The Ghost and The Hacker (Dark Fire Book 3)

by Ivy M. Jones

  I need her safe. I need to know that no one will look at that video and connect her to me. I need to know that my past wouldn't eat her future... Though she's already claimed that it's too late for that.

  Ignoring the messages lined up below, I click play and watch the video again. Then again.

  And again.

  I'm not even aware that I've stuck my hand into my pants and popped the button until a wave of pleasure washes over me. I click play again and let my fist pump, watching Sarah charge the stage, her ponytail swinging, the darkness of the club obscuring what I know to be dark chocolate brown eyes and a light dusting of freckles. Once we start kissing, her pixie face is turned away from the camera, but I can see it in my mind as I continue to rake my hand up and down my cock.

  I bring back the memories of the two of us in the backseat of her car, steaming up the windows. In my mind, I lift my hand up under her shirt behind her back, dexterously twisting the latch of her bra until it goes slack in my hand.

  When we met, we were both virgins in pretty much every way. Hers were the first breasts I ever tasted. Her lips initiated the first blowjob I ever botched, coming less than a minute into it. Hers was the first pussy I ever tasted, though only for a moment since she was hesitant to let me and asked me to be patient with her on that. If I tallied the time I spent with my head between her legs, it was probably less than two minutes total, but the taste of her hits my memory hard, speeding up my hand, making my back arch.

  I hit play again, this time fast-forwarding to the exact moment when I touched her hand to pull her up. From there, I feel like a voyeur, watching myself kiss her, watching my hand slide down over her ass, pulling her even closer.

  I feel a shudder ripple through me, down my spine to lodge in my balls. I am so close.

  It's the memory of losing our virginity to each other that finishes me.

  Zach

  I come - cupping my hand to limit the mess - thinking about how wild we were, unwilling to wait another day. We played a set that night that went into two encores. We were so buzzed from the adrenaline, we barely remembered to pull the brand new box of condoms out from the center console.

  Even before that night, we both knew we were going to have sex. It was just a matter of when. Buying the condoms had been a logical step. It just took another few months to get there. But that night... Oh god. I can still remember the one single tear that ran down her face from the pain of losing her virginity.

  But it didn't stop her. She held me still, her hands on my hips, but then her own hips started twisting a little below me. Then, before I could even put together the words to ask her if it was okay, she began to move, her body wrapping itself around me like a koala, hips slamming against mine.

  I was lost to her that night. I would have done anything she asked. And while she didn't come during sex, I made sure, right after I came, to stroke her clit until she screamed.

  Looking down, I see that the YouTube video ended at some point during my trip down memory lane. I clean myself up, pull out a half-empty bottle of cheap booze someone left in the apartment, and throw myself back down on my bed, flipping on iTunes and quickly rifling through my music for something auspicious to play.

  Easier to Run, by Linkin Park, comes up first and I want to smack myself in the forehead. I click to the next song before I realize I'm half blitzed already and probably shouldn't be putting together a playlist in this state. The next song that comes on is Let Her Go by Passenger and I let myself sink into the wallowing. Like the moron I obviously am, I open a video editing program, downloaded the YouTube video, and proceed to record it on loop, starting at the moment when our hands touched.

  I let the video loop so many times that the end result is a video lasting nearly ten minutes, which I save, create a link on the desktop, and let run while I drink myself into unconsciousness, listening to the world's pussiest, most pathetically sad mix ever.

  Not that it means much, but I do stay away from the video and booze for a few days. The band meets for practice Wednesday but the conversation is minimal, stress about the upcoming double-header making us push through hard, adding in a few interesting details. It doesn't end up making much difference since Andy comes home upset about something two-thirds of the way through our rehearsal.

  We all hear the door slam but Justin nearly throws his mic down in his haste to get to his girl. We follow at a more leisurely pace, trying to stay hidden behind the wall while blatantly eavesdropping.

  "...support me? That I wanted to keep my job for as long as possible?" we hear Andy ask.

  Some muffled words and then a nearly-shouted "...complete douche."

  "...baby store...boss...boom..."

  There is more conversation but we can't make it out, then Andy's angry voice rises. "And that makes it okay? I got fired from my job for failure to work at a satisfactory level because that douche bag thinks I should have tried harder to work through my nausea. And if that wasn't enough, he also threw in that the company doesn't like to retain employees who garner negative publicity. He didn't come right out and call me a gold-digging whore, but he did mention that since I'm pregnant and will need maternity leave, he could save the company extra bucks by firing my ass. And you're saying that I should be okay with all that?!?"

  I try to stop Cy and Griffin with my arm, but they both push their way past me, obviously intent on getting more info. I press my forehead into the wall.

  Idiots.

  They push back around the corner a few seconds later grinning like fools and Griffin whispers, "Ten minutes, my ass."

  "Come on," Cy says, gesturing for us to head back.

  "I take it Justin is busy," I smirk. They both just nod, and then Cy shakes his head as if to say I can't even.

  I probably would have cracked then, but we went right back to work and my mind wasn't given the chance. I do crack, but not until Thursday.

  That morning, Cy finds me in the living room.

  "You wanna come with?" he asks, twirling his keys around his index finger.

  "Come with, where?" I put my controller down, pausing the game I have going and take a sip of rootbeer.

  "I have some errands to run before we go to Juliana's office. Figured we could ride together, make a couple of stops, add anything you need, then hit her office."

  I raise a brow, confused. "Why are we going to Juliana's office?"

  "For the press releases, fucktard."

  I smack my forehead. The bliss of Monday's reminiscing orgasm pretty much overwrote anything else that happened that day- including scheduled press release interviews. I want to smack my forehead again because I don't want to spend a bunch of extra time with Cy, giving him the opportunity to dissect why I've been so introspective and quiet since The Tap.

  So I hedge, "Naw man. I think I'm gonna finish this level first. Been kicking my ass and I want revenge. I'll meet you there."

  "Two, though. Be there on time, alright?"

  "Yes, Dad," I groan, rolling my eyes.

  He gives me the finger with a snorted laugh and is gone, leaving me to do exactly what I said I was going to do. I really do want to beat the level, but with my full concentration, it only takes another twenty minutes. Leaving now would mean sitting around in Juliana's office for an hour before our meeting.

  Don't get me wrong, the office is niiiiice. Dark Fire ranks high in their office and if I want an internet connection, a private room to myself, take-out, and some company, I would barely have to ask. In fact, they keep my rootbeer on hand, cold and waiting.

  But I just can't force myself to do it. Instead, my mind goes to places I don't want it to, thinking about the interview and the mushy stuff I might have to say about Justin and Andy's love match. I'm torn between feeling sick at their luck, and jealous as all hell.

  Which is probably why I get that first shot of tequila. I was planning to cab it to Juliana's office anyway. A little something to take the edge off won't make a difference...

  I am much mor
e than a single shot into the bottle when I look down to see the little memory box in my hands, the contents spilling out onto my lap. My mother's rings- the one with her birthstone in it that her parents gave her when she graduated high school, and the wedding and engagement rings my father gave her. There's also a picture of her. I cut the picture a long time ago, eliminating the asshole who was standing next to her when the picture was taken.

  Next in the box is a ratty friendship bracelet. When I left Lakemont, it was around my wrist. It had been there ever since the summer before when I took Sarah to the County Fair. Being broke and a teenager, there wasn't much from the artisans market that I could afford to buy for my girlfriend, but that hadn't mattered to her. Leaving through the main gate, we encountered a local Girl Scout troop selling all kinds of trinkets to raise money for some trip. The best three dollars I ever spent purchased two matching friendship bracelets- one for me and one for Sarah. The last time I saw her in Lakemont, she'd still been wearing hers. I wore mine until it fell off. Then I glued the ends so it wouldn't unravel, and added it to my collection.

  I run my fingers over the CDs she burned for me. My mom made me watch Say Anything when I was little, so I knew what a mix tape was. These are even better because they aren't just a bunch of songs that she put together to tell me how she felt. I didn't have access to a computer to download music, or the money to buy songs at a buck a pop online, so Sarah watched my face whenever we listened to the radio and made notes to buy and download those songs I seemed to like.

  And she knew me well. Every song on these CDs was one of my favorites.

  The last CD is full of live recordings of our band, Random, with Sarah's voice singing the lead, clear and true and beautiful.

  Last, I pull out a stack of pictures that are paper clipped together. I shuffle through them, revisiting each one, each of them including Sarah in some way. Some just of us. Some with the rest of the band. Some taken at school by friends, copies dropped in our lockers later.

  My favorite is the most recent, two weeks before I had to run. Two football games a year were free for students, and while neither of us were really fans, our guitarist's brother was playing and we'd promised to come to support him. Wrapped in a blanket in the cold, grassy hill behind the uprights, Sarah and I spent most of the game sharing our popcorn and daydreaming about the band making it big and how perfect our lives would be together.

  Someone in the stands took a picture for the yearbook - we were already "most likely to live happily ever after" - zooming in our private happiness. Sarah had a friend on Yearbook Committee who grabbed a printed copy for her. Then Sarah drew a red heart around it, wrote "Happily Ever After! Love, Sarah" under the picture, and gave it to me that afternoon when I drove her home.

  We made a detour that afternoon to the dirt lot by the lake and blew through two more condoms.

  I never had to count to know we used exactly eight of those condoms. We'd done a lot of other stuff, of course, where we didn't require condoms... Hands and mouths and- god, I'm getting hard just thinking about those few perfect memories of us together. But the fact remains that we still only had sex on six occasions.

  And still, the sex I had with her was the most intense, and very simply the best, I've ever had. And I can say that even knowing I've gone through more than ten times that many condoms since then. Counting those is a lot harder. Not one of those girls meant anything so they barely registered. And most of them happened that first year when we got a record deal.

  I shiver, doing the most recent math. It's been almost a year since I've gotten laid.

  Maybe that's the problem. I need to make a phone call, blow off some steam, and get Sarah out of my head again. I need to get my phone out and make that phone call to that discreet agency that deals in discreet girls who don't forget about their 6'6", two-hundred-forty pound boyfriends.

  Instead, I'm back on my bed, listening to melancholy lyrics and fucking my fist to a looped video of Sarah and me making out on stage. It isn't until later, when I get a text from Justin saying he has an update from the private investigator he hired, that I realize I missed the meeting with Juliana.

  Oh well. I'm sure they can cobble together something believable with all the other guys there. And no matter what I find out about Sarah from this PI, it isn't like I can just go up to her and beg her forgiveness for how fucked up everything got all those years ago.

  Hell, until The Tap, I thought she'd ditched me. It's what her dad said when he asked me to leave her alone- that it was her idea. So it wasn't my fault that everything went to hell.

  Let's get this over with. #shoot me now, I text back to Justin.

  Fuck it. I would get through lunch, the rest of the 'I Heart NYC' tour, and make that call. Just because I'm getting information to locate Sarah doesn't mean I have to use it.

  How the hell am I supposed to get through lunch?

  I order a grilled cheese sandwich, sure that the guys will give me shit for it, but they apparently have more pressing concerns than my lunch order because they all stay quiet. Aside from some light conversation about the upcoming double-header we're playing this weekend, everyone else stays pretty quiet, too.

  I am plowing through my food, shoving chips into my mouth between bites of grilled cheese, when Justin pulls a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and holds it out across the table to me between two fingers.

  Snagging it, I open it to read a quick rundown of Sarah's life.

  Fuck me. She lives in a shit neighborhood less than ten minutes' walk from the apartment I share with Cy.

  See, while Justin and Griffin jumped on the chance to own high-end places in the City the minute the first check was cashed, I knew too well what it was to live hand-to-mouth. So did Cy. I got an amazing deal on a house in the middle of nowhere, paid it off in full, and put money in escrow to pay the taxes for the rest of my life. It was mine free and clear and if this whole thing goes south, I'll have enough room for all of us. I even negotiated in a collectable car I can liquidate in case of emergencies.

  Cy had the same idea I did, but instead of buying a house outright, he picked a nice apartment in a decent part of the City with enough security to be comfortable and has been saving every penny left over. Since the house I bought is lonely and way past the city limits, I spend most of my time at Cy's, technically living out of his guest room, though I pay about half the rent and groceries. But being in a decent neighborhood means we live close enough to average folks, which means I might legitimately end up bumping into average people - like Sarah - now and then.

  I don't like her living in the slum she's in, though.

  I shovel the rest of my food into my mouth and push back my chair.

  I just need to make sure she's okay. That area is scary, especially at night. It wouldn't hurt to make sure the building is secure.

  And what the hell are you going to do about it if it's not, Moore? Knock on her door and politely suggest she move?

  I'm walking away from the restaurant, my eyes on my toes, as I contemplate what the hell I'm doing. I have most likely missed being a hit-and-run victim several times over on the way here, my thoughts on things other than my environment, but I manage to maintain my hold on the mortal coil until I see her building. The scary-ass vibe coming from the - probably a crack-house? - next door just about gives me heart failure and I feel bad because heart failure now would just be a fuck you to my guardian angel after he spent the last twenty-five minutes keeping me out from under a taxi.

  The cement stairs leading to her building look like they might collapse under the weight of the broken empties lining the edge. Plus, as I stand here, there's a noise, which may have been a gunshot, from one of the floors above.

  What is my game plan here? Oh, right. I walked all the way here without one, just to take a look at a place uncomfortably reminiscent of my first few homes in New York City.

  Does she need money? Is that why she's in this dump? Her friend lived in a nicer apartment b
efore this, according to the report in my hand. Maybe neither of them made the kind of money or had the right kind of rental history for something better?

  I am on the phone as I walk away, but it isn't the phone call I'd been planning to make earlier. This one is to the private investigator Justin found. His name and number are at the top of the page Justin gave me.

  I introduce myself to Ben Crest and tell him what I want to do. "What do you need from me to make this happen?" I ask when I'm done. I'm pretty sure what I'm asking for is not standard PI grunt work.

  "Well, if you're gonna hire me, we might talk about my rates. Also, I can get their salary info easy, but do you have a list I can work from if your first idea doesn't work?"

  I nod even though he can't see me, before listing off several options. "And I don't care what you cost."

  "Alright. I'll call you as soon as I have something for you."

  I thank my new friend and hang up, noticing that my feet have taken me close enough to my own building that I can see it from a distance. I look back at Sarah's crumbling brick deathtrap. If I twist at just the right angle, I can see a corner of a roof that might be hers. It isn't possible to see one building from the other, I know, but the connection still feels like it's there.

  I finish the long walk home and then plop on my couch, hobbling teenagers with my sniper rifle as they come home from school to join the fight online. Cy drops onto the couch beside me, offering an open rootbeer and clinking his own bottle against it when I hold up a hand to take it without looking.

  "Three o'clock," he says calmly, logging in as well.

  "Got him."

  We're guys... One of our only big money purchases was a gaming setup that would make most other guys cry in envy. There are two TVs mounted to the wall, all 60 inches of one, and all 48 inches of the second. We don't do picture-in-picture. No need. We have a separate feed to a second screen. Neither of them are small, but Cy likes to bitch when he gets stuck with the smaller screen to play, claiming it hurts his kill-count.