there was a mishap involving teeth, but I’d gotten much better. I was ambivalent about the act itself, but what it did to Jackson was a huge turn-on, so . . . practice made perfect.

  Jackson lay on his back, me between his spread legs, and watched as I undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt, then started on his belt.

  “I like that set a lot,” he said, referring to my matching bra and panties. He rarely saw any set twice, given my obsessive search for The Perfect Bra, and of course I couldn’t get a bra without matching panties . . . which is why I had drawers overflowing with lace and satin (which I say metaphorically because in reality they were all arranged by color and various degrees of coverage, separated by lift style).