The smile falters when I turn to face Parker and see the look on his face.
Gone is the carefree man I spent the afternoon with at sea. He looks almost somber — eyes narrowed, mouth set sternly, jaw clenched. His hands are fisted at his sides.
“I’m sorry about Luca,” I murmur. “I had no idea he was going to show up like that.”
He doesn’t reply.
I take a step toward him and, for once, he’s the one stepping back from me. A pang of something that feels a lot like regret lances through me.
“Parker…” My voice cracks.
His eyes flare. “Don’t.”
I swallow and watch as he crosses over to the desk, pulls open a drawer, and extracts my flash drive. I’d completely forgotten about it — completely forgotten my reason for coming here in the first place. Being in Parker’s presence swept me away entirely, until all thoughts of Luca’s vendettas and memories of a blood-soaked Christmas eve slipped out of my mind. Until it was just him and me, together in the moment.
That, in itself, is the most precious gift I’ve ever received.
It’s so quiet you can hear the faint whoosh of waves against the hull outside as he stops in front of me, leaving a careful distance, and offers me the USB.
“Take it,” he rasps, hand extended. “It’s why you came here, isn’t it? The whole reason you’re with me.”
I don’t move.
“Zoe.” His hand shakes a bit. “Take the damn flash drive.”
“No.”
“No?” His voice goes down an octave. “You’ve been trying to get me to give it to you all fucking day. Now, when I offer it to you, you turn me down. What the fuck kind of logic is that?”
He’s angry. Furious, even.
The emotion startles me; it’s so contrary to everything I’ve seen from him before. As I study the expression on his features, I realize this man is not a volcano, like Luca — dangerous from a distance, a clear threat to everyone in a ten-mile radius.
Parker is a hot spring, a geyser buried beneath a meadow. The kind that erupts through cracks you don’t even see until you’re standing over them, boiling up with the heat of it, too distracted by its beauty to notice its lethality.
“Just let me explain—”
“Explain?” He barks out a laugh. “Fine. Let’s start with the fact that your boyfriend is Blaze Fucking Buchanan, the best underground fighter in the city, and then we can discuss whatever the fuck he meant when he said he thought you were done with my family after last spring.” His jaw ticks. “Pretty weird, considering I was under the impression we didn’t know each other until the Lancaster party.”
I’m surprised to hear Luca’s nickname come out of his mouth — Blaze, inspired by his deep auburn hair and the all-consuming way he fights, like wildfire — but I shouldn’t be. Nearly every man in the northeastern United States knows who he is, watches his fights, follows his career.
“You knew who he was and you were still going to fight him?” I ask, my voice incredulous. Only a mad man would fight Luca willingly.
Tired of holding out the drive, Parker sets it on the table beside me and averts his eyes. “Does it matter?”
Yes, I think. Yes, it matters that you knew you’d get the shit kicked out of you, but you were ready to defend my honor anyway.
I take a breath, trying to stay calm. He glances back at me and, for a split second, I see the hurt in his eyes. It’s gone in a flash, buried back behind a hazel shield of frustration.
“You know, it’s funny…” His arms cross over his chest. “I don’t hear you explaining.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” My voice is soft. “He’s more like… my brother.”
Parker shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe me. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Zoe, that man is in love with you.” Parker runs a hand through his hair. “He may not like it, hell, he may not even know it — but he’s in love with you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Fine. Whatever.” He shakes his head. “But the other shit? You care to share how you know me? Because I’m pretty sure I asked you, point blank, if we’d ever met before, and you lied to my face.”
“I didn’t lie.” My chest feels tight. “I just… left some things out.”
“Such as?”
I could tell him — about Phoebe, about the mob, about the dank basement I found her in and how she sprinted beside me in her damn stilettos as we fled under the cover of darkness. How she’d called me her fairy godmother, nicknamed me Tinkerbell, and thanked me for saving her life when I left her alone on a strange street corner, with nothing but a burner phone.
Heroic? Not exactly.
I’m no hero.
At my core, I’m just a shitty person with some computer skills.
Sure, Phoebe thanked me in the moment… but she probably hates me, now that she’s had a few months to reflect on what happened. I may’ve gotten her out of that basement, but then I abandoned her. Walked away. I might as well have left her for dead on that corner.
I don’t want Parker to look at me like I’m a monster. I don’t want him to see that I’m not the girl he thinks I am. And even if by some chance he doesn’t think I’m terrible, telling him about my connection to Phoebe will just make this thing between us — whatever it is — even more complicated.
And then, a small voice whispers. When he sails his giant yacht off into the sunset in a few days or weeks or months… you’ll still be here. Alone. Empty. And, quite possibly, brokenhearted.
No. I can’t tell him. Can’t let him in any more than I’ve already done. Look what’s happened in the span of a single afternoon — he’s gotten me to strip out of more than just my clothes. He’s stripped away my defenses. Obliterated every barrier I’ve built around my heart.
So… a week with him? A month? A year?
He’ll take everything.
And I’ve spent far too long building myself up from nothing to let a guy walk into my life and reduce me back to rubble.
“Zoe?” Parker prompts, a pleading note in his voice.
I stay silent.
It’s for the best, I assure myself. This pain, right now, is nothing compared to what you’ll feel if you let yourself fall in love with this man.
Parker scoffs. “Know what, Zoe? Keep your secrets. Keep your walls up.” He shoots me a look that’s so disappointed, it breaks my heart. “I just hope you know, this life you’re living — it’s not worth shit if you live it alone. You call me a playboy, a man-child… maybe that’s true. But at least I live. At least I grab life by the throat and take it for all it’s worth. Can you say the same?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer; he just turns and walks toward his bedroom.
“You got what you wanted,” he calls over one shoulder. “You can see yourself out.”
The sound of his door clicking closed cuts through me like a knife wound to the stomach. Ignoring the tears filling my eyes, I reach out and grab the flash drive off the table. Collecting my bag from the couch, I’m up the ladder and off the boat before I have a chance to do something stupid.
Like follow him into his bedroom and beg him to change his mind about me.
* * *
I spend a week moping around my apartment, tying up loose ends on a few freelance programming (read: hacking) jobs I’ve been working on the side for cash. Luca calls several times; I never answer.
Parker doesn’t call.
He doesn’t have my number, so it’s not like he could even if he wanted to.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Still, there’s an ache of disappointment as I walk around my loft, staring out the windows at the snowflakes drifting down and feeling even emptier than usual.
When we were teenagers, still living at the group home some nights, sleeping in Luca’s car others, we often spent holidays at a local church. They’d always give out candy on Easter and Hallo
ween and Christmas but I never ate any. At first, Luca just shoved my portion in his mouth without question, happy to have double. Eventually, though, he asked me why never ate my share.
I don’t want to know what I’m missing, I always told him. I don’t want to taste something once, see how good it is, and then spend the rest of my life wishing I could have it again. I’d rather stay in the dark.
That’s how it feels with Parker.
He’s chocolate, the most delectable candy, the most forbidden of desserts. And once I sampled him — not just kissed him, not just felt his hands on my skin… but experienced the way he made me feel, the freedom he inspired, the reckless hope he instilled inside my heart in the space of a single afternoon…
I crave more.
And it damn near kills me to know I’ll never get it.
I bury myself in work, praying the Lancaster Consolidated case will distract me from memories of his hot mouth, his big, callused hands, his thick, messy hair. It doesn’t — not remotely. But at least I have something to do instead of mope and eat all the chocolate peanut butter cups in my pantry.
After all the damn work I went through to get it back, it chafes to find there’s almost nothing of value on the flash drive. The only files of potential use are so heavily encrypted, even I can’t decode them. And that’s saying something.
Luca will be pissed — that means we have to get outside help. Probably from Knox Investigations or one of the other private firms in the city with a server big enough to run an algorithm program that can filter through the millions of possible password combinations until it finds the correct one to unlock the documents. My laptop’s small brain isn’t quite up to that challenge.
The only silver lining from my night spent as Cindy the cater-waiter is the fact that I managed to install my virus into the LC network before I got caught. The Clover. With each day that passes, the virus creeps a little further into their network, embeds itself a little deeper in the innermost workings of their computers. Reaching out in four directions, it then cloaks itself to blend in with the rest of their files — one tiny green blade, indiscernible from the zillion others in the field. My little emerald Trojan Horse.
It’s slow — painstakingly so — but I designed it that way on purpose. Any faster, a breach would be detected and I’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle. So, I sit on my hands and wait. And wait, and wait, until I’m practically pulling my hair out by the roots.
Day by day, my access increases. File by file, folder by folder, terminal by terminal, from the lower-level office where I planted my bug all the way up to Lancaster’s corner office. And the best part? It’s not just the documents saved to their hard drives.
With my virus, I can see emails. Inter-office chat windows.
Live communications between Lancaster and whoever he’s doing business with.
Almost a week after we went sailing, I’m eating peanut butter cups while I scroll rapid-fire through LC emails so boring they make episodes of Seventh Heaven seem dramatic, searching for anything that’ll help prove financial misconduct, when my eyes catch on something interesting.
An email from Robert Lancaster to his Head of Security.
Linus,
The workers from the Lynn factory are striking outside the corporate offices tomorrow. Press will be all over it. Make sure there’s adequate coverage for staff to enter and exit, but don’t interfere. They can chant until they lose their voices, wave their little picket signs until their arms fall off; it won’t change my mind. I’m not re-opening.
That said, did you handle the clean-up we discussed at the factory site?
Did the final transfer go smoothly with Birkin?
Let me know. The last thing we need is to give the fuckers grounds for a class action suit.
Bert
Okay, first of all, what self-respecting CEO goes by Bert? That’s just wrong. And secondly, besides the fact that he’s a total dick-wad for not giving a crap about his former employees, there’s clearly something else going on with the Lynn factory closing down. Something more than just budget cuts or moving jobs overseas to save some company cash.
“I’m going to find out exactly what,” I mutter, hitting a button to print out a copy of his email. “And use it to pin you to the wall, Bert.”
9
The Discovery
New England is known for many things — big lobsters, good clam chowder, bad accents, great movies, old Pilgrims, fantastic sports teams, terrible drivers.
It is not, however, known for its predictable weather.
So, when I step off the commuter rail in downtown Lynn the next morning and find it’s nearly sixty-five degrees only a handful of days before Christmas, I’m pleasantly surprised but certainly not shocked.
I strip off my bulky sweater and tuck it into my bag as I make my way across a busy four-lane highway toward the waterfront. This area could be — should be — beautiful. A long stretch of coastline just north of Boston, Lynn abuts some of the wealthiest towns in the entire state. And yet, corporate greed and shortsighted planning turned paradise into parking lots and factories. There are no boardwalks or beaches, here. Instead, the waterfront is jammed with row after row of industrial warehouses, used car lots, tattoo parlors, fast food joints, and bowling alleys.
Lynn, Lynn, city of sin, you’ll never get out the way you came in.
Everyone raised around here knows the anthem. And it’s true — not just when it comes to driving routes, either. Living here changes people. Makes them a little more bleary-eyed when they look at the world and its possibilities. I don’t know if it’s the gangs or the drugs or the total lack of aesthetics, but the entire town is corroding like a metal lawn chair left out in the rain.
It doesn’t surprise me in the least to know one of the factories here belongs to Richard Lancaster. He’s exactly the type to take something beautiful and turn it to trash, just for the sake of lining his own pockets.
I cut down a side street, leaving behind the steady rush of commuters, and find myself abruptly alone. One block from the highway, there are no signs of life at all besides the occasional seagull waddling on webbed feet across the cracked asphalt. I’ve never been here before, so I’m not sure exactly where I’m headed, but I walk steadily toward the water, knowing I’ll bump into the factory eventually.
Out of nowhere, I feel a chill go up my spine — a razor-edged awareness that makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand erect as soldiers preparing for battle. There’s no sound, no movement, nothing to indicate I’m being followed… but I can’t help myself from turning around to check anyway. My breathing resumes when I see there’s nothing trailing me except my shadow, elongated in the afternoon light.
You’re being ridiculous, Zoe. Who would bother to follow you all the way out here?
I shake off the strange sensation and keep going. A few minutes later, when I pass a sleeping homeless man curled on a concrete bench, I reach silently into my bag, so as not to disturb him, pull out all the bills in my wallet and shove them into his cup. I don’t bother to count them. He needs groceries more than I do this week.
I know from experience.
I’m breathing a bit heavier by the time I reach the water, warm from my quick-paced walk and the unusual weather. Craning my neck, I take in the sight of the closed LC factory, sitting like an aging beauty queen on the edge of the sound, her paint chipping in the elements, her front walkway riddled with trash. Most of the windows are boarded up. The parking lot is empty. It looks like it’s been closed far longer than three weeks.
I turn in a circle, surveying the entire property. There’s just… nothing here. The only movement is a plastic bag blowing in the wind, the only sound the faint whisper of waves crashing against nearby rocks. It looks desolate. Almost post-apocalyptic.
If the zombie apocalypse breaks out tomorrow, this will be ground fucking zero.
I try the front door and find — surprise, surprise — it’s bolted firmly. And it
’s solid metal; there’s no way I’m getting in. A quick walk around the perimeter leads me past the rocky water’s edge, where garbage floats next to dead birds in the polluted water. All the windows I pass by are either too high to climb through or so thoroughly boarded up, I’d need a crow-bar to gain access.
I’ve almost given up hope of getting inside when I reach the litter-filled alley that runs along the back of the factory. I step around a discarded air conditioning unit, squeeze by a dumpster, and finally find a small back entrance, probably an emergency exit of some kind. It’s still half-boarded over, but some of the plywood panels have been yanked off. Even from ten feet away, I can see the metal lock was wrenched open with brute force, probably by squatters or graffiti artists looking for a few blank walls to vandalize.
Before I can talk myself out of it — or pay attention to the small voice in the back of my mind whispering, “Um, maybe you should’ve forgiven Luca in time to bring him on this exploration, you idiot” — I steady my shoulders, push the groaning metal door wide enough to pass through, and slip inside the building.
It’s dark.
Not just dark — pitch black.
I blink my eyes for at least thirty seconds, hoping like hell they’ll adjust. They don’t. Frustrated, I finally just yank out my phone and turn on the flashlight app. The first thing the beam of light catches is a huge rat, scurrying across the floor about ten feet away. It takes all my self-control not to curse at the top of my voice, but I’m not stupid enough to draw that much attention to myself. Not when I don’t know what else is lurking in the dark.
I don’t scare easily. With a past like mine, I suppose that’s a given. But being in places with no visibility, no way of knowing who else is breathing your air, watching you move… that’s one of the most terrifying things imaginable.
You never know who you’ll meet inside buildings like this. I learned early, in my time on the streets, abandoned places don’t stay that way for long. All manner of people find their way in — and they aren’t always friendly.
Rubbing the goose bumps from my arms, I force myself to walk further into the factory. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. The deeper I get into the space, the more empty rooms I pass through, the more I begin to feel like I’m running a fool’s errand.
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 11
