Zero Day Exploit (Bayou’s End #1.5)

by Cole McCade

  Not that being honest was much better. Honesty made him cruel and hurtful, enough that he’d only hurt her more because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. He should just go. Go, and stop thinking about pulling her close and kissing her until the angry line of her mouth softened and they found something better to do than fighting.

  But she thrust one hand toward the door, pointing, trembling with thinly-restrained fury. “Get out!” she cried, her voice cracking as it rose and peaked.

  Evan shrugged into his jacket, rose, and walked out without a word.

  * * *

  Zero slammed the door shut hard enough to shake it in its frame, then sank down on her couch to bury her face in her hands with a low moan. She never should have let him in. She never should have let him get under her skin.

  And he had no right to say those things about her. Just because he had eight years on her didn’t give him the right to talk to her like she was a little girl who had no idea how the real world worked. She understood business. She understood responsibility. Just because she hated giving up the last of her individuality didn’t make her immature.

  Condescending prick.

  Condescending, contradictory prick, one moment saying he liked her hair the old way, the next calling her an emo Bratz doll, but not before spinning her every which way with that story that made her ache for the loneliness in it, the quiet acceptance that it was his lot in life to lose people, so it was better not to have anyone at all. God, she couldn’t get torn up like this over him. The story probably wasn’t even true. This was probably just another game to him, jerking her back and forth just to watch her dance like a puppet.

  She wasn’t letting him do this to her.

  She had to deal with him at work for the rest of the week. Four days. Four days of hoping she never crossed his path; of hoping she could keep her detachment if she did. She could be detached. She could be cold, aloof, as proper as any stuffed suit. He wanted to see professional Zero?

  He’d fucking get her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AS HE STRAIGHTENED HIS TIE in the mirror of his hotel room, Evan gave very serious thought to the idea of showing up for work drunk.

  Another vodka shot might ease the hangover headache—better than the aspirin and enough water to lower the local water table, anyway. He couldn’t even remember how much he’d drunk last night, though he could probably figure it out by counting the empty bottles from the mini-bar. He vaguely remembered getting drunk enough that he couldn’t stop laughing at himself, laying in his coldly spacious, empty suite that felt sterile and dead compared to Zero’s cozy little apartment. This was his life. Hotel rooms without personality, without warmth. That was him. No warmth. Every hint of his personality faked.

  He saluted himself in the mirror. “Smile, James,” he told his reflection. “That fake personality’s earned you a very real career.”

  But suddenly he wondered…what would he do, if he could do something he actually believed in?

  Could he ever be like Zero, struggling to hold on to some idea of happiness, struggling to be the one bright spot of color in a featureless corporate world?

  Why was he even thinking about this?

  Shaking his head at himself, Evan snagged his briefcase and headed out to catch a cab.

  He didn’t see so much as a glimpse of Zero on his way in, and within moments he’d been swept into the top-floor executive suites for endless meetings and discussions over stacks of personnel files. He frowned as he scanned through Zoraya’s. Her aptitude scores were remarkably high, her performance reviews listing her coding ability off the charts. She was extremely talented, but her list of shortfalls was worrying when management was talking about budget cuts and layoffs.

  No initiative. Not committed to personal advancement; not willing to go the extra mile. Not a team player.

  That didn’t sound like the Zero he knew.

  He stacked a few folders and his tablet in his arms, picked up his briefcase and half-empty mug of coffee, and spared a distracted smile for the CEO and COO. “I think I’ll get started on those one-on-one interviews. We’ll talk tomorrow about team restructuring.”

  Trailed by polite murmurs of assent, he headed out and into the elevator, down to the… He scanned her file. Second floor. UI team. He flipped through a few more folders. Alejandro Rojas. Ravi Brahmbhatt. Janelle Corvino. Eric Gladwell. Over two dozen others, so many he wondered how the team got anything done. Mixed into the stack was one recently promoted Rick Sorensky. Evan eyed the blank stare looking up at him from the photo clipped to the file. Rick Sorensky didn’t look like someone who, according to the file, had displayed remarkable personal initiative in seeking new advancements in corporate technology.

  Still frowning, he stepped onto the floor. Just another cubicle farm; he’d have to change that. He made a few notes on his tablet. Closed cube farms promoted an environment of weary drudgery. Open layouts made people feel like they were being constantly watched, and created an unproductive atmosphere of stress and frustration. He’d have to work up a hybrid layout.

  He stopped when he realized the entire floor had gone quiet. He looked up. Everyone stared at their screens rigidly, but he knew they were really looking at him.

  Except Zero. The line of her shoulders was slim and sharp, her back to him as she sat stiffly in her neat little steel-gray jacket, deep maroon blouse, and matching gray pleated skirt. She typed like she had a grudge against the keyboard, but while everyone else watched him from the corners of their eyes, she kept her attention on her screen with militant focus.

  Well. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy.

  He flashed a quick don’t mind me, I’m harmless smile around the room. A half-dozen heads ducked below cubicle walls as he made his way down the aisle. He didn’t doubt that before he’d walked in, the conversation had been about him—and it hadn’t been charitable. He stopped outside Zero’s cube. A…thing, some kind of cross between Cthulhu and My Little Pony, eyed him balefully from atop her desktop screen, next to a Hello Kitty plushie that had been cut apart, stitched back together, dirtied up, and bloodied with zombie spatter paint. Several other mutilated and zombified kids toys lined her desk, a rather oddly charming mixture of the cute and the bizarre.

  Kind of like her.

  “So you’ve got a thing for zombies,” he said, propping one arm against the low cube wall.

  Zero fell still, then turned a chill blue glance over her shoulder. “Mr. James,” she said coolly. Her lips—painted a stark shade of fuck-me red that probably wasn’t the effect she was going for—pursed.

  “I supposed that’s appropriate.” Evan sighed. Yep. Still mad at him. Freezing him out with the professional mask. All right—if she wanted to play this game, he’d play. “Very well, Miss Blackwell. I need to talk to you.”

  “I have work to finish.”

  “You can put it down for a few minutes.”

  With a scornful sound she began typing again, fingers rapidly rattling across the keyboard, lines of code spooling down the screen like magic. “And ruin your corporate productivity metrics?”

  “Pretty sure you’ve spent more time glaring at the screen than programming.”

  “You’re a disruption. Maybe corporate should consider another consultant.”

  “Okay, Z. Okay.” Evan held up one hand, biting back a laugh. He shouldn’t enjoy it so much when she hissed and spat at him, but at least it meant she was talking to him. “White flag. Truce. Come on. Can we talk for five seconds without going for each other’s throats?”

  “Depends. Can you go five seconds without saying something condescending?”

  “I’m not trying to be condescending.”

  She spun in her chair, folding her arms over her chest and studying him with her lips set in a thin line of disapproval. “Judgmental? How’s that one working for you?”

  “I’m a little of that. I have no right to be.” He let his hand fall. “It’s a hazard of the job. See something wrong, s
ay something snarky about it. It gets attention.”

  “So you’re switching tactics to find another way to get my attention?”

  “You’re talking to me.”

  Her brows rose, before a fierce scowl darkened her face and she spun her chair away. “Not for long.”

  “Zero—wait.” He caught the back of her chair. “You’re going to hate this. You really are. But I have to interview everyone. It’s part of the contract.”

  She opened her mouth, then groaned and closed it, tipping her head back against the chair. The soft, cool twist of her neatly-bound hair brushed his hand, and his stomach clenched. She closed her eyes. “I’m not very happy about being part of ‘everyone’ right now.”

  “We’ll do your interview over lunch. Your choice, my treat.” When she opened one eye to look at him balefully, he grinned. “I’m trying to sweeten the pot here.”

  “Just so you know?” she said as she levered out of her chair. “I really hate work-Evan.”

  “Does that mean you like me when I’m off the clock?”

  With a disgusted look, she snatched up her graffiti-painted messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

  “Of course.” He swept a bow, then straightened to tuck his stack of folders into his briefcase. “After you.”

  * * *

  Zero felt every eye in the room on her as she walked off the floor.

  Her ears burned as the elevator doors closed in their wake, locking her in the small space with Evan. Alone. So much for freezing him out. She’d lasted less than five minutes and now everyone on her team had seen her leave with the man the entire floor called the Terminator: because he was slick and shiny as a robot, and likely going to get them all fired.

  “You’re blushing,” Evan said, sliding his hand into the pocket of his slacks and watching the lights above the door.

  “I’m not blushing,” Zero snarled, even as her face grew unbearably hot. God, she could smell him, filling the small space with his heat. His arm brushed hers, and she fought to hold her ground and not flinch from his nearness. She didn’t want him. She didn’t even like him. Her body was just a damned traitor that didn’t have the sense to know what was good for it.

  “Of course you’re not.” His lips twitched, but he had the sense not to smile, at least. She might have slugged him. And she lifted her head high as the door slid open on the first floor and she swept past him, stepping out into the lobby.

  And promptly pitching face-forward when the tip of one spike heel wedged in the elevator tracks.

  The world rushed past—then jerked to a halt as strong arms wrapped around her from behind. Everything stopped except her racing heart, throbbing and pulsing and squeezing until it felt like it would pop.

  “I’ve got you,” Evan murmured, righting her gently, the massive bulk of him too warm against her back. “You okay?”

  She was caught by the urge to lean against him. Lean against him and let him envelop her the way he had that night, until her entire world was wrapped up in him and how he made her feel.

  That feeling had been a lie, she reminded herself. She pulled away from him quickly, smoothing over her skirt with a forced smile that made her face feel like it was layered in saran wrap.

  “Still not used to the heels,” she said a touch breathlessly.

  He looked down at her with that same mild, almost bland look, but something simmered in his eyes that forced her to look away. “I hear ballet flats are making a comeback.”

  “They make me look stumpy.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Zero turned away, stalking toward the exit and the revolving doors. “You’re being condescending again.”

  “I swear I’m not.” He prowled after her like a jungle cat, completely in command of his environment. “If I tell you what I’m being, you’ll hate me.”

  “I hate you already, so it can’t get much worse.”

  His laughter trailed in her wake as she led him from the building out onto the busy, snow-smudged New York sidewalk. She wanted Tapas—best Latin food she’d ever tasted—but everyone else would be taking their lunch break soon, and she didn’t want to be seen schmoozing with the Terminator over tequila. Instead she took him to a Mediterranean bar-slash-restaurant a few blocks down, brightly lit white walls and an airy design that made her think of the white cliffs of Santorini—yet another place she’d lived, if only for a few short months, on the whirlwind global tour of her childhood.

  She followed the waiter to a seat. He left a basket of psomi bread and menus, with a promise to return soon. Zero plunked down next to a colorful beach fresco, picked up a menu, and completely avoided looking at Evan. “So. Talk. I get a forty-five minute lunch, so make this quick.”

  “Mm.” With a thoughtful rumble Evan settled across from her, set his briefcase down, and thumbed through his own menu with a light clicking flick of the edge of his thumbnail against laminate. “So we’re only talking about work, are we?”

  “I don’t think we have anything else to talk about.”

  “I think we do.”

  “No.” She slammed her menu down hard enough to make the water glasses jump. “We don’t.” Her breath seized; her stomach lurched. “You have a job to do. I don’t want to talk about anything else.”

  He just looked at her, pale green eyes so very stark. Open. Capturing her in their soft liquid hue, and nearly drowning her in their depths. “Not even if I say I’m sorry?” he asked softly.

  “Wh-what?”

  “I’m sorry. For what I said. For all of it.” He twisted the corner of his napkin into a knot, eyes fixed on his fingers. “I told you I don’t open up to people. Doing that, with you…I guess I needed to protect myself from getting hurt. I lashed out. I said cruel things I didn’t mean. I belittled you, and that wasn’t fair.”

  Confusion turned her stomach upside down. “You’re afraid I’ll hurt you?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged just a little too diffidently.

  “I don’t see how I’m the one who could hurt you.”

  Once more pale jade eyes caught her. Held her. Consumed her. “Then you have no idea what an impression you made on me the other night.”

  She couldn’t breathe. Her chest crushed in with the weight of his gaze, and she had to look away before she couldn’t stand it anymore. He had no right to look at her that way. Not after what he’d done. She was supposed to be keeping this professional.

  “It was just sex,” she said stiffly.

  “Was it?”

  Grudgingly, she admitted, “…really good sex.”

  He laughed. “I’m flattered.”

  “You’re arrogant.”

  “I’m trying to be serious here.” He reached across the table and tucked an errant lock of hair back; the tips of his fingers grazed the curve of her ear, and a thousand pinpricks of fire pattered over her skin. “I shouldn’t have said any of the things I said.”

  With a rough gasp, she jerked back sharply enough to make her chair rock back on its legs. She wasn’t going there with him again. He was supposed to be the mistake she’d regret in the morning, not the mistake she regretted for the rest of her career.

  The conversation. Right. Focus on the conversation. She swallowed hard. “No…you’re right. I need to drop the whole special snowflake thing. This is what having a job and supporting myself is about.” With a faint smile, she forced herself to look at him. “We’re both kind of screwed up. Have you noticed that?”

  “Just a little.” He answered her smile with a pensive one of his own, eyes clouding. “You shouldn’t have to grow up. Growing up is a miserable thing. It means losing the ability to see a lot of beauty in the world.”

  How could he say that, when he was so jaded he didn’t even believe the lines he sold for a living? Then again, he was probably selling her another line right now.

  “Beauty doesn’t pay the bills,” she said neutrally.

  “There’s a differ
ence between being responsible and being cynical.”

  Yeah. Like he would know. “I guess.” She trailed off as the waiter arrived to take their orders. She ordered an arugula, feta, and dill frittata, while Evan ordered broiled lamb skewers in lemon vinaigrette. As she handed over her menu, Zero asked, “Truce, then?”

  “As much as we can manage.” One dark brow rose. “You have to admit, you and I set each other off. We spark each other off in bed—and when you take it out of the bedroom, it turns into this. Challenging each other. Frustrating each other. Pushing each other’s buttons.”

  “Driving each other to homicide.”

  “That too.” He grinned wide. “But I’m only here until the job’s done, or until you find a place to hide my body. We’ll do our best to get along. Sound good?”

  “Define ‘get along.’”

  “I won’t try to get in your pants again.” That grin turned downright vulpine. “Unless you want me to.”

  “Overconfident.”

  He leaned across the table, voice dropping to an intimate murmur, a secret between them. “Not after the way you whispered my name.”

  Oh God. Zero sucked in a sharp breath, shrinking across the table. Had the restaurant turned up the heater? “I didn’t!”

  “You did,” he growled.

  “Oh my God.” She buried her face in her hands. He just couldn’t quit, could he? “I thought you wanted to talk about my performance,” she mumbled against her palms.

  “I thought we were.”

  “Evan!” She gasped—and kicked him under the table, suddenly quite happy to be wearing heels.

  “Ow!” Laughing, he leaned down and rubbed his calf, looking far too satisfied with himself. Jerk. “All right. I’ll be good, since we’re on a countdown.” He reached for the basket of psomi and picked up a roll, idly turning it over in his broad, rough fingers before tearing off a bite. “You’re not happy with your job,” he said, then popped the bite into his mouth.