Messing with Miki (A MFM Ménage Romance) (Playing For Love Book 5)

by Tara Crescent

Finn:

  I watch her leave, my gaze lingering on her back until she disappears into the crowds at JFK. So that’s Mackenzie Cooper. “She’s not what I thought she’d be,” I say out loud.

  Three months ago, a prototype security system at Imperium got breached by a hacker. One of our clients, Howard Lippman, had hidden his assets in shell corporations during a contentious divorce. The mystery hacker uncovered the scheme and unmasked Lippman’s fraudulent behavior.

  I don’t give a shit about Lippman’s troubles—he violated our terms of service by breaking the law, and we terminated his account as soon as we found out. But I do care, passionately, that my code was cracked.

  It was a few minutes’ work to close the vulnerability that led to the data breach. It’s taken us considerably longer to find the hacker that pulled off the feat.

  Then yesterday, we were able to get a hold of a name.

  Miki Cooper.

  At my side, Oliver’s lips curl up into a sly grin. “You mean, she’s a girl. You got hacked by a girl.”

  I roll my eyes. “Grow up, Prescott. I’m not being sexist. My grandmother is the strongest person I know, man or woman.” My lips tighten. “Until Miki, we’ve never been breached. She’s a problem.”

  He nods. “Let’s look at the bright side,” he says. “She’s not a rogue operator. She cracked Imperium as part of her job.”

  “A job she quit last week.” We know as much about Mackenzie Cooper as it is possible to know legally in twenty-four hours, which isn’t much. “She’s a free agent now. That makes her dangerous.”

  She’s not on social media; she doesn’t post her pictures on Facebook, and she doesn’t tweet about whatever is on her mind. She’s someone who knows that everything she does online is a link back to her, and she’s careful.

  “Let’s keep an eye on her,” Oliver says. “She’s on DefCon’s forums. We’ll find her there and make contact.”

  Imperium, the company Oliver and I founded five years ago, is going public in six months. “We can’t risk another data breach.”

  “I know,” he replies, his expression grim. “It won’t come to that.”

  We walk out of the airport and hail a cab. It’s Thanksgiving. Nana will have made a feast, as she does every single year. There will be three kinds of pie, maybe four. For the moment, work can wait.

  But only for a moment. Tomorrow morning, it’s back to the grind.

  “We need to stop working with high profile clients,” Oliver remarks in the cab. “We’re spending far too much time vetting these guys, and assholes like Lippman slip through. I don’t want to be in the business of protecting drug lords and mafia dons.”

  Our private security division is one of our oldest groups, but it’s increasingly become a liability for Imperium. This breach is the last straw. “Agreed,” I reply. “You want to close it right away?”

  He shakes his head. “There’ll be too much chatter ahead of the IPO,” he says. “Let’s take it slow. No more new clients, and we won’t renew any packages that expire.”

  “The board isn’t going to like this.”

  Oliver shrugs. “I’m not going to run our business by Ambrose’s ethics, Finn. I’m going to run it by mine.”

  We both fall into silence. The taxi navigates the snowy roads and the back-to-back traffic, inching its way into the city. I should be reading and replying to the hundreds of emails I’ve received in the last six hours, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

  I was attracted to Miki Cooper. And I haven’t been attracted to someone in a really long time.

  1

  Yield to temptation. It may not pass your way again.

  Robert A. Heinlein

  Miki:

  Three months later…

  I’m not awake before noon very often, but today’s a special day.

  ‘Special’ is code for ‘craptastic.'

  It’s my thirtieth birthday. It’s also Valentine’s Day. For someone still shaken by the end of her marriage, it’s quite a double whammy.

  “Surprise!” A chorus of voices cries out. My bedroom door is thrown open, and the gang crowds in, Piper in the lead, holding a birthday cake covered with candles.

  I cover my head with my blanket and pretend I’m not here.

  “Happy birthday, Miki,” Bailey says cheerfully. “I’m going to tug the cover free. If you sleep naked, now’s the time to let us know.”

  “You guys, I’m pregnant,” Wendy quips. “If I catch a glimpse of Miki’s pasty ass, I can’t even drown my sorrows in drink.”

  I stick my head out of my blanket fort. “Pasty ass?” I ask indignantly. “Do you mind? Isn’t it traumatic enough that I’m turning thirty?”

  “Yes, yes,” Gabby says. “And you’re divorced, and Aaron’s dick was in Peggy’s mouth. We’ve heard it before.” She perches at the foot of the bed and gives me a hopeful look. “If you blow the candles out, we can eat cake. It’s Katie’s carrot cake.”

  Ooh. Fine. I guess I can get out of bed. I sit up, and the five of them launch into a rousing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.' Once they’re done singing, I blow the candles out. Piper gets a knife from the kitchen, along with some plates and forks, and efficiently slices each of us a piece.

  Wendy waddles over to the armchair in the corner of the room and sits down. “Okay, Miki,” she says. “Eat some cake, because you’re going to need it.”

  I take the plate that Piper hands me. “Why?” I ask warily. When Wendy gets a look of battle in her eyes, anything can happen.

  “Because this is an intervention,” she replies. “Right, ladies?”

  The other five nod. “Let’s wait for her to finish eating,” Piper says kindly.

  I sit up straighter. “Why am I getting an intervention?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

  Top Five Reasons I’m Getting an Intervention

  I haven’t left Wendy’s apartment in four days.

  I stay up all night and spend all day in bed. I’m like a vampire, and Wendy’s comment about my pasty skin is dead on.

  No new job. I’m living off my savings and the cash I earn by doing one-off jobs for people.

  I’ve worn the same pair of sweatpants for a month. Every single day.

  In preparation for the horrid awfulness of my thirtieth birthday, I drank a bottle of wine last night. My mouth feels like sandpaper.

  Well, hell. If I’m going to get an intervention, I need another slice of cake. My mother’s not here to tell me that I need to watch what I eat. I can already hear her voice in my head. Oh dear, Mackenzie, she’ll sigh. You’re going to get fat, dear. You just turned thirty. How will you meet someone? Failed marriage, wrong side of thirty, and carrying an extra ten pounds?

  I hold out my empty plate and Piper, bless her Southern heart, gives me another slice. Armed with cake, I’m ready. “Okay,” I tell my friends. “The intervention. Bring it on.”

  Once they leave, I get out of bed and into the shower. Instead of wearing my navy blue sweats, I slide on a pair of jeans and a red sweater. “You’re going to conquer the world this year, Miki,” I tell the too-pale woman in the mirror. “Forget Aaron. Look at the future, not the past.”

  I don’t know if it’s the intervention or the pep talk or even just the shower and clean clothes, but I’m feeling positively hopeful by the time I crack open my laptop and navigate to DefCon, where there are three private messages waiting for me.

  I open Lancelot’s message first. Happy birthday, mouse.

  Grinning widely at the fact that he remembered, I click on Merlin’s message. Lancelot and I have a present for you, mouse, but since you won’t tell us where you live, you’ll have to pick it up yourself.

  Merlin’s attached an address to his message. I instantly type it into Google Maps. It’s a furniture store. Huh.

  Lancelot doesn’t appear to be online, but Merlin is. Ignoring my third message, which is from someone called User0989, I click on his icon. You’re buying me furniture? I don’t have an apartme
nt yet.

  He replies almost immediately. Is your friend kicking you out? Do you have another place to live?

  His concern warms my heart. I hastily type out a reply before he worries too much. Of course not. I can stay here as long as I want. They threw me an intervention today.

  Is that a New York birthday tradition?

  I giggle. No. They’re worried about me. They don’t think that it’s good for me to sit in my sweatpants all night, glued to my computer. They think I should go out, be more social.

  Are they right?

  A little, I admit. I promised them I’d work on it.

  I’ve never been the most social person in the world, but before Aaron cheated on me, I enjoyed going to movies and listening to jazz bands play in small, intimate venues. I’ve meant to do all those things again, but I can’t seem to find the energy. Maybe my friends are right. Maybe I do need a metaphorical kick in the pants.

  Then there’s money. My bank account took a serious beating from the divorce—Aaron decided to be a pig and contest it, and I had to hire a lawyer, Wendy’s friend Lara, to help me deal with my uncooperative ex-husband. Lara didn’t come cheap. I’m living rent-free at Wendy’s, and that helps my finances somewhat, but I need to find a steady job.

  I don’t bore Lancelot and Merlin with all this. I haven’t given my online friends my real phone number, and they don’t know my real name, just my handle—Mouse—but I still tell them almost everything. I’ve told them about my divorce, my difficult relationship with my parents, my feelings of failure when I compare my life with my sister’s, and they’re always there to listen, to offer comfort and bracing advice.

  It’s weird. I don’t know anything about them, but they’re my best friends.

  Merlin doesn’t reply right away. I stare at the screen, waiting for his answer, but after three minutes of nothing, I click on my third message, the one from the person I don’t recognize.

  It’s a job offer. I’m looking for someone with your set of skills, User0989 writes. The job pays a hundred grand. Interested?

  Whoa. I’m barely making minimum payments on my credit card bills. A hundred grand sounds amazing. Unfortunately, I doubt it’s real. I don’t believe in unicorns, I don’t believe in fairies, and I don’t believe anonymous users who promise mysterious jobs with huge payouts.

  I’m about to delete the email when a chat window pops up. It’s User0989. Persistent dude.

  Are you interested?

  I roll my eyes and type out a sarcastic reply. In a hundred grand? Yes. In your job? How the hell would I know? You haven’t told me anything about it.

  What does this guy think? He says a hundred grand, and I’ll pant all over him? I might be bummed about Aaron, but it hasn’t interfered with my ability to be snarky.

  I need you to get me Imperium’s client list.

  This guy’s a lunatic. Imperium is a data security company, one of the best in the business, if not the best. They can’t be hacked. Dozens have tried; all have failed. The person in charge of their operations is a genius.

  It can’t be done, buddy, I type. Don’t waste your money.

  You’re wrong, he writes back, oddly confident. It can’t be done from the outside. But if you’re inside their firewall, you might have a shot.

  Imperium isn’t hiring. About the first thing I did when I moved back to Manhattan was ask around to see if they had any openings, but they were in the middle of a hiring freeze.

  If I get you in, are you interested?

  Okay, I’ve had enough of this guy’s fantasy. It’s my birthday, and I have better things to do with my time. Talk is cheap, and this guy hasn’t given me anything tangible. I switch to Merlin’s chat window.

  Where were you? he asks.

  Since I like Merlin, I refrain from pointing out that he’s the one that disappeared first. Some guy’s trying to offer me a job.

  Who?

  Merlin and Lancelot are entirely too nosy. They don’t think I can look after myself. Then again, given that I’ve been moaning on and on about Aaron for the last three months, I don’t blame them.

  I’m about to answer, but User0989’s icon is flashing at me. I switch to that conversation to tell him to knock it off, but then I read his message.

  I’ve put you on the guest list for the Imperium party tonight. If you want more details about the job, show up and tell them you’re M. Mouse.

  There’s an attachment. I open it to see a flyer for the party, and I immediately realize this event is way out of my league. I’m a hacker, most comfortable with chatting anonymously with people I don’t know. The Imperium event is a themed, formal party. I’ll have to talk to actual flesh-and-blood people.

  Well? User0989 prompts. What do you think?

  One hundred thousand dollars to hack into a company and steal their client list.

  You’ll get arrested if you get caught, Miki.

  I hesitate, frozen in indecision. I don’t want to go to jail, but my financial situation is getting desperate. Call me stubborn, but I don’t want to ask my parents or my friends for help. My husband cheated on me. I’m staying rent-free in Wendy’s apartment. All my friends have successful careers and happy, healthy relationships. I already feel like a failure; I don’t want to make it worse.

  A minute later, another message appears on my screen. What do you have to lose?

  He’s right. I have no job. No money. No husband. It’s my thirtieth birthday and my plan for the evening is to sit at home and watch TV.

  I don’t want to be pathetic and miserable any longer. Aaron cheated on me, and I’m the one who’s suffering as a result. It doesn’t seem fair, and I’m tired of it. I want to take matters into my own hands. I want to control my own destiny.

  Before I can second-guess the decision, I type out my reply. Fine. I’ll be there.

  I switch back to Merlin, who’s still waiting for me to tell him who wants to hire me. I’m starting to type my answer when a thought strikes me.

  Merlin and Lancelot are protective. They’re going to talk me out of hacking into Imperium. They’re going to point out I’ll get into trouble if I get caught. They’re going to warn me that I don’t know who User0989 is and what his motivations are. They’re going to tell me it’s not safe.

  Just some random guy, I reply, my cheeks heating as I lie. Dunno who he is.

  I’ve never lied to them before. It feels wrong.

  2

  Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes.

  Oscar Wilde

  Oliver:

  There’s a blonde woman in my bed, and I don’t remember what her name is. Even for me, the self-professed king of one-night stands, this is a new low.

  I sit up, and the pounding in my head intensifies. Getting drunk was a dumb idea. Bringing the blonde back to my Manhattan penthouse? Even dumber. It’s Valentine’s Day. Bad, bad timing.

  Groping for my phone, I tiptoe out of my bedroom and into the kitchen.

  Today’s Miki’s birthday. Happy birthday, mouse, I type while I wait for the coffee to brew. She’s not online yet, neither do I expect her to be. Miki’s a night owl.

  Three months ago, Finn and I decided to go on DefCon’s forums and get to know Miki in order to keep an eye on the talented hacker. Our plan worked only too well. The three of us are friends now. Really good friends. And if she finds out the truth…

  She’s not going to find out.

  “Hey there,” a sultry voice purrs, interrupting my dark thoughts. It’s my one-night stand. Her name suddenly comes to me. Bethany.

  Bethany’s wearing my shirt and her hair’s artfully tousled. She’s going for the ‘I just woke up’ effect, but it’s spoiled by the fact that she’s wearing makeup.

  “Good morning.” I smile at her cheerfully, even as I wonder how quickly I can get her out of my place. Paul Fryman, my divorce lawyer, is going to be here in thirty minutes. He called yesterday, insisting he needed to speak with me urgently, but he wouldn’t tell me why over
the phone. “Coffee?”

  “Thank you.” She pulls up a chair next to me, and sits down, leaning forward, her breasts spilling out. “I hope you don’t mind that I wore your shirt,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes. “I couldn’t find my clothes.”

  How hard did she look? “They’re on the armchair,” I reply, getting up to pour her some coffee. “Milk, sugar?”

  She shudders at the mention of the dreaded s-word. Sugar. “No thank you. Just black.”

  I set the mug down in front of Bethany. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes,” I tell her, pasting a look of regret on my face. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to rush you a little.”

  “Oh.” She bites her lower lip. “It’s Friday. I thought you could take the day off.”

  “Sadly, no.”

  She gives me a hopeful look. “Maybe we could hang out later tonight?”

  I take a deep breath. Contrary to what my ex-wife Claudia would like the world to believe, I’m not a jerk, and I have no desire to hurt this woman’s feelings. At the same time, I made things perfectly clear last night that I wasn’t looking for a date or commitment.

  All I wanted was one night. No strings attached. Unfortunately, things are never that easy. “I’m sorry,” I reply, as gently as I can, given the circumstances. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth contorts into a snarl. “I was warned about you,” she snaps. “Oliver Prescott never goes on a second date, right? It’s all about the chase and the conquest.”

  I don’t need Bethany to analyze me; my therapist Dr. Hutchins has already pinpointed my flaws. I won’t see someone more than once because, after Claudia, I will never again put myself in a position where I’m vulnerable. My broken marriage has left me deeply cynical and deeply mistrustful.

  Bethany storms away to my bedroom. When she emerges in five minutes, she’s fully dressed. She pauses by my front door, waiting for me to stop her, but when she realizes I’m not going to, she flings the door open and pivots around to face me. “Rot in hell, Oliver,” she says angrily, and she walks out, slamming the door shut behind her.