Out on a Limb

by Lauren Giordano

  "Maybe you should look at it from a different perspective, MaryJo."

  Acknowledging the gleam in Julie’s eye, she knew her next comment would not be helpful. "It's been nearly five weeks. We're together practically every night." Glaring at her friend, MaryJo dared her to make a joke. "Tell me—how should I be viewing this situation?"

  "He's a fan of your biggest rule. That makes him . . . your soul mate."

  Dropping her face into her hands, she chuckled. "I still believe in the seven-date-rule, but this is like—the thirty-seven date rule. Every time I see him, all I can think about is jumping him." Two months earlier, she couldn't have imagined such an appalling conversation about her sex life—over lunch with her two best friends. Now, it was all she thought about. Travis. His sexy smile, his gorgeous eyes—made her prickly with heat. The day he finally admitted he couldn't last another second—if that day ever came—there would be such a fiery combustion, the vibrations would likely be felt for miles. "I've never spent so much time thinking about it."

  "It's like being on a diet. As soon as you tell me I can't have something, that's all I want." Alyssa's eyes shone with amusement.

  "I can't concentrate," she admitted. "This stupid hack I'm working on for Dad-"

  Straight-faced, Juliet sipped her sparkling water. Since it was official that she and Matt were expecting again, and with Lyss nearly ready to burst, MaryJo was the only one imbibing. "Just level with Sean. He'll understand." She smiled. "How about—'Dad, I haven't had sex in months and Travis is playing hard to get, so I'm too distracted to focus on the job'."

  This sent Alyssa into a new round of convulsions. When she clutched her stomach, MaryJo froze next to her. "Stop laughing," she ordered. "Or you'll have that baby right here at the table."

  "He's just kicking again, trying to bust out of jail."

  Jules smiled knowingly. "Have you and Teagan started classes yet?"

  Lyss nodded. "Yeah. I thought they'd help him calm down about the delivery, but he's just as squeamish as ever—although T prefers the term 'unsettled' because 'squeamish' makes him sound like a wuss."

  "The desert warrior—squeamish?" MaryJo grinned. "I have a hard time imagining TJ unsettled about anything."

  Poking at her baked potato, Lyss smiled. "It's his stupid brothers. They know he's worried, so they keep busting him and he's so jacked up he falls for it every time." She glanced at Jules. "One great thing about those classes, though. Ever since the instructor mentioned how beneficial a backrub can be for the mother, he's gone off the deep end. I get a massage every night, whether I want one or not."

  Jules sighed. "Maybe I'll suggest Matt should start during the second trimester this time."

  MaryJo winced. All their talk of hands was making her sweat. The thought of Travis' hands on her back . . . hell, she'd take his hands just about anywhere at this point. His easy grin floated before her eyes. He'd been inching out from behind his wall over the last few weeks. Careful not to push for information, she'd been content waiting for him to offer it as he felt comfortable. Rare at first, his stories grew more frequent, more natural as he began to trust her with them. Though she suspected he glossed over the worst of the details, she'd begun to fill in the picture of what his childhood had been like. Though his mother and the parade of stepfathers she'd subjected him to sounded horrific, MaryJo suspected he would still make a great father one day. Perhaps because of all he and Curt had endured, Travis would err on the opposite side of the spectrum.

  She'd be lying if she didn't acknowledge how important Travis had become to her. Despite her desire for caution, she hadn't been able to defend against the irresistible combination of sweet, thoughtful and sexy. As he'd painstakingly lowered his defenses to her, she'd tumbled the rest of the way into love.

  AN HOUR LATER, MARYJO allowed her mind to wander as she drove home. The hacking project had ground to a halt, but every time she tried to reach her father, Sean was unavailable. It wasn't unusual for his cases to pull him away for several days. But this time, she needed guidance. On impulse, she tried his number again. "Dad? If you’re there . . . pick up." MaryJo waited several seconds, in the vain hope her father was running to catch the phone. After ten seconds of dead air, she sighed. "Call me. I'm having serious concerns about this hacking project and I can't reach you or the client."

  Serious concerns. Code words for Mother Huge Red Flags. Something was wrong. Or she was missing a huge chunk of information Sean had failed to pass along from their client. But—that wasn’t like him. He was meticulous. Former marine. Former state trooper. Her dad didn’t forget anything. Ever.

  No detail escaped Sean Mullaney. During high school, this fact had worked to her serious disadvantage. Any slip-up, any attempt to withhold information—like the C she’d received in Poetry or the skipped gym class to make a burger run with her friends . . . or the keg party after the football game . . . had been met with a counter-offensive. Large-scale; full-on assault. Executed with military precision. Conversations begun with the words . . . ‘But—Dad-’ were met with cold, hard facts. Quotes from teachers he’d already talked to. Punishments already planned, just waiting to be doled out. A stony, implacable wall of glaring accusation . . . immune to pleading or tears. Yeah, Sean was that good.

  So, the likelihood her father had forgotten to relay information about an important client was close to zero percent. That meant something was wrong. Because her hack was not following normal protocol. For one thing, she couldn’t communicate directly with the client. Not only was this irritating, it was unprofessional. She was losing days at a time, waiting for answers to basic questions that had to be routed through Sean first. Then, there was the very real danger she could do something unintended to the system. It wasn’t supposed to be a live system. Her father had been specific—she was operating on a beta. Yet, each time she slipped inside, she sensed activity that had nothing to do with her testing. If she was hacking into the wrong system, she could end up corrupting data and damaging work in progress. All due to poor communication with the client. Though she’d never felt the necessity to check in the past, she wanted confirmation Sean had received formal, written clearance from the client to be accessing their systems. If her dad had slipped up on the paperwork, her hacking could be viewed as seriously illegal.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, the annoying, blue car that had been with her for the past fifteen minutes, continued to tailgate. "Will you get off me?" Shelving the concerns with her father's client, she accelerated, searching for a side street she could turn down. To allow the jerk to pass her. "A parking lot," she muttered as he continued to crowd her. Anything to get the asshat off her bumper.

  Two minutes later, she was sweating. Nowhere to turn off. No way to let the jerk get around her. She had half a mind to get his plate number. Pass it along to her father for follow up. Sean still had connections in the department. And this jerk deserved it-

  She gripped the wheel tighter. Now that she was hyper aware of his presence—it was all she could think about. Relief swept her a few minutes later. A gas station—approaching on the right. She flicked on her blinker to give Bozo the signal that he would soon be able to accelerate to eighty in a thirty-five mile per hour zone. He was so close, MaryJo wasn't sure how he would avoid rear-ending her when she slowed for the turn.

  Heart in her throat, she slowed as much as she dared, taking the turn on two wheels to get away from him. Braking hard as she flew into the parking lot, MaryJo heard the car roar past as she crawled into a parking space. Hands still clutching the wheel, she released a shaky breath. For several minutes, she sat there, eyes closed, faint with relief that the close call was over.

  Shaking off her unexpected terror, she redialed Sean's number, forcing her mind back to a problem she could actually do something about. The hacking project. "You’re operating blind," she muttered, before glaring at her phone. "Pick up!" Where the hell was her father when she needed him? Voicemail again. "Dad—seriously. I’m shutting down my
testing until I hear from you. Something isn’t right with this client. I’m missing information." She should have made this call days ago. "We need to talk."

  LIFE COULD CHANGE IN a heartbeat. Or in five weeks. Travis' desk chair squealed as he swiveled to face the windows. His serious thoughts had him wishing he could be outside enjoying the late March sun. Instead, he'd have to settle for appreciating it from his desk. His brother was a living example of how quickly life could be altered. A momentary lapse, leaving an everlasting impact. Yet for some, life plodded endlessly on, repeating the same dreary patterns until a person ceased to acknowledge he could've played his hand differently. If only he'd recognized the need for a course correction . . . and done something to vary the pattern.

  In only five weeks, Travis' life had altered drastically. But the transformation had been set in motion with a single moment. The moment MaryJo had plummeted from his tree, his life had taken an unplanned and fascinating detour. Since then, it had only grown more interesting. More ripe with promise. Rising from his chair, he smiled.

  Since the night he'd finally stopped fighting his attraction—and committed to the challenge of getting to know her, his life had included a great deal more laughter. A few more cooking lessons. Several more scratches behind Jack's ears (Danielle was still holding out). And an assload of sexual frustration. His constant companion, it hummed around him like a low voltage energy field, sharpening his need for her, yet surprising him with how much he could endure. His only consolation was how aggravated MaryJo had grown with his endurance. His grin widened. Not that it could last much longer. Even he had limits. And he'd just about shattered them.

  March Madness basketball and MaryJo Mullaney had nudged him closer to Curtis. She never failed to include him—inviting him along for Saturday nights watching basketball at her place. Usually, a cooking lesson was involved. Travis smiled, remembering the previous Saturday, when he'd gotten into it with his brother over who'd let the pasta boil dry. MaryJo—standing over them, wooden spoon in hand, ready to rap someone's knuckles for burning her pan. But—the game they'd been watching had gone into overtime. How could she expect either of them to budge under those circumstances?

  Curtis' charity tournament had been an overwhelming success. In so many, unexpected ways. The Marshall family had contacted Curt, to thank him for his efforts. Though he hadn't mentioned it, the relief in his brother's eyes had spoken volumes. Each day, Travis caught glimpses of the brother he'd known long ago. Fleeting smiles. A less hollowed-out expression in his eyes. Brief moments when Curt appeared to enjoy himself. Never likely to forget where he'd been, his brother showed signs of a new willingness to carry on—signs that hadn't been there before.

  And then there was his professional life.

  His gaze followed several employees jogging the trails around Tiberius. It was a perfect day for a head-clearing run, the breeze just crisp enough to remind you it was still March. His staff appreciation party was fast approaching. With all the trouble they were still experiencing with the damned software release, an acknowledgement of their efforts couldn't come fast enough. Everyone, including him, needed a break from the hell it was giving them. Only that morning, he'd spent an hour talking Chuck down from the ledge. If Travis had been blindfolded, he would have suspected he was talking with Patrice. Now, even his friend was skirting around the subject of selling. 'Why don't we cut our losses?' 'Why don't we accept the bid from Omni?' Patrice, he understood. She was a money-hungry bitch with no loyalty to Tiberius. But, if laid-back, never-break-a-sweat Chuck was getting worried-

  "Travis? We've got problems."

  Releasing a sigh, he closed his eyes briefly before turning to face Moe. "What is it this time?"

  "Has this place ever been breached? Because that’s what it feels like. Not that I’ve got a shit ton of experience with it, but-"

  Staring at Moe, he saw a younger version of himself. Eager. Infallible. Limitless energy to code deep into the night, unaware of time passing, of people speaking . . . of a bodily need for food or water. Impatient to get all his ideas into code before they vaporized in the mist. "You think our problems are from a hacker?" Frowning, he wondered if Patrice had ever hired the consultant. Or like so many other things—had she simply ignored him, assuming he was too focused on the software to remember he’d asked.

  His wild hair in disarray, Moe shrugged, the expression on his face suggesting a rare sojourn to a place where he didn’t know all the answers. "I haven’t actually experienced a full-on hack, but the code is so buggy-" He sighed. "Eli and I agree this feels more like . . . it’s originating inside."

  Travis frowned. "Inside Tiberius? That’s impossible." As the words left his mouth, he wondered whether they were actually true. Who would do that? When they were all so invested in the results. The new product. The fast looming launch that would make everyone substantially more wealthy than they were today.

  "Anything’s possible, Trav. We don’t have much security around here—not as much as my last job, that’s for sure. That place was fucking Alcatraz."

  Because he hadn’t wanted Tiberius to feel like a prison . . . a place people would dread coming to. The nature of their work required long hours—but with the right team and the right synergy, the work was creative and fun and challenging. They weren’t a damned think tank. Or a government contractor. Adding multiple layers of security would make him feel smothered. It would feel like a corporate big brother was watching over everything the coders worked on.

  Maybe it was time to ask MaryJo for some advice. She would be eager to help him—it was just the way she operated. Travis had put it off, hoping each time that the last bug they fixed would actually be the last bug they fixed. Selfishly, for the few hours a day he escaped Tiberius, he didn't want his time with her disrupted by work problems.

  Pointing to the chair across from his desk, he waited until Moe flopped into it. "What makes you think it’s inside?"

  Leaning forward, Moe rested forearms on thighs. "Okay—so every day, every hour, we’re making changes. We’re tweaking and then we save the work. We run a scan to confirm we made the fix and-" He glanced up, his crazy hair flopping to the side. "Here’s the important thing—we make sure that nothing we just changed impacts anything else, right?"

  "Right." Travis smiled. The kid’s eyes were animated, his brain clearly deep inside the operating system as he spoke. Though he had to be nearing capacity on adrenalin overload, Moe rose from his chair, crossing to the small refrigerator to yank out an energy drink.

  "If everything goes well, we move on to the next issue." Pacing before his desk, he popped the can. "Because we don’t want to risk creating additional problems for the gamer. That would majorly suck. We want to give them a seamless experience."

  He waited, knowing Moe would eventually get around to making his point. Behavior that would drive a normal manager crazy was second nature to him. They were all like this—creative, talented, edgy geniuses, some of them content to reside in the worlds they created; others more like him—stumbling around in the real world, but totally able to relate to the other.

  "Bottom line . . . these problems shouldn’t be happening. We’re having to go back and fix stuff that just doesn’t make sense. Stupid shit," he emphasized. "Like . . . things that shouldn’t ever be an issue." Draining the can, he took a shot at the trashcan, missing completely. His smile chagrined, he crossed the room to scoop it up. "It’s like someone is . . . unraveling our work. I develop a string of code. I test it. I move on to the next thing. And then someone undoes it—creating two problems when I only had one before. Almost like—a logic bomb."

  Travis stilled, his attention captured. Why hadn’t he thought of it? All the problems they’d been experiencing. All the time-consuming fixes on silly stuff—nothing like the normal bugs that typically had to be worked out. He hadn’t thought of it—because it was unthinkable. Someone inside the company—sabotaging their work? "Code written deliberately—to set off a problem?"
<
br />   Distracted, Moe scratched his three-day-old beard. "Bombs can be written to trigger over anything. A name. A specific time. A process. Maybe it’s written to explode when a certain criteria is met. Hell—it could be a step in the de-bugging—that triggers another bug."

  "Who-"

  "Maybe a pissed-off former employee? Lots of people left last quarter because of the beastmaster-" His eyes widened, as though he'd inadvertently released a deeply held company secret.

  Patrice. It described her perfectly. His lips twitched into a reluctant smile. "You think maybe this could be payback?"

  Moe shrugged. "Revenge can be a kickass motivator. Maybe someone who won't be there at product launch?"

  Someone who wouldn’t reap the rewards. Someone who’d left the company? Or was the person still there? Still employed. Perhaps bribed by a competitor? Travis reviewed the people who’d been driven out by Patrice over the past several months. People he’d allowed her to overrule him on . . . because he’d been too distracted—entrenched in the software—his baby. And now, his nemesis. "Can’t we do a trace-back? See where it’s originating?"

  "Sure. But those can be altered." Moe frowned. "If it were me, I’d steer you toward somebody else—maybe throw an enemy under the bus." He sank into the comfortable leather. "At a minimum, I’d dodge it around a bit to cover my tracks so you couldn’t figure out who I was. Hell, that would be half the fun."

  Travis raised an eyebrow. "Fun?"

  "You know what I mean. The challenge of it?" The kid grinned. "Driving you crazy? Making you scramble to fix shit. You’re sorta legendary, Trav. If I could be the guy—maybe effing it up so you don’t make your deadline? Dude, that’s powerful stuff."