The Hot Gamer (A Romance Love Story) (Hargrave Brothers - Book #3)

by Alexa Davis

I returned to school at Georgetown the next year and quickly began working my way through a second degree in engineering. I felt the need to do good in the world, so I pursued a project that would make guns safer and worked with a couple of computer programming grad students to come up with smart gun technology. We'd realized that if guns could be linked to their owners through some kind of personal identifier, it would become much more difficult for people to illegally obtain weapons or for people who didn't have access to accidentally shoot a weapon that wasn't theirs. In the beginning, we saw it as preventative safety for children, but as we progressed, the additional benefits awed us. It wasn't long before we were shopping around for a manufacturer who might be interested in testing the technology.

  I landed a number of internships with some of the big names in gun manufacturing as a means of trying to test out the idea. None of them were open to our idea, and we soon found out it was because they had made a deal with the devil – Davis Russo. The former preacher had made his way up the ladder of the AWN and had maneuvered his way into being voted president of the organization in such a short time that most believed it was because he had dirt on the top members.

  Whatever his tactics, the fact remained that he'd taken hold of the reins of power at the AWN and had no intention of letting go. Every time I'd approached a manufacturer about implementing smart gun technology, they'd stepped back and found a reason to end my internship early.

  As I searched for a new position, I made sure to keep my personal life under wraps to ensure that no one knew about my background or my vast wealth aside from my best friend Brant and his father. It took a while, but I finally found an internship and later a job with IMPACT Weapons.

  By that time, I had put the idea of smart gun technology on hold knowing that eventually I would garner enough knowledge and experience to either partner with a known manufacturer or strike out on my own. I was patient and worked hard, and it didn't take long before I began moving up the ladder of success in their research and development division. Six years after I'd first been hired, I took over the top position in R&D and began testing the waters. Since IMPACT was an outlier in the gun market, they weren't as beholden to AWN as the more mainstream companies were, but they were still wary of attracting the attention of Russo and his thugs.

  When I first floated the idea of smart gun technology, the owner and CEO of IMPACT, Wyatt Sessions, balked at the idea. He told me that while there were lots of ways he was willing to buck the system, having a showdown with Davis Russo wasn't one of them. I pushed for a reason why, but he wouldn't budge and he never told me why.

  It was at that point that I knew that if I ever wanted to make smart gun technology a reality, I'd have to go it alone. So, a few months later, I resigned from IMPACT and formed my own company, GRIPTech. I'd brought my programming cohorts on board and hired Brant as my legal counsel as I searched for a manufacturing company who could produce my design. It had taken three years to locate a company in Maine that would make the guns and a tech company in China that would make the grip. The only problem was that the experiment would eat up three-quarters of my bank account with no guarantee that the technology would catch on.

  What I needed was legislation that would force gun owners to convert their weapons to smart technology, but that relied entirely on my ability to persuade the gun-backing members of the Senate that it was worth writing and passing, and I knew that if Davis Russo got wind of it, he'd shut it down before it even had a chance.

  So, I'd hired a lobbyist to make the rounds, meet with Senators, and explain the logic of a gun safety bill from a conservative perspective. It had gone over fairly well until someone had spilled the secret to Russo and he'd lowered the boom. He'd simply shifted the money the AWN donated to opponents of those who supported gun safety legislation and quickly cleared the way of obstacles. It was sleazy and low, but that was Russo.

  Six months ago, I'd moved to Washington and began doing the work myself. The only way to fight Russo was with money, and I had plenty of that – at least for the time being. What no one knew was that I was playing a dangerous game with my finances and that if the gamble failed, I'd be broke in almost no time.

  But if that's what it took to wipe that sly grin off of Russo's face, then I was willing to roll the dice.

  #

  "Right here, Mick," I said to my driver as we pulled up in front of Bean Bros. The drive over had intensified my need for a good strong cup of coffee, and this place was the only one in town that made it the right way.

  "I'll be right back, sir," Mick said as he reached for the door handle. "The usual?"

  "No, I got this one," I told him as I quickly got out of the car. "You want anything, Mick?"

  "No, I'm good, sir," he replied and then started to say something else, but stopped and simply nodded. He'd been my driver long enough that he knew when to back off and let me do my own thing, and I needed to work off some of the tense energy from not punching Russo in the face.

  In three strides, I was pulling the door open with more force than necessary. The bells attached to the handle rang loudly, causing people to look up. I waved an apology for the disruption and headed to the counter. There were two people ahead of me: a young guy who was in the process of trading a five-dollar bill for a cup of black coffee and a shapely redhead in a fitted black coat who had her back to me, waiting to order. I sighed loudly to express my displeasure at having to wait and questioned my decision not to let Mitch handle the coffee run.

  "Next," the barista said and waited for the redhead to give him her order.

  "I need a black coffee with enough room for cream and sugar, a latte with skim milk, and a decaf Americano," she said. "Oh wait, it's a decaf latte and a regular Americano with skim, I think. Shit, hold on." She pulled a phone out of her pocket and began quickly texting.

  "Ma'am, if you'll step out of line while you figure out what you need, I'll be able to help the gentleman behind you and then take your order," the barista suggested.

  "No, seriously, I know what they wanted! Just give me a second," she said without looking up. My blood began to boil as I watched her tap away at the phone screen.

  "Excuse me, but I'm really in a hurry," I said as I moved around her, accidentally nudging her with my elbow.

  "Did you just shove me aside?" she demanded as she turned around, ready to fight. "Seriously, dude, did you just shove me aside so you can get your precious coffee?"

  "No, I did not," I said as I stared down at the woman and found myself unable to look away. Aside from her flaming red hair, which tumbled out from under her black wool cap, she had the most piercing green eyes I’d seen. They were shaped like cat's eyes and when she narrowed them as she began to berate me, they gave her an air of danger. Her lips were painted a deep red and my gaze bounced between her eyes and lips as she yelled.

  "You Washington big-wigs are all alike; you think just because you're on television saying things, you're somehow better than the rest of us who aren't," she spat. "Yes, I saw you on Talk of the Nation this morning – you and that scumbag, Russo. God, the two of you should just go put on boxing gloves and beat the crap out of each other, it'd be a lot more interesting than the feigned debate you pretended to have today."

  "Is that so?" I said, raising an eyebrow as my eyes dropped a little further and took in the curves that asserted themselves under the coat she was wearing before I quickly brought them back up to her eyes.

  "I saw that," she said. "God, you're all scumbags, aren't you?"

  "I don't know that I'd call myself a scumbag," I said as I held her gaze. "Am I a man who appreciates women? Yes, I am. But a scumbag? I don't think I'd go that far."

  "Oh, you're one of those." She rolled her eyes before looking down at her phone and then turning back to the barista. "Regular coffee, regular latte with skim, decaf Americano."

  "One of what, may I ask?" I said, not sure I wanted to hear what she had to say, but certain that I wanted to be able to take another look into
her fiery eyes.

  "One of those guys who pats himself on the back for being an enlightened man and then thinks it excuses his scumbag moments," she scoffed. "You guys are all alike and it's a pain in my ass."

  "Do you often make sweeping assumptions about people you have never met?" I shot back as I looked over her head at the barista and said, "Coffee, large, black, no room for anything."

  "Nice, manly coffee for the Neanderthal," she muttered under her breath.

  "I've been drinking my coffee like that since long before I was a manly man," I said. "And, I'd appreciate it if you'd hold off on your scathing assessments of perfect strangers since you know nothing about me or who I am."

  "Aww, did I hit a weak spot, sunshine?" she mocked. "Look, I know you're a big-wig in town and that you've got the world on speed dial or something, but give me a break and at least act like the arrogant bastard you are, not the semi-civilized coffee drinker you want to be."

  "You're really a pain in the ass, aren't you?" I asked as I handed over a five-dollar bill and waved at the barista to keep the change. "I pity your husband."

  "I'm single, jackass," she shot back.

  "Hmm, imagine that," I said as I turned and walked out of the shop. I could have sworn I heard a pin drop as the door swung shut and I headed to my car.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Olivia

  I couldn't get Lincoln Redding out of my head as I carried the tray of drinks the two blocks back to the office. He was more handsome in person than he'd been on television. The combination of his unruly curls, carefully tended five o'clock shadow, and ice-blue eyes was positively mesmerizing. I shook my head and tried to stop myself from fantasizing about a man who had been unbelievably rude. His last remark had hit home and I resented him for landing a blow in one of my few weak spots.

  "I'm single by choice," I muttered as I yanked open the door to the building and stomped through the lobby. "Not because I'm difficult."

  By the time I reached the fifth floor, I was fuming again. Who did that big-shot think he was? And, what right did he have to speak to me like that?

  "Well, hello there, sunshine," Carl called as I crossed the newsroom floor. "Who pissed in your coffee?"

  "You won't believe who I ran into at Bean Bros," I said as I set his latte down on his desk. "Latte with skim, pretty boy."

  "Santa Claus?" he guessed. He picked up the cup, sipped, and yelled, "Ouch! Hot!"

  "Dumbass, it's coffee," I said shaking my head as I grabbed the Americano and headed over to the small office just off the main news floor where Lillian Weller, the paper's weekend copy editor, sat going over the weekend stories and fixing mistakes. "Here, Lillian, one decaf Americano!"

  "Thank you, Olivia," she said looking up at me over the top of her reading glasses. "What do I owe you?"

  "Nah, it's on me," I said, waving her off.

  "It's not going to earn you any special favors," she reminded me as I headed back to my desk.

  "Never even crossed my mind, Lillian," I laughed. I returned to my desk and cursed as I took a sip from the remaining cup and realized that I'd forgotten to add cream. "Damn!"

  "Forgot cream again?" Carl asked. I nodded, and he dug into one of the cluttered drawers in his desk and fished out a packet of non-dairy creamer. He tossed it at me, narrowly missing my head.

  "Hey, watch it!" I yelled as I retrieved the packet from the floor, ripped it open, and dumped it into my cup. The liquid turned a dull shade of brown and I frowned.

  "So, who did you run into?" Carl inquired, ignoring my displeasure.

  "Lincoln Redding. He's a real jerk," I said as I sipped my coffee and grimaced. I knew it was ridiculous to get worked up about creamer given the fact that I'd lived without it for long stretches while out on assignment, but there was something about being back in the city that made me feel resentful about going without the little things. "Rude as hell."

  "Why? What did you do to him?" Carl smirked.

  "Me? What did I do?" I said incredulously. "Why is it always my fault?"

  "Because you, my friend, are a very difficult person," he replied as he scanned and sorted a stack of papers he'd grabbed off the corner of his desk.

  "I am not!" I protested. "And anyway, I was trying to get your coffee order right when he just shoved me out of the way to get to the front of the line."

  "Oh, really?" Carl asked as he raised an eyebrow and stared at me.

  "Yes, really!" I said sticking out my tongue and making a face at him. "Mr. Redding is a very rude man."

  "Hmm, he strikes me as kind of a hottie," Carl replied as he tossed three sheets into the recycle bin. "Are you sure that you're not crushing out on him and mad that he didn't like you back?"

  "Carl! You're impossible!" I shouted as I turned back to my desk and began angrily pounding on the keyboard, searching for information on Lincoln Redding.

  "Impossible, perhaps, but right? Definitely," he grinned. "Face it, Liv; you have a thing for bad boys who piss you off. It's just who you are, so you might as well accept it. Look at me. I accepted that I have a thing for nice girls who want to fix me, and I'm happy as hell. Just give in – it'll make things much easier and you'll be glad you did."

  "Carl, you're beyond delusional," I said. "I'm not attracted to the arrogant Mr. Redding. I'm just pissed that he ruined a perfectly good coffee run and that we are now wasting time discussing his rude behavior, rather than discussing the ways in which we could improve the world by eliminating his ilk."

  "Oh, man," Carl laughed. "You've got it bad, Liv."

  "Shut up," I muttered as I pounded a little harder on the keyboard and came up with a Wikipedia page that gave me the run down on Lincoln Redding. I read the brief bio and learned that his parents had been gunned down outside of a Baltimore restaurant fifteen years before. There wasn't much about his personal life on the page, and since he didn't seem to run in the Washington social circles, I hadn't heard much about him from the ladies who lunch. All in all, Lincoln Redding was a bit of a mystery, and as much as I hated to admit it, that intrigued me.

  #

  Carl and I had been working in companionable silence for most of the afternoon when the paper's editor Frank Beatty walked through the newsroom and sat down on an empty desk. He looked at both of us before asking, "What have you got for me, kids?"

  "Well hello, Frank. I'm well, thank you for asking. How are you?" I replied as I turned back to my computer and began typing. Frank was an old-school newspaper man, and he'd hired me because he knew that despite the fact I'd protested being sunk into the features section, I'd figure out a way to do serious reporting.

  "Don't be a smart ass, Liv," he said, shaking his head. "I dispense with the niceties because I know you have better things to do with your time than exchange cocktail party chatter with your boss."

  "Don't be too hard on her, Frank," Carl interjected. "She had a rough morning. Lincoln Redding insulted her at Bean Bros and she's still smarting from the truth."

  "You're such an ass, Jackson," I said as I shot him a dark look.

  "Children, children, children," Frank chuckled. "I'm not here to conduct a psych evaluation on your activities or hear about your deep, dark pain. I'm in need of stories. Good, solid, attention-getting stories that will encourage readers to read our paper."

  I turned and took a closer look at Frank. His face was gaunt and deflated, like a birthday balloon that had lost its helium. In the three months I'd been working for him, Frank had been tough, but fair. He'd reined in my tendency to fly solo, but he'd never vetoed a feature if I could explain why it was relevant and how it would drive readership. In short, I trusted him and as a result, I was willing to do things for him that I'd have flat out refused to do for other editors.

  "What do you need, Frank?" I asked as I grabbed a pad of paper and prepared to take notes, knowing that our brainstorming sessions usually generated six or eight ideas that I'd then follow up on and turn into stories.

  "I need a big story, kids," he s
aid as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "The owners are getting on me about the fact that we're losing shares to the click-bait papers and that the Times and the Post are doing things bigger and better than we are. We need publicity. We need bigger stories. We need to draw attention to something that we have the inside line on. We need to be first, because right now we're running third and we're bleeding cash."

  Carl shot me a quick look before turning back to Frank and asking, "What can I do, boss? How can I help?"

  "Do you have any inside tracks on anything interesting?" Frank asked. "A story that seems insignificant, but that you might be able to turn into something big?"

  "I might," Carl nodded. "Give me a few hours to dig through my files and see what I can come up with."

  "How you can find anything on that desk is beyond me," Frank said, shaking his head before looking at me. "What about you, Liv? Got any good Washington gossip or scandal?"

  "Give me a break, Frank," I said rolling my eyes. "I am not a high society type, but I do-"

  "What the hell?" Carl interrupted as he grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the wall-mounted television.

  On the screen, a reporter holding a microphone was standing just outside the Mall with the Washington Monument over her left shoulder, asking, "Can you hear me, James? I'm outside the Mall where police have been called after receiving reports of a man with a gun stalking people on the Mall. We're not sure what's happening, but security forces are not letting us into the Mall right now."

  "Can you tell us anything about what you're seeing, Mandy?" the anchor in the studio asked. "Have there been shots fired? Are there any injuries?"

  "I don't know, James," she replied looking nervously over her shoulder before motioning to the cameraman to scan the scene. "Police are being tight-lipped about what's-"

  Suddenly, in the background there was the sound of gunshots and police rushed in and began pushing everyone back away from the scene as the reporter continued narrating, "There have been shots fired, James. I repeat, there have been shots fired. Police are moving us all away from the area, but I'll stay out here and continue to report on the situation as new information becomes available. This is Mandy Banks reporting live for Action News."