A chuckle escapes my lips. “He doesn’t pay for them, the secretary does.”
“What a pig.”
“Agreed.”
“Well, we won’t be working with him. I’ll have Flynn break the news to him.”
“What exactly was he wanting?”
“Dirt on the soon-to-be ex-wife; anything that would keep him from having to pay alimony.”
“You didn’t ask me to research the wife.”
He slaps the folder to his leg. “Because I didn’t think we’d be working for him. It’s running into assholes like this that makes me want to start a pro-bono program to help these women get dirt on their slimeball husbands.”
A sinister grin crosses my lips. “I’d love that. If you feel like setting that into motion, I’ll volunteer my damn time.”
“Good man,” he says before walking out of my office.
I have a list of things to do, but my mind continues to wander to Whitney. I’ve been good, not having turned the videos back on to keep track of her, but that doesn’t make the urge go away completely. I’d love to have seen how flushed her cheeks were when she walked out of that sauna room because I know for a fact the low lighting in there didn’t do them justice.
But I’ll be patient. She’ll let me keep the lights on in the room when we finally come together in that way. I just know it.
We need to have a very serious conversation. I’m not one to have a contract with women. Most often I meet them once, and after we get what we need from each other, we go our separate ways.
I don’t have any intention of walking away from Whitney anytime soon, but I need to know her limits. That’s pertinent for the things I want to do to her, and I need her to feel safe. She can’t enjoy herself if she doesn’t feel like she can trust me to protect her, especially after taking so many things away from her.
Work goes quickly, and before I know it, my desk is clear and I have nothing else to focus on. Before Whitney, I would spend hours and hours digging through stuff on the Internet, finding loopholes for all sorts of stuff, challenging myself with encryption, and infiltrating all sorts of programs. Now, I sometimes sit and wait for her to get online, testing her ability to respond with messages sent through TalkToMe.
She hasn’t responded much today, and I know she’s busy. I know what it’s like to get lost in work and leave the rest of the world waiting until it’s done, but my nervousness after what happened this morning makes that lack of confidence in myself perk back up. Did I push too hard? Did I not do enough? Did licking her neck gross her out? Honestly, some people aren’t into sweat. Did I not kiss her enough? I barely nipped her lips in the sauna. Was she left wanting and now she’s upset?
I can’t seem to get out of my head, so I do the only thing I can do right now. I urge Puff Daddy into the soft carrier—this is a fight because he’d rather stay here than go back to my apartment for some reason—he hasn’t been home in days.
“I like it here!” he complains as I zip up the bag. “It’s boring at your place!”
I guess I have my answer. I don’t think the guys come into my office while I’m gone, even though nothing keeps them out when I’m here, but maybe their constant chatter in the breakroom keeps him company.
“Well,” I say to him as I leave my office and head toward the elevator, “you’re coming home with me tonight.”
“You’re not my dad!”
Several guys chuckle at his antics, and I throw a wave over my shoulder. Thankfully, no one stops me to razz me anymore about Whitney.
The short drive home turns into a little longer drive because Nana needs my help. According to her, it’s an emergency, so I blow through nearly every damn light to get to her place only to arrive to find her remote control not working properly.
“I don’t know how you keep doing this,” I complain with a smile as I change the input back to HDMI so her Firestick works correctly. “I showed you how to do this.”
“I still don’t understand it.” She gives me an innocent smile, swaying her hips like a little girl trying to be cute.
“If you want me to visit, just ask. You don’t have to sabotage the TV. I come every single time you call. It doesn’t have to be an emergency.”
“You didn’t once.”
I hand her the now working remote. “When have I not come when you needed me?”
“When the dryer hose came off the back of the machine.” She sounds exasperated, and I can’t help but smile.
“I was in Kuwait, Nana,” I remind her. “And I had someone over here within two hours to fix that for you.”
“Didn’t get fixed,” she complains. “Had to wait two weeks until you got home to do the laundry.”
“You wouldn’t let him in. I told you I verified him. He was not going to hurt you.”
“Tell that to his red hair. You know how I feel about warlocks.”
“Sweet baby—” I grip my hair in my hands and pull.
“You need a haircut.”
“I don’t.”
“Go sit on the back porch, and I’ll grab the clippers and the bowl.”
Nightmares of fourth grade picture day flash through my mind, but I don’t have to conjure the images from pure memory because my shame is still hanging in an eight-by-ten frame in the hallway. You may wonder how I got started with hacking. Nana is one hundred percent the reason for that. After the last haircut and bowl incident—which I never lived down among some of the kids at school—I started working online for cash to afford salon cuts.
“You’re not cutting my hair.”
“It would make an old lady happy if you let me get after that mop.”
“Not a chance. Sit down and I’ll make
