by Lauren Dane
Red and blue lights flashed on and off in my brain like a squad car was chasing me. It all made sense. How the stud was surprised to see me, asking me if I was security, and reaching in his sweats for what I bet was a gun. Then sweet-talking me into letting him kiss me while he felt me up. Checking me for a weapon, I bet. And I unbuttoned my jeans flap to help him. Talk about dumb chick moves. That was the dumbest.
“That guy was a thief,” I said under my breath. That statement knocked the wind out of me.
That was only the beginning of my downfall.
I leaned against the copier and tried to zip up my jeans but couldn’t. Wetness greeted my fingers along with a pungent smell both sweet and musky. Panic filled me.
What if the condom had broken?
With that disturbing thought racing through my brain, I vaguely heard Ms. Sims babbling on about how she’d come back to the office to get her cell phone. When she heard the alarm go off, she ran to the copy room. A tall man wearing a baseball cap and black sweats knocked her down and rushed past her. When she opened the door and found me with my jeans down, she assumed I had invited him in.
I tried to explain to her what happened, but she wouldn’t listen to me. That didn’t surprise me. She had this thing against hiring girls who wrote code.
That was just the excuse she needed.
She fired me.
The bitch.
* * *
FBI Special Agent Steve Raines had a plan for this evening’s mission—pick the old-fashioned lock on the back door of the Victorian mansion with the skills he’d learned as a kid from his older brother and then sneak upstairs and copy the documents he’d been angling to get his hands on for months.
After he got what he came for, he’d scram out of there before the spiders knew he’d disturbed their sticky webs.
It should have been routine.
It wasn’t.
He never expected to meet up with a sexy redhead who had a come-hither look about her that steamed up her glasses and made him hard. At first, he wasn’t bothered by her intrusion. If anything, he was turned-on by her unexpected appearance. In his line of business he spent many lonely nights camped out in the wet and the cold, doing surveillance. Strip-searching her was an entirely pleasant experience and one he’d enjoy doing again.
He doubted he’d ever have the chance.
Things got sticky when she came on to him like gangbusters. She’d given him no choice but to have sex with her or blow his cover.
The question was, how was he going to explain his indiscretion to his boss?
“Did you get the docs from Briggs’s office?” Jordan asked him, her fingers tapping on the phone at the other end. Patience was not her virtue. Never had been, though she knew how to hold ’em when the target was in sight but not close enough for a sure kill.
This was not one of those times.
She wanted answers. Now.
Steve had stopped at the drive-through for coffee and then pulled into a dark alley and parked his old Buick behind a large trash Dumpster. For several long minutes, he studied the copies he’d made with a pen flashlight before dialing her on his cell. Special Agent in Charge Jordan Parks played hardball with her agents the same way other women picked out shoes: she liked the ones that dazzled her eye.
Still, she was tough and ran her operations lean and mean. She got the job done or she never would have lasted in this business. He admired her for that, but he wouldn’t let her tell him how to run his mission. As long as he came through with the intel, he knew she’d let him play ball his way.
Except that tonight he’d scored in one way and fouled out in another.
“Well, Steven, I’m waiting,” she purred. Or was it more of a growl? “Did you get the documents?”
“Not exactly—”
“Exactly what do you mean?”
“I had them in my hand, when she showed up.”
“Who?”
“This redhead. She works there and caught me copying the docs.”
“Night crew?”
“You could say that,” Steve said evasively. He wasn’t sure who she was, but he’d sure as hell find out.
“You’re losing your touch, old boy.” He heard her smirk. “What happened? Did she suck you up with her vacuum cleaner?”
She emphasized suck. Steve said nothing. He was used to her bad jokes.
“No. She’s funny and very pretty—”
She cut him off. “Did you get rid of her?”
“I...well, you see...” He stalled, remembering how surprised he was to find black lace covering her bra when the buttons popped off her shirt. His hands ached to unhook her bra and cup her big breasts, but he was a man in a hurry. He’d frisked her to make sure she wasn’t private security packing heat. “I made love to her.”
“I imagine she couldn’t resist your charm,” she snarled.
“It works on you every time.”
“Can it, Steven. You’re the best-looking field agent I have, but the FBI didn’t hire you for your looks.”
He let that pass.
“Believe me, Jordan, you haven’t seen this girl.” He whistled under his breath. “She’s sensational.”
He’d never forget how she’d ground her butt into his groin, teasing him, making him crazy. Dry humping him until he couldn’t take it any longer. To knock him off balance? He had to find out. He’d slid her jeans down over her smooth skin and grabbed her ass. A more perfect ass he’d never seen. And one that gave a guy all kinds of sinful thoughts. Damn, he was going ballistic over this chick.
Why? Because she’d touched a nerve in him.
For all her brave talk, he swore she wasn’t as easy a lay as she made out.
Maybe it was the glasses, which he found sexy, that gave her the innocent air. In the end it was his job to make sure she wasn’t a threat to him.
“Listen up, Steven,” Jordan was saying, “we’ve been trying to bring in this corporate sleazeball for months and get him to talk.” She paused, no doubt to gulp down her coffee. Black. Always. “And now you’re telling me when you get the chance to get the goods on him, you let your dick do the talking.”
“You’ll have my full report in the morning, Jordan,” Steve promised, knowing he faced another sleepless night. He hadn’t copied the whole file, but what he had seen didn’t advance the investigation. Frustrated, he downed the last of his coffee. This case was keeping them both up late. Briggs had drawn the attention of the FBI when his bank reported that he split up large financial transactions into smaller ones and then tried unsuccessfully to take his name off them. They needed evidence to prove he was structuring the transfers to evade reporting them. It didn’t stop there. It was the why that had them baffled. According to their sources, Briggs had made several unexplained overseas trips. Not to mention extravagant dinners at posh hotels, yet Pepper said her boss was cheap.
Steve’s gut told him something bigger was at stake than tax evasion. He’d put out feelers on the street and had a few nibbles. What he’d learned so far wasn’t pretty. He suspected Briggs was involved in money laundering. All he needed was proof.
“I want to see you in my office first thing in the morning,” Jordan finished with a yawn. “Is that clear?”
“Anything you say, ma’am,” Steve said, signing off, knowing she hated him calling her ma’am.
“Seven o’clock sharp,” she insisted. “Before breakfast.”
“I’ll bring the beer,” he said, grinning. “You bring the doughnuts.”
Then he hung up.
He pulled the baseball cap down low over his eyes to take a quick snooze, planning his next move. His balls tightened. Damn, he couldn’t concentrate. How could he even think? He couldn’t forget his encounter in the copy room with the redhead. There was something abo
ut that girl that got under his skin.
He intended to find out more about this Pepper. Who she was, where she came from. And why she was working late. That made her suspect in his eyes. She knew something, but what?
He intended to get a full report on her.
Pepper. Smooth, round ass. Sweet, sexy bod.
A perfect fit for his dick.
Are you as hot as your name? he’d asked her.
You bet she was.
This case just got a whole lot more interesting.
* * *
This was one goddamn screwed-up night.
I’d barely zipped up my jeans when the Wicked Witch of the West made me pack up my things and give her back the key to the girls’ daisy-wallpapered bathroom. We were the only two who used it since the company wasn’t big on hiring females unless forced to do so. All the other employees were guys. No receptionist up front. Nobody answered the phone when customers needed tech support since all the calls were routed overseas.
Just rooms filled with programmers and graphic art designers. A geek junkie’s heaven on earth.
Then Ms. Sims recited the employee policy to me like it was the Miranda Rights.
“You are hereby ordered not to contact anyone at the company after your termination,” she said, stuffing the documents she’d taken from me into a folder. I grabbed my coffee cup and closed up my backpack. I assumed she would report the break-in to the protection services Mr. Briggs hired to keep out interlopers.
Which made me wonder—
Where was the security guy who walked the perimeter? This wasn’t the first time he’d messed up. The only reason he kept his job was because he was Ms. Sims’s nephew.
“Why not?” I asked, confused. I often traded programming shortcuts with the guys.
“If you dare to initiate conversation with our employees,” she said, hands on her hips, “I will contact the authorities and have you arrested as an accomplice.”
“Accomplice to what?” I wanted to know. “You got your file back. Nothing was taken.”
Except my pride.
I didn’t mention the copies. Why make things worse? Mr. Briggs’s tax records couldn’t be that important unless he had an ex-wife no one knew about. Besides, I’d never live it down if anyone found out about this, especially Cindy. We’ve traded secrets and diaries since high school. She’d think it was romantic and want all the juicy details.
“True, but you did allow that man in here.” She fumbled around for the right words. “He could have seen our new video game design.”
“I doubt it.” I threw the words back at her. “He was too busy eyeing my ass.”
That did it. The wrath of the Emerald City flying monkeys rained down upon me.
“You little slut,” Ms. Sims screamed. “Get out, now!”
I swore I saw smoke coming out of her ears. I shouldn’t have said that, but I couldn’t help it. She’d had it in for me since Mr. Briggs hired me. She was the Queen Bee until I arrived. She was jealous since I got all the attention from the guys. Was it my fault she didn’t know WTF code from the acronym for the expletive?
That was the end of my career at the video game company. The office manager threw me out on my butt with no references, no severance package.
Nada. I got screwed and the thief got away.
All because I forgot to buy batteries for my vibrator.
* * *
I figured I wouldn’t have a problem finding work since video game programmers were a hot commodity. Yeah, right. Nobody told me the job market had gone cold. Or so it seemed to me. Over the next week, I sent out fifty résumés a day online and went on interviews only to have them tell me they’ve stopped interviewing for that position. Which was a nice way of saying “not interested.”
Worse yet, I discovered no one would hire me because I’d been fired for “misconduct of a nonbusiness nature.” That piece of information was leaked to me by a kind soul at the unemployment office. I was persona non grata there, as well. No checks from the state hit my mailbox. Even those online personality tests had it in for me with their trick questions.
You’re fucked. You’ll never work in this town again.
I shouldn’t have mouthed off to the office manager, but my offbeat personality had its roots in my traumatic childhood. Shuffled from one foster home to another, I pulled off numerous crazy stunts to get attention. When I was in junior high, the other kids wouldn’t stop bullying me, saying I was different and didn’t have a real family. So I hacked into the school computer to find out what was in my file. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t find out anything I didn’t already know.
When I was in high school, I wrote a software program to help me learn fact-driven data at a faster pace. Instead of praise for my efforts, I got stung for my antics. You’d think I’d done something wrong, like designing a T-shirt with a logo that was really a cheat sheet. Since then, I learned to shy away from people to keep from getting hurt.
When I went away to college to get my degree in computer science thanks to a scholarship, I found the only way to be accepted as an equal by the übergeeks was to play down my looks with jeans and red plaid flannel shirts.
And glasses.
I shied away from getting contacts. I had to admit I used the specs as a shield against the world. Recent life-changing moments showed me I couldn’t hide anymore. The naked truth was, I was desperate. Past-due rent and an empty fridge were a real incentive for me to rev up my computer skills.
Time for me to do a little snooping to set the record straight.
* * *
Dawn.
There was something about my old company at this time of day that got to me. Like it wasn’t real, only imagined.
A gothic gingerbread house.
Fog sat lazy and white over the trolley wires, while the winding streets gave off a mood of nonchalance before dealing with the seething passion of the morning sun. Birds flitted from tree to tree, flapping their wings to keep warm.
I pulled my flannel shirt closer around me to keep out the wet chill as I traipsed in my clunky leather boots through the pink and white azaleas around the back of the house. I was amazed how the delicate flowers tugged at their roots in their attempt to grow tall and strong like the wisteria vines hugging the worn brown sandstone. They provided great cover for my private entrance, allowing me to enter unseen through a hidden door leading into a basement room used for storage.
It was a jib door that looked like a window. When lifted and opened, it led into the rear of the house. Most likely it had provided a discreet means of entry for the Victorian gentleman or lady wishing to return home unobserved.
For me, it was the perfect way to sneak inside and put my plan into action.
I treaded carefully so as not to disturb the plump cat snoozing outside the secret door. A habit of hers recently. I’d arrived at the office before anyone else and then waited for the security guard to make his rounds before gaining entrance. No worry. I knew his habits. He did his job in slo-mo. By the time he came this way again, I’d be long gone. I knew what I was looking for. We all left our digital footprints. You just had to know where to look.
Two days ago I installed a device to track the keystrokes the office manager made on her keyboard. Yesterday I recovered it, uploaded it to my computer and then retrieved her password. I was well aware I was guilty of hacking, but I firmly believed I’d been fired unjustly. I felt warranted in righting that wrong. I just wanted my life back.
I sat down at her computer and, after a few clicks, I was in.
Yes.
I drew in my breath, nervous and excited as files popped up on the screen. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for: a list of former employees. I knew that Ms. Sims used an off-site human resources company to answer job inquiries abo
ut their ex-staff. She must have given them the off-putting information about my termination. All I had to do was change that info in my file.
I scrolled through the names, looking for my moniker. Once I found it, I’d change the reason for my dismissal to “termination without cause.” Then I’d add that I was part of a company layoff.
Next, I’d write a letter on the video company letterhead documenting that my efforts were of value to the company, but “because of the weak economy and a slowdown in the technology field,” they’d had no choice but to terminate my employment.
With luck, no one would notice the change in my file, and I could email it to the various job banks to clear my record.
It didn’t work out like I planned.
My file was gone. Disappeared. Like I never existed.
I stared at the computer screen as if I were reading another language, one beyond my comprehension. I felt dumb, foolish. I traced my steps again, tried another file, opened it. Nothing. Another file, still nothing.
I sat back, thinking. How did Mr. Briggs intend to explain my disappearance to the IRS? It occurred to me that might not be a bad thing. Still, I kept searching through the files, scrolling up and down, doing a name search.
I came up with zip.
What happened?
Where was my file?
I didn’t even blink, as if by sheer mental force I could will the pixels to form my name. Zilch. I rubbed my eyes. Nothing changed. Finally, I had to admit no computer trick or maneuver was going to bring back my file. I couldn’t fix what wasn’t there.
That left me no choice. I had to see Mr. Briggs in person and demand an explanation.
That presented a new problem. How was I going to get close enough to confront him? No doubt Ms. Sims would have security haul my ass out before I could talk to him. I would have to corner him somewhere off the premises, but where?
I had bounced forward, my feet flat on the floor, opening various files while looking for his calendar, when something strange on the screen caught my eye.
What was this?
Mr. Briggs was doing business with companies I didn’t recognize. Offshore companies, by the locales of their bank transactions. Weird. I shrugged it off, since outsourcing work in this business was common.
