Break Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 2)

by Tiffany Snow

An older gentleman stood on the steps, clad in a brown suit that had to be at least thirty years out of date, a straw Panama-style hat, and clutching an elaborate bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers. He smiled when I opened the door.

  “May I help you?”

  He gave a little bow and lifted his hat to me. “Good afternoon. I am Harold Williams and I live just across the way there.” He motioned with the sunflowers to a set of duplexes down the street. He spoke in an old-world-style Carolina Southern accent that made me think of magnolias and mint juleps. Granny had a Southern accent, too, but it was more frog legs and Mason jar glasses.

  “I heard dear Cybil was feeling poorly, so I thought I’d bring her something to cheer her up. There’s nothing quite like a sunflower to brighten a cloudy day.”

  Humph. Yeah, I just bet. Granny had a new rep, she’d said. Neighborhood temptress. Suddenly, I felt like a dad guarding his teenage daughter.

  “How long have you and my granny been friends?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Harold’s smile remained. “Oh Lord, we’ve known each other for nearly a year now, ever since I moved in.” Seeing my hesitation, he glanced around, then added in a stage whisper, “And we play in the poker game together.”

  All right then. She probably did know him. I stepped back, still not smiling, as Harold let out a breath and scooted past me into the living room.

  “I’ll just let Granny know you’re here,” I said. “You can have a seat.”

  Harold perched on the edge of the sofa and removed his hat, taking a moment to smooth the thinning hair on his head and straighten his tie. I rolled my eyes and headed back into the bedroom.

  “. . . so much smarter than those other kids, and was never vindictive when they were mean to her. Just like Jesus.”

  Oh my God. Had Granny just likened me to . . . Jesus?

  “You have a visitor,” I blurted before she could go any further with that analogy. I sank when put in water. “Harold Williams. Do you know him?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Oh my, Harold came by to visit little ol’ me?” She patted her hair, the silver curls bouncing at her shoulders. “Do get me my bed jacket from the closet. And my compact to powder my nose.”

  “I’ll just go say hello to Harold, shall I?” Jackson asked.

  “Oh yes, and offer him some tea or coffee. Or a shot of whiskey. It’s in the cabinet by the television.”

  “Drinking at this hour?” I chastised her.

  She pooh-poohed me. “Honey, none of us worry about things like that anymore. Drink it while you can still enjoy it, I say.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  There was a pink silk bed jacket in her closet, embroidered with tiny white roses. “Very pretty,” I said, helping her into it. I retrieved her compact and watched in some amusement as she added makeup to her cheeks and nose.

  Granny had amazing skin, which was why she could get away with looking a decade younger than she really was. She maintained staying out of the sun was her secret, and constantly was on me to stay out of the sun, even though I’d told her many times that my job and hobbies lent themselves to a year-round pasty white complexion.

  “Okay, I’m ready. Show him in.”

  Granny looked like a queen in her bed jacket, sitting among a throne of pillows, awaiting her courtier. But when I returned to the living room to fetch Harold, I was in for a surprise.

  “Who are you?” I blurted.

  Two more aged men holding bouquets of flowers sat on the sofa next to Harold, like a geriatric version of The Dating Game.

  “This is Rodney,” Jackson said, appearing at my elbow and carrying three glasses all filled with a measure of amber liquid. He handed one to Rodney. “And this is Tom.” Another glass. “And you met Harold.” Last glass.

  “Um, okay, then,” I said, at a loss as to what to do . . . other than take them in to where my granny was receiving her callers. “Follow me.”

  I felt like a mother duck as they fell in line behind me, the paper wrapping their bouquets crackling as they walked. We filed into Granny’s room and I saw a grown, elderly woman transform into a young coquette again.

  “Why Tom . . . and Rodney . . . and Harold . . . why, I’m tickled pink! And you’ve come bearing gifts. How sweet! China, do get a couple more chairs so these gentlemen can set a spell.”

  I did her bidding then left her to it, not really seeing that I was adding anything to the conversation as they discussed her “ordeal” in the most genteel terms and oblique references I’d ever heard.

  “I think I need a drink now,” I muttered to Jackson. “Can you believe this?”

  “Your grandma is popular.”

  “You could say that.”

  There was another knock on the door.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. More men?”

  I opened the door in a huff, but it wasn’t another elderly gentleman. It was two men in suits and wearing mirrored sunglasses. One of them flipped open a badge and ID.

  “Special Agent Brooke, FBI.”

  14

  I stared dumbfounded at the men and the badge, then noticed photographers and several people with seriously heavy-looking television cameras. I couldn’t see any of their faces, just the electronic eyes watching. Jackson suddenly appeared beside me.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Mr. Cooper,” the agent said, spotting him. “We’re here for you.”

  “What does that mean, you’re ‘here for me?’”

  “Please step outside, sir.”

  My stomach flipped over and I watched in dawning horror as Jackson moved past me and the other agent took out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Jackson Cooper, we’re placing you under arrest by the United States government,” he said, loud enough to easily record. It infuriated me, his obvious playing to the cameras.

  Jackson didn’t say a word and I knew he didn’t want to give the cameras anything more for their evening news. But I couldn’t just let him be taken away like this. I ran outside.

  “Wait!”

  The men all turned and I pushed past the agents to Jackson. “What’s going on? What should I do?” I asked, keeping my voice as low as possible.

  “Call Lance,” he said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  I nodded. “Okay.” Having a task—a plan—helped immeasurably. I realized I was still nodding and stopped.

  “Put my sunglasses on for me, your worship.”

  Your worship? Oh. Oh, yeah. Jackson’s sunglasses were hooked to the front of his shirt and I was sure he’d like them on before they marched him to the car in handcuffs.

  That thought made my eyes sting and my fingers fumbled with the wire frames, sliding them on him. When they were on, he suddenly leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. It wasn’t just a dry peck, either, but a full-on-with-tongue-heat-searing-toe-curling kiss as though there weren’t a dozen people watching us. I had to grip his biceps to keep my balance.

  “Really?” An agent snorted.

  Jackson lifted his head and gave me a wicked half smile. I heard the clicking whir of cameras capturing the moment.

  “I love you,” I blurted.

  “I know.”

  The agents pushed Jackson through the press and were putting him in the backseat of a nondescript government-issue gray sedan. The crowd followed, filming. I stared after the car, feeling as though I’d swallowed a chunk of lead that was making little lead babies in the pit of my stomach. The car turned the corner and was out of sight.

  As one, the crowd turned and made a beeline for me, shouting questions. For a second, I was a deer frozen in headlights. Turning, I ran for the duplex, slamming the door just in time.

  Okay, I had to think. I had to call Lance. Then I had to figure out how to escape my granny’s house with the press outside.

  Lance sounded a lot calmer than I felt.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll contact the attorneys immediately.”

  “Wil
l they be able to help?” I fretted.

  “Of course. That’s what they’re paid to do. And as for you, don’t speak to the press, please.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll call you back shortly with your travel itinerary back to Raleigh.”

  “Okay.”

  And that was the extent of my To Do list, and it didn’t feel good at all to check that off.

  Laughter erupted from Granny’s bedroom, reminding me that some people were blissfully unaware of what had just transpired outside. I was at loose ends, feeling something close to panic nibbling at my mind.

  I was out of my home, out of my routine, and with no more tasks to fix the problem at hand. Granny was okay and occupied. I’d dealt with work last night and everything was routine and quiet at the moment. Lu was off the radar and maybe had decided to just go home. Unlikely, but I could always hope. Kuan could hopefully tell me more soon.

  Opening Granny’s fridge, I stared at the contents. I wasn’t hungry, but I could see it had been a long time since she’d cleaned it out. Grabbing a random jar, I checked the expiration date. It was out of date by six months. The next jar was out of date by over a year. I started making a stack.

  Twenty minutes later, the entire contents of the refrigerator were on the kitchen table and counters. I had a bucket of warm water and was on my hands and knees, scrubbing down the inside of the refrigerator. My head was completely inside the box when I heard Granny exclaim.

  “What in heaven’s name?”

  I scrambled backward and promptly caught my ponytail on a shelf. “Ow. Owowowow.” It took a second to detangle myself, then I was sitting on the linoleum with four sets of eyes staring down at me.

  “I was just cleaning out the fridge,” I said.

  “I can see that,” she said, scrutinizing my face. Her lips set in a line as she studied me. “Gentlemen, I must say I’m feeling a bit tuckered out. If you wouldn’t mind—”

  She didn’t even have to finish that sentence before they were falling all over each other with apologies and good-byes and get-well-soons. Graciously seeing them out, she was back within moments.

  “Should I ask why there’s a posse of reporters on my porch?” she asked.

  “It’s Jackson,” I said. “He’s been arrested.” It felt weird saying it, as though I was hearing someone else say those words.

  “I see.” Granny glanced around the kitchen and grimaced. “Let’s get these things back in the fridge before they spoil.”

  “Food left at room temperature is usually safe for up to two hours,” I said absently, grabbing a trash bag and loading it with everything that was expired. “After that, it’s best to throw it away, even if it doesn’t smell bad.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Granny asked, putting the eggs back in the fridge.

  “They just . . . came for him,” I said. “The FBI. I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but it’s serious.” I tied the garbage bag closed and began helping put stuff back.

  “They won’t come for you then?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. Jackson’s the one with the multimillion-dollar company.” Now, the Chinese might be a different matter.

  My cell phone buzzed and I answered. Lance told me that Jackson’s plane would be ready to take me back to Raleigh by the time I arrived at the airport. I thanked him and hung up after making him promise to let me know if he heard anything more.

  Gathering my things, I took Jackson’s car keys from the counter. “I’ve got to go,” I told Granny. “Will you be all right?”

  “I’m as right as rain,” she said. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  The last thing she needed was me stressing her out. “I’m really fine,” I assured her. “I promise.”

  “Honey, why would you think you can lie to me? I know you’re not fine.” She gestured to the fridge. The expression on her face was one of pained sympathy. “You didn’t even arrange things according to food group, bless your heart.”

  Oh no. I’d gotten a bless your heart. That was about as pathetic as you got in the South, except maybe if she’d added on an I’ll say a prayer for you.

  “I’m just worried,” I confessed. “But it’ll be okay. Jackson can afford a platoon of lawyers. I’m sure he’ll be released by tonight. I need to get back, though, so long as you’ll be okay. The nurse will stop by in a couple of hours and dinner will be brought by shortly after that.”

  Granny gave me a hug. “You take good care of me, China girl. Now go on and be there for your man. And be safe.”

  Running the gauntlet of press was interesting and I nearly backed over a couple of them, trying to get out of the driveway. I didn’t know what was so riveting about watching me get into a car and drive away, but they filmed and photographed it, all while shouting questions at me. I’d taken a page from Jackson’s book and worn my sunglasses.

  The plane was waiting, which I had to admit was awesome. I could get used to a private plane at my disposal. I was starving, too, so after takeoff, I raided the galley for food. There was some fruit, little bags of pistachios, pretzels, and some kind of trail mix. With a shrug, I grabbed some of everything, plus a minibottle of wine.

  When we landed, it was after six and evening had fallen. I was taken aback to see Lance waiting for me with the car. I crossed the tarmac toward him.

  “That was really nice of you to come,” I said, “but you didn’t have to do that. I could have caught a cab or an Uber.”

  “Actually, I did have to come,” he replied grimly. At my questioning look, he just opened the back door.

  “Welcome back!” Clark said, peering out from the backseat. “Hop in.”

  Now I understood the pained look on Lance’s face. I’d look like that, too, if Clark was in the backseat of my car.

  I slid in and Lance closed the door behind me. “What’s going on? Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Heard about Coop’s problem,” he replied, resting back against the leather seat, his arm stretched across the top. “The DoJ is looking for reasons to seize Cysnet, which would give them access to all the software they’ve ever written.”

  “They wouldn’t find any ties to terrorists or enemy states,” I said, glancing toward the front as Lance began driving.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, wouldn’t they? You wanna bet your boyfriend’s life on it?”

  “They’re not going to kill him,” I said.

  Clark released a put-upon sigh. “Let me explain how this works, O Naive One. The government finds its airtight, smoking-gun case against the poor slob they’ve targeted. In this case, Coop. They railroad him through the justice system, turn public opinion against him, and destroy his life.”

  “Jackson has the best lawyers on the planet,” I interrupted. “They’ll be able to help him.”

  “Even if by some miracle he’s not convicted,” Clark continued, ignoring me, “his stock will tank and turn his company into a worthless pile of paper. He’ll have to sell cheap, probably to a government contractor and competitor of his, conveniently giving them access to everything. After that, you’ll wake up one morning to find that your dear Coop killed himself over the disgrace and crush of his broken dreams.”

  I stared, open-mouthed. “That—that’s ridiculous. Jackson would never commit suicide.”

  Clark closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, as though it took all he had to deal with the inanity of my comments. “Of course he wouldn’t. Didn’t Wyndemere teach you anything?”

  The “accidents” that had taken the lives of two programmers, and the apparent suicide of the project manager that had started it all. I swallowed hard. I’d told Jackson that his high profile was keeping him safe, but it looked as though I’d spoken too soon.

  “So what do we do?”

  “Coop’s too smart to not have something to cover his ass,” Clark said. “Did he tell you anything?”

  “Um . . .” I went through our conversation last night. I ce
rtainly didn’t want to divulge to Clark that I’d told Jackson about Vigilance, but he had said something he hadn’t elaborated on. “He mentioned something about a Get Out of Jail Free card,” I said. It had been in reference to me, but if he asked if I had one, surely he’d made sure of his own security.

  “Perfect. Did he tell you what it was or where?”

  I shook my head. “No. We didn’t really discuss it further.” We’d been too busy having sex on the beach, the memory of which must’ve shown on my face because Clark rolled his eyes.

  “TMI,” he said. “What about today? I saw the footage of his arrest. He said something to you. What was it?”

  “They’re playing the footage?” I asked, dismayed.

  “On a constant loop, yeah,” he said. “So what did he say?”

  “Um, nothing important. He said to put his sunglasses on for him. And . . . he called me your worship.” Which was definitely new, but perhaps he’d been trying to lighten the moment.

  “Really? You guys have some weird endearments. Then what?”

  This was embarrassing. “I-I told him I loved him,” I said, my cheeks burning. I hadn’t said it last night and I couldn’t let him go without him hearing those words from me.

  “Good for you. Did he say it back?”

  “What are you, Dear Abby?” I snapped.

  “Stop acting like a lovesick teenager,” he retorted. “Did he say it back?”

  “He said it last night,” I replied, wanting to defend my declaration to Jackson.

  “And so he said it today.”

  I thought about it, frowning. “Actually, no. He said, ‘I know.’” Which was weird. Had it been because of the cameras? He didn’t want such a private thing to be recorded and splashed all over the Internet?

  Clark snorted. “It figures. Only you two would reenact The Empire Strikes Back in a moment of crisis.”

  Perplexed, I asked, “What do you mean—oh. Oh . . .” My eyes widened. “That’s what he meant.”

  Now it was Clark’s turn to look confused. “What?”

  “He meant Han and Leia,” I said, my mind moving faster than my mouth could keep up. “That’s why he called me your worship. Han calls Leia that. It has to be the outfit, the one he likes.” Why he’d want to call to mind that outfit in particular was strange. Could he have left a message for me or something?