by Julie James
On the second night of his trip, Kyle had been sitting at the bar he’d made his home for the last two days, nursing what he had decided would be his last shot of the night. He’d never been on a bender before and, like most men, had found it to be an effective way to deal with his problems. But sooner or later, he had to get back to the real world.
The bartender, Esteban, shot Kyle a sideways look as he cleaned some glasses. “You think they’re going to catch this guy?” he asked in a heavy Mexican accent.
Kyle blinked in surprise. That was more words than Esteban had uttered to him in two days. He momentarily debated whether this query violated his no-questions policy, then ultimately found it to be acceptable. After all, it wasn’t like they were talking about him.
“What guy?” he asked.
“This tweeder terrorist,” Esteban said.
Kyle waved his glass in front of him. “No clue what a tweeder is, or how you terrorize one, but it sounds like a hell of a story, amigo.”
“Oh, you’re a funny guy, eh?” Esteban pointed to a television mounted to the wall behind Kyle. “Twee-ter, pendejo.”
Out of curiosity, Kyle looked over at the television and saw a Mexican news program. His four years of high school Spanish was little help; the female reporter was speaking too fast for him to understand what she was saying. But three words written in bold letters across the bottom of the television screen needed no translation.
El Twitter Terrorista
Kyle choked on his tequila.
Oh…shit.
He stared at the television screen with growing frustration as he tried to understand what the reporter was saying. It was tough, particularly given the fact that he was about six sheets to the wind, but he did manage to catch the words policia and FBI.
His stomach churned, and he barely made it out of the bar before he bent over and threw up seven shots of tequila, impaling his forehead on a heretofore unseen cactus in the process.
That sobered him up right quick.
In a panic, he made his way back to the cheap posada that had rented him a room on a cash, no-ID-required basis, and called the one person he could count on when shit-face drunk in Tijuana, bleeding from his forehead, and wanted by the FBI.
“Jordo, I fucked up,” he said as soon as she answered the phone.
Likely hearing the anxiety in his voice, she’d gotten right to the heart of the matter. “Can you fix it?”
Kyle knew he had to—ASAP. So as soon as he hung up the phone, he fired up his laptop and stopped the botnet’s denial of service attack.
There was only one problem: this time the FBI was waiting for him.
And they had computer geeks, too.
The next morning, sobered and chagrined, Kyle loaded up his backpack and took a taxi to the Tijuana airport. There was a moment before boarding, as he handed over his ticket to the Aeromexico flight attendant, when he thought, I don’t have to go back. But running wasn’t the answer. He figured a man needed to own up to those moments in life when he acted like a complete dickhead, come what may.
When the plane landed at O’Hare Airport, the flight attendants asked the passengers to remain in their seats. Sitting eight rows back, Kyle watched as two men wearing standard-issue government suits—clearly FBI agents—boarded the plane and handed over a document to the pilot.
“Yep, that would be me,” Kyle said, grabbing his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him.
The elderly Hispanic man sitting next to him lowered his voice to a whisper. “Drugs?”
“Twitter,” Kyle whispered back.
He stood up, backpack in hand, and nodded at the FBI agents that had stopped at his row. “Morning, gentlemen.”
The younger agent held out his hand, all business. “Hand over the computer, Rhodes.”
“I guess we’re skipping the pleasantries,” Kyle said, handing over his backpack.
The older agent yanked Kyle’s arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on him. As they read him his rights, Kyle caught a glimpse of what had to be fifty passengers taking photos of him with their camera phones, photos that would later be blasted all over the Internet.
And from that moment on, he ceased being Kyle Rhodes, the billionaire’s son, and became Kyle Rhodes, the Twitter Terrorist.
Probably not the best way to make a name for himself.
They brought him to the FBI’s offices downtown and left him in an interview room for two hours. He called his lawyers, who arrived posthaste and gravely laid out the charges the FBI planned to bring to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. A half hour after his lawyers left, he was transferred to Metropolitan Correctional Center for booking.
“You’ve got a visitor, Rhodes,” the guard said later that afternoon.
They led him to a holding cell, where he waited at a steel table while trying to get used to the sight of himself in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. When the door opened and his sister walked in, he smiled sheepishly.
“Jordo,” he said, his nickname for her since they were kids.
She hurried over and hugged him tightly, a somewhat awkward exercise with the handcuffs. Then she pulled back and thunked him on the forehead with the palm of her hand. “You idiot.”
Kyle rubbed his forehead. “Ouch. That’s right where the cactus got me.”
“What were you thinking?” she demanded.
Over the course of the next couple weeks, that was the question Kyle would be asked hundreds of times by friends, family, his lawyers, the press, and just about anyone who passed him in the street. He could say that it had something to do with pride, or his ego, or the fact that he’d always been somewhat hot-tempered when provoked. But in the end, it really came down to one thing.
“I just…made a mistake,” he told his sister honestly. He wasn’t the first man to overreact when he discovered his girl was cheating on him, nor would he be the last. Unfortunately, he’d simply been in the unique position to screw up on a global level.
“I told the lawyers that I’m going to plead guilty,” he said. No sense wasting the taxpayers’ money for a sham of a trial, or wasting his own money in extra legal fees. Especially since he didn’t have a defense.
“They’re saying on the news that you’ll probably go to prison.” Jordan’s voice cracked on the last word, and her lip trembled.
Hell, no. The last time Kyle had seen his sister cry was nine years ago after their mother’s death, and he’d be damned if he let her do that now. He pointed for emphasis. “You listen to me, Jordo, because this is the only time I’m going to say this. Mock me, make all the jokes you want, call me an idiot, but you will not shed a tear over this. Understood? Whatever happens, I will handle it.”
Jordan nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay.” She looked him over, taking in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. Then she cocked her head questioningly. “So how was Mexico?”
Kyle grinned and chucked her under the chin. “That’s better.” He turned to the subject he’d avoided thinking about since his arrest. “How’s Dad taking the news?”
Jordan threw him a familiar you-are-so-busted look. “Remember sophomore year, the night you climbed out the kitchen window to go to Jenny Garrett’s party?”
Kyle winced. Did he ever. He’d left the window open so that he would have easy access back in, and their dad had come downstairs to investigate after hearing a strange noise. He’d found Kyle missing and a raccoon eating Cocoa Puffs in the pantry. “That bad, huh?”
Jordan squeezed his shoulder. “I’d say about twenty times worse.”
Damn.
AFTER FINISHING his review of the evening news, Kyle made the mistake of checking his e-mail. His e-mail address at Rhodes Corporation had been accessible via the website, and though he no longer worked for the company—having turned in his resignation the day he’d been released on bond and thus sparing his father the awkwardness of having to fire him—the messages he received there were forwarded to his personal account.
Every
day since he’d been released, he had received hundreds of messages: interview requests from the press, hate mail from some very angry people who seriously needed to take a break from Twitter (Hey @KyleRhodes—you SUCK, dickwad!!!!!), and oddly flirtatious overtures from random women who sounded a tad too interested in meeting an ex-con.
After checking to make sure there was nothing of actual importance he needed to respond to, Kyle deleted the entire lot of e-mails. He didn’t do interviews, the hate mail wasn’t worth answering, and although he may have been in prison for four months and thus in the midst of the longest period of celibacy of his adult life, he found it generally prudent to avoid having sex with crazy people.
His home phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was a double ring, indicating that the call came from the security desk in the lobby downstairs.
“Dex is here to see you,” Miles the doorman said when Kyle answered the phone, referring to Kyle’s best friend, Gavin Dexter. Dex was a frequent visitor to Casa Rhodes, and Miles had consequently dropped the “Mr. Dexter” routine ages ago.
“And he has several friends with him,” Miles continued with a note of amusement.
“Thanks, Miles. Send them up.”
Two minutes later, Kyle opened the door and found his best friend and a group of at least twenty people standing on his doorstep. The crowd let out a loud cheer when they saw him.
Dex grinned. “If Kyle Rhodes can’t come to the party, then the party will come to Kyle Rhodes.” He slapped Kyle on the shoulder, hearty man-style. “Welcome home, buddy.”
SOMEWHERE AROUND MIDNIGHT, Kyle finally got a chance to slip away from the crowd. His twenty-one guests had nearly tripled, and the penthouse was now packed.
Needing a few moments alone, Kyle stole away to his office, where he kept a small bar, and poured himself a glass of bourbon. He took a sip and closed his eyes, savoring the time before he needed to return to the party. To his so-called friends.
Not a single one of whom, except Dex, had once bothered to visit him in prison.
Metropolitan Correctional Center—or MCC, as the inmates referred to it—was conveniently located in the middle of downtown Chicago, and Kyle had been there for four months. Yet the entire time, only three people had come to visit him: his father, his sister, and Dex. For everyone else, he’d been out of sight, out of mind.
Apparently, Kyle Rhodes wasn’t the proverbial man of the hour when he lived in the Big House instead of a penthouse.
Those four months he’d been locked up had been a real eye-opener. At first he’d been angry, then later he’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He understood now the type of friends they were—people he had fun with and partied with, but it didn’t get any deeper than that. Going forward, he would never again make the mistake of thinking anything else.
So much had changed since the day Kyle had been arrested, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he’d processed all of it yet. Five months ago, he’d had a successful career at Rhodes Corporation, been dating a Victoria’s Secret model, and thought he had a circle of friends he could count on. Now he had no job, no prospects—since no one in his field would ever consider hiring a convicted hacker—and a prison record.
And it didn’t take a tech genius to see where he’d taken his first misstep.
Clearly, he and relationships did not mix well. His first—and only—real attempt at a serious commitment and he’d been cheated on, been publicly dumped, and ended up in prison. But as much as he was tempted to blame Daniela for everything, he couldn’t blame her for his own stupidity. He had been the idiot who’d hacked into Twitter; no one had made him do that. Nor could he entirely fault her for the demise of their relationship. Yes, she was a coldhearted bitch for the way she’d chosen to end things. But he’d realized, as he’d lie awake on those long, cold prison nights, that he’d only had one foot in the relationship from the very start. He’d convinced himself that he was ready for a commitment, but he—and half the free world—had seen just how wrong he’d been about that.
It was a mistake he would not be repeating. At least, not for a long, long time.
But there was an upside: he was awesome at noncommitment. Casual flings? He rocked that scene. Sex? He sure as hell had never had any complaints. So from now on, he was going to stay in his lane. Do what he did best. Trysts, flirtations, seductions, no-holds-barred monkey sex, it was all on the table. But any feelings deeper than a contented afterglow were out.
Just then, Dex popped his head into the office. “Thought you might be in here,” he said, stepping into the room.
Kyle held up his glass. “Came in for a refill. Figured it’s better than fighting through the crowd out there.”
“Is the party too much?”
Kyle pushed away from his desk and headed toward the door. Maybe the party was a little much, but he knew Dex meant well. “Not at all,” he fibbed with an easy grin. “The party’s just what I needed.”
“What do you think your friends at the U.S. Attorney’s Office would say if they got word of this?” Dex asked with a chuckle.
“Hey, it’s called home detention. I’m in my home, aren’t I?” And as long as he was abiding by the terms of his supervised release, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what the U.S. Attorney’s Office thought. In three days, he would be free and clear of them.
“Speaking of your friends…Selene Marquez just got here,” Dex said. “She’s asking about you.”
“Is she now?” Kyle knew Selene well—quite well. She was twenty-five years old, was a Chicago-based fashion model who did local work while trying to break into the New York scene, and had legs that reached the sky. Pre-Daniela, he and Selene had hooked up occasionally and had always had a good time.
“Maybe I should go say hello. Be the good host and all.” Kyle raised a curious eyebrow. “How does she look?”
“Well, if I were a sex-deprived ex-con who’d been locked in prison for the last four months, I’d say she looked pretty damn good.” Dex thunked his head. “Oh…wait.”
“That’s real funny, dude. Making jokes about a place where I lived in perpetual fear that I was going to get shanked.”
Dex’s expression changed, and he looked instantly chagrined. “Shit, I’m an ass. I shouldn’t have said…” he paused, noticing Kyle’s smile. “And…you’re totally messing with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Now, as an ex-con who’s been locked in prison for the last four months, I think I’ll see for myself how Selene looks.” Kyle grabbed Dex’s shoulder on the way out. “Thanks, Dex. For everything. I won’t forget it.”
Dex nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. They’d been friends since college, and nothing further needed to be said. “Any time.”
Kyle left the office and worked his way through the crowd. He found Selene in the foyer by the front door, looking spectacular in a silver minidress and three-inch heels.
She smiled when she saw Kyle approaching. “This is some party.”
Kyle’s eyes skimmed over her. “That’s some dress.”
“Thanks, I wore it especially.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a husky whisper. “Maybe later, I can show you what’s underneath it.” She slid past him, her hand brushing suggestively against his, and headed into the party.
Kyle looked over his shoulder, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.
This was how things should be. Simple. Easy. No messy feelings or entanglements.
He may not have figured everything out since getting out of prison, but he at least knew that much.
Four
RYLANN HAD NEARLY finished unpacking her suitcases before she realized that she’d been hanging her clothes in only half of the closet.
Clearly, her subconscious needed to get with the program.
Her new Chicago apartment came with exactly one of everything: one bedroom, one den, one walk-in closet, one parking space, one set of dishes, one toothbrush, and, most important, one owner. There was no other half.
&n
bsp; She grabbed several of her suits off the top rack and hung them in the empty side of the closet. Then she thought they looked sad and pathetic all by themselves, so she stuffed some sweaters on the rack above them. Then her yoga pants and workout gear.
Still not enough.
She hurried back into her bedroom, where a suitcase lay open on the queen bed, and pulled out two black cocktail dresses that were her standard attire at work-related evening events. Back in San Francisco, she’d been active in the California bar association—she’d even served on the ethics committee—and as part of that she’d often attended cocktail parties and dinners with the movers and shakers of the city’s legal community. As one of San Francisco’s assistant U.S. attorneys—prosecutors who handled federal crimes and were considered to be among the most elite trial lawyers in the criminal justice system—it was a circle she had moved comfortably in.
But she was finding new circles these days. That was, after all, what this move to Chicago was about.
Rylann hung the cocktail dresses on a rack next to her suits and stepped back to survey the results. With the eclectic mix of sweaters, suits, workout clothes, and dresses, it wasn’t the most organized closet she’d ever seen, but it would do.
Twenty minutes ago, there’d been a brief moment in her unpacking when she’d faltered a bit. She’d stumbled upon the dress, the scarlet V-neck dress she’d been wearing on the night of The Proposal That Never Was, a dress that she probably should’ve burned for its bad karma except for the fact that it made her chest look a full size bigger. Bad karma or not, that was a pretty magical dress.
Besides, Rylann doubted that Jon, her ex-boyfriend, ever got misty-eyed in his Rome apartment over the clothes he wore on their last night as a couple, so why should she? In fact, given their complete lack of contact over the last five months, she’d hazard a guess that he didn’t even remember what he’d been wearing.
Rylann paused, suddenly realizing that she didn’t remember what he’d been wearing, either.
Yes. Progress.