Code of Conduct (Cipher Security Book 1)

by Smartypants Romance

  “Help yourself. There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge if the command to eat is more interesting than my feeble attempt at youthful vernacular.”

  I laughed at the pompous tone he adopted to go along with the fifty-cent words, and booted up his computer.

  “Whatcha looking for?” he asked as he worked on something that looked vaguely bionic.

  What was I looking for? I’d gone to Sparky’s to use his secure system out of habit, but was I actually going to do more poking around ADDATA? I’d surprised myself with the level of my annoyance at the fact that I was essentially working for Cipher without a paycheck, even though I was self-aware enough to get that it was the comment about California that set me off. Did Gabriel actually know my history? I’d been doing a great job of existing in the moment since I’d moved to Chicago, and it pissed me off that one question sent me spiraling back into all the feelings that made me leave California.

  I typed in a name before I was even aware my fingers were on the keyboard. Marquette Hane. The list that populated Google was the same it had always been over the years: the Yellow Pages, LinkedIn, and old articles from the Sacramento Bee about both accidents. My mom hadn’t made the news since I left, and she didn’t seem to be on social media at all. Like mother like daughter, at least in that respect.

  When I reached the bottom of page three, I quickly slid the cursor back up to the top and typed in another name. Sandra Greene. The page loaded slowly and I almost navigated away, but then a business website came up and my eye was caught by a title. Doctor of Psychiatry.

  Of course she was. I clicked on the website, and a photo of the stunning redhead filled the upper left corner of the screen. Sandra Greene was a psychiatrist, which explained why she made people cry. She uncovered their deepest, darkest secrets, just like I did. The difference was that people handed her the keys to the vaults where they stored their skeletons, while I had to dig up the skeletons myself – by hand – with a dull spoon.

  I navigated to the contact page on her website, but it was the fill-in-the-blank kind that kept her phone and e-mail private. Smart – especially since her picture was on the website – but not useful for my purposes. I doubted I’d get anywhere with a search on Alex Greene, if he was, in fact, her husband, so I went back to the initial Google results and tried two Yellow Pages searches looking for Sandra’s contact info. Finally, I clicked on her LinkedIn page. The site didn’t even have a chance to load when a red warning flashed on the screen.

  “Uh, Sparky? You may want to take a look …”

  I backed away from the computer as he rushed over. “What did you click on?” he said, frantically navigating away and shutting down screens.

  “Nothing. I was doing a Google search on someone and I hit their LinkedIn page.” I didn’t like how panicked he suddenly was.

  “I haven’t heard of any LinkedIn Trojan horses, so it must be something else. Where were you right before that?”

  “On the business page of a psychiatrist,” I answered.

  Sparky looked sideways at me even as his fingers roved the keyboard faster than I’d ever seen anyone type.

  I snarled at his side-eye. “Not for me, you dork, for work.” Well, not for that either, but definitely not for me.

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t judging. Or, rather, I was judging, but it was good. You should see a therapist. Everyone should at least once in their lives, just to know what it feels like to talk to someone who’s really listening.”

  “I listen to you,” I said, way more defensively than the statement warranted.

  “Really? Who is my favorite superhero, then?” he asked, finally clearing the screen before he shut the lid on his laptop.

  “Star-Lord,” I shot back.

  “Wrong. And by the way, you’re banned from the laptop. You can bring your own, but you can’t network with mine.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you just unleashed a worm that I need to go in and neutralize sometime when you’re not sitting here.”

  “What does me sitting here have to do with a worm?”

  “I can’t curse you with full invectives if you’re looking at me.”

  “But you can and presumably do when I’m not here?”

  Sparky sighed and looked pained. “Something like that.”

  I rolled my eyes and threw up my hands in disgust. “Ugh. I’m sorry my simple Google search seems to have generated a worm, although how, I have no idea, unless all your digital protection is just for show.” I grabbed my bag off the table then turned to him, suddenly contrite. “I really am sorry. I wasn’t careless, I promise.”

  He scrubbed his hands through his hair, which had the effect of turning perfectly nice boy hair into porcupine meets light socket locks. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

  I caught sight of the bionic … thing Sparky had been working on when I came in. “Making a Terminator?”

  He shrugged. “I have nightmares about Skynet.”

  I stared at him. “You do?”

  He looked up sharply. “You don’t?”

  I was not going to debate the relative safety of artificial intelligence with a man who had nightmares about a fictional corporation from a film released in 1984. I looked around the workshop at the various leg and arm parts in different stages of assembly. “I don’t suppose you’ve done any new running legs, have you?”

  “I’m working on a formula for carbon fiber that will make cheetah blades extra bouncy,” he said without looking up.

  I grinned on my way to the door. “You’ll call it the Tigger leg, and you’ll make millions.”

  He snorted and re-opened his laptop. I headed for the door to leave just as he called out. “You.”

  “What?” I couldn’t tell if it was a command or a declaration.

  Sparky finally looked up from his computer screen, looking adorably tousled, like the man-sized version of a scruffy teen. “You’re my favorite superhero. Now get out so I can curse you properly.”

  19

  Shane

  “There is a unique brand of awkward that lives in mortification central and can usually be found on the Why? aisle right next to the pictures of me.” – Shane, P.I.

  At 7 p.m. I got a text from Gabriel. Run at 11?

  I ignored it.

  At 8 p.m., as I was eating leftover chicken, another text. Meet you at the park or outside our building? I snorted at that. Our building indeed. I ignored that text too.

  At 9 p.m., as I wrote up the day’s work at ADDATA in the Quimby file, a third text. If I have to come to your door, I’m bringing balloons. I smirked at that one. Yeah, right. Where was he going to get balloons at eleven o’clock at night? The Party Store is open until midnight, he texted a moment later.

  At 10 p.m. I closed the lid of my laptop just as my phone chimed. Never mind, I’m coming up now. I have paperwork for your services as an independent contractor.

  Bullshit, I thought. Oscar snarfled in his sleep as I got up and pulled on running tights over my bare legs. I couldn’t help it – prosthetic and pants always came off the minute I got home. I had the habits of a two-year-old who strips to underwear and actually prefers nothing at all. I hopped to the kitchen, and Oscar cracked an eyelid in acknowledgement that movement was happening. He groaned as he got to his feet and padded behind me in hopes that manna from the kitchen gods would fall in his path. I opened bubbly water and drank directly from the bottle.

  There was a knock on the door, and Oscar’s head came up in anticipation of Jorge, who often dropped by for some dog love on his way home from the library. I called out, “Come in,” as I put the lid on the bubbly water and stashed it back in the fridge.

  “Do you always leave your door unlocked?” asked a voice that sent a shiver across my skin.

  I straightened and turned to see Gabriel, wearing running shorts and a University of Chicago sweatshirt, entering my apartment with an envelope in one hand and a water bottle in the other.

  My shock must
have been obvious. “You’re not Jorge,” I said, inanely, given that he clearly was not my young neighbor.

  “No, I’m not. Is it odd that I now have an intense desire to know this Jorge and his intentions toward you?” he asked as he closed the door behind him.

  I stifled the smile that his words provoked so he didn’t get the idea that I kind of liked caveman proclamations made in such cultured tones.

  I also stifled the playful comeback his comment deserved. I didn’t want to play with Gabriel. Or maybe I wanted it too much. “Why are you here?” I asked. I realized I was still leaning against the kitchen counter, and I didn’t want him to come in there to speak to me. It was too small, and I could be cornered too easily.

  I felt Gabriel’s eyes on me the whole way as I hopped into the living room and to the sofa where my cheetah leg had been left the night before. The attention made me bristle because I assumed it was focused on the ungraceful way I moved.

  He took the seat across from me and put the envelope on the coffee table. “Cipher Security is offering you a consulting fee to work with us on this ADDATA case.” His voice was easy, but his gaze was locked on my hands as they worked automatically to attach the cheetah leg to the sleeve on the end of my residual limb. I was far more self-conscious than was comfortable.

  “You know, there’s a whole subset of sexual deviants called stump-humpers,” I said casually to cover my awkwardness. I flexed my knee to check the fit of the leg, then pulled the end of my modified running tights down over the socket, annoyed with myself at how relieved I was to cover up.

  His eyes met mine again. “I didn’t know that. I confess I am completely fascinated by the mechanics of your legs. Obviously this one’s designed for running, but it wouldn’t fit into the boots you wore the other day. Do you have different foot attachments, or are the legs entirely unique according to your needs?”

  I scowled. I’d tried to shock him, and all he wanted to discuss was the mechanics of my prosthetics. To cover my discomfiture, I grabbed the envelope from the table and opened it. Dear Ms. P.I., it began, and I smirked. “O’Malley wrote this?” I asked.

  “He’s a partner in the company,” Gabriel confirmed with a nod.

  The typewritten note was brief and to the point. Cipher Security is offering you three thousand dollars per week for your services as a consulting investigator. Eze showed us his notes on your work to date and pointed out that you deserve compensation, so you can thank or blame him as you see fit. To cover my own ass, this engagement can be terminated by either party with no notice and for no specific reason, but I hate firing people, so don’t do something stupid. I looked up from the paper and scoffed. “Doesn’t mince words, does he?”

  “Not usually.” Gabriel nodded toward the envelope. “There’s a check in there for your first week’s compensation if you accept the job.”

  I removed the check, written out to S.HANE Information Services in the amount of three grand, and a wave of relief hit me, quickly followed by a confusing mix of anger and something warm and fuzzy.

  “I don’t want to owe you,” I said grumpily.

  “You don’t,” Gabriel shrugged.

  I looked at him a long moment, then finally sighed. “I’m being a moody bitch, and that pisses me off too.”

  “Then get your shoe on, grab the beast, and let’s go run it off.”

  “You’re awfully presumptuous, aren’t you?” Some of the tightness in my chest let go, and I decided I was tired of fighting. I grabbed my shoe from where I’d kicked it off next to my leg, and laced it up.

  Gabriel had Oscar sit, then clipped on his leash and scratched his ears. I was impressed. Most non dog-owners wouldn’t know to make dogs work for their leash so it’s a privilege instead of something to pull against.

  I grabbed my running key and pulled it on over my head, then took Oscar’s leash from him. Gabriel hadn’t moved from his place just inside the door, and his eyes were on me as I stopped in front of him.

  “Thank you for getting them to hire me,” I said quietly.

  He shrugged. “You’re doing the work. I just reminded them to pay the right person for it.”

  The flecks of gold in his eyes fascinated me a little too much. The fact that I could see them meant I was standing much too close, and the slow smile he gave me meant he knew it too. I stepped back, right into the coat rack, and when I jumped forward to keep from knocking it over, I impacted with his chest while an umbrella hooked onto my socket, pulled out of the rack, and clattered to the floor.

  My entryway had just become mortification central, and my face flamed horrendously. So I did the only thing one can do when one makes a complete ass of oneself. I kissed him.

  20

  Gabriel

  “Obviously, The Princess Bride has a movie quote for every occasion, but you might be surprised to know that Bull Durham comes in a close second.” – Shane, P.I.

  She kissed me.

  And for one stunned moment, I kissed her back.

  It was only one moment because the next moment she broke the kiss and nearly collided with the coat rack again in her haste to back away.

  “Don’t—” I said quickly.

  “I’m sorry, that was totally inappropriate,” she stammered.

  “—stop,” I finished.

  That arrested her apology mid-word, and she stared at me with an open mouth.

  “Or if you must, then I need to run, otherwise I may not leave.” I wasn’t sure what possessed me to be quite so honest, but her kiss had rattled me. It had been unexpected, but it lit a fire that made my hands burn to touch her.

  She exhaled and dipped her gaze down to her dog. “Come on, Oscar, let’s run.”

  I opened the door to her flat, and she stepped past me into the hall. After I pulled the door shut behind me, she locked the deadbolt using the key around her neck. I was pleased to see it would have been reasonably difficult for someone to break in.

  I was a master at mental avoidance.

  She saw me study the lock. “Lock picks won’t work on it. I’ve tried,” she said, a note of something less than confidence in her voice, as though she, too, were unsettled. I didn’t like that she could ever be less than fully confident.

  “You have lock picks?” The thought was possibly even more arousing than the collision of our mouths had been. Actually not, but it was close.

  She pulled her confidence back on and scoffed. “You don’t?”

  “I never needed them. I’ve always been more of the kick-in-the-door type.”

  She preceded me down the hall, but not before I caught the smirk on her face. “So door-kicking is a Peacekeeper thing?”

  The table tennis nature of our conversation was an excellent distraction from the persistent erection battle I was losing.

  “It’s actually more of a suicidal sister thing,” I said, which well and truly derailed my arousal, as I knew it would. Then I sighed, because I also knew I’d have to explain. “Kendra had fairly severe post-partum depression. Then when Mika was three months old, her husband died, which sent her over the edge. She got help, and she’s doing great now, but it was a rough couple of months in an already difficult year.”

  She turned to face me on the landing of the stairs, and her hand flinched, like she held back from touching me. I wished she had given in to the impulse. “We are full of landmines, you and me. I keep stepping on yours, and mine seem to have hair triggers that explode when I least expect them to. So I’m going to try to stop apologizing for putting my foot in it, and hopefully we can get through a run without the pavement blowing up around us?”

  She looked so earnest and beautiful, and I just barely managed not to kiss her again.

  Shane’s eyes flicked to my mouth before she turned and sprinted down the stairs. Her beast was happy to lead the way and didn’t stop pulling until we got outside.

  The night had just enough chill to keep us cool as we ran, and the lake breeze washed away some of the stench of city traffic. W
e didn’t speak again until we got to the Lakefront Trail and had settled into a comfortable pace.

  “I feel like I need to explain my reaction earlier, when you asked about California,” she said as we turned to run south. I put her on the lake side of me – an old habit of situating myself between potential danger and the person I was with.

  I didn’t confirm or deny, and she continued. “I grew up there, and left under less than ideal circumstances.” She inhaled, hesitated, and then spoke her words in a rush, as though ripping off a bandage. “I was cheated on pretty badly by someone I thought was special, and when I ran away from California, I was running away from him and every one of the ugly memories associated with that break-up.” She sighed and then shook her head. “Essentially, I broke up with my state, not just my boyfriend, and I guess there are still a couple things I’m incomplete with about that.”

  The slap of our feet on the pavement blended musically with the softer tread of Oscar’s paws and Shane’s cheetah leg. I let her words echo in my head with the cadence, and she didn’t fill the silence.

  “I’ve never been to California, but I guessed you were from someplace where the sun always shines and where much more of life is lived outdoors than in.”

  “My life was,” she said, and I hoped it was a smile I heard in her voice. I didn’t look over at her, not wanting to break the fragile thread of honest conversation between us. “I grew up in the mountains, where I spent every weekend backpacking with my dad before …” She trailed off. I said nothing, and finally, after a bit, she picked up the thread in a stronger tone. “But in high school, the minute sixth period was done, I was at my car and gone to the lake every sunny day. It was the days of coconut oil tans instead of sunscreen, and I still think of lake parties when I smell the stuff.”

  “When I smell coconut, I’m transported to my mother’s galley kitchen in South London. She made coconut cake for every one of Nana the Great’s birthdays, even long after she died,” I said.