The Hero and the Hacktivist

by Pippa Grant

  Since Parker’s apparently taking the day off, and she’s figured out Eloise is in trouble, and I don’t want to get pinched or tickled again—I don’t trust Willow not to be pissed at me too—I leave the women and Knox in my apartment and tell them I’m running out for lunch.

  They think I’m running out to get them lunch.

  I’ll let them keep that assumption.

  I hop the subway to the West Side and hoof it to a deli just off Broadway. Got an old classmate working the beat over here, and I was able to convince him he needed to have lunch with me today.

  Clint drops into the seat across from me in his blue uniform. Haven’t seen him in a few years, but other than sporting a dad bod and a few wrinkles, he’s the same brown-eyed, brown-haired dude I remember from high school. “Elliott. Been a while.”

  We shake hands, then dive into the sandwiches while I feed him a line of bullshit. “Don’t laugh, but I’m writing a book. Fiction.”

  He chokes on his roast beef.

  “I said don’t laugh,” I say with a scowl. Gotta sell the story, so I’ll act insecure about writing a book.

  “Why don’t you write shit about being a SEAL?”

  I just stare at him.

  “Ah. Right. Don’t want to accidentally give away government secrets. Got it.” He winks. “You really throw a reporter out of an airplane for being annoying?”

  I shrug the I can’t confirm it, but you fucking know I did shrug.

  “Shit, man…”

  The jealousy and adoration? That’s actually getting old. “Captain made me go out after him,” I say.

  Clint hoots. “Best I got is the time I was on a drug bust and walked in on some kind of orgy where everyone was dressed up like farm animals.”

  “Ever work cybercrimes?” I ask.

  He goes into cop mode. “You know something about that dick pic virus?”

  “I know I’m glad I don’t send dick pics,” I reply with a grimace. “My main guy in this book—he’s one of those superheroes, like the Avengers, but he can bend the internet. So he’s going vigilante on this space government that’s brainwashing an entire species so they can harvest their organs, which are used as currency on this planet Fartooga.”

  Fartooga? I’m so fucking good. Eloise would probably snort at that. She seems like she’d like a good fart joke. Or maybe I should’ve called it the planet Thrustbuckets.

  Clint’s giving me the oh, shit, do I finish my sandwich or do I fake a call? look.

  Might be going too far.

  “So I need him to have a contact on the inside of the government who’s keeping him out of trouble. Like a hot chick. Big boobs. Big brain. Carries a stun gun. Really hot. You know? But I can’t get past how she’s not gonna lose her job for shielding him, because he’s doing illegal shit.”

  For once, I’m glad I go to book club. I might be able to throw out some words like black moment and character arc too, if I have to.

  “Shit, man.” He shakes his head. “Screw her keeping her job. Have her leave. Morals, man. Morals. Your dude’s making the universe a safer place for those people and their organs.”

  “Yeah, but neither one of them has a spaceship. So they have to steal a spaceship if they want to get away from the people who’ll be hunting them the rest of their lives.”

  He snorts. “It’s fiction. Make him some bored billionaire. Like Bruce Wayne. Batman in Space.”

  “So like, he can buy his way out of it?”

  “Or take out the bad—shit, dude. I can’t be talking about this in public while I’m wearing my uniform. People get the wrong idea.”

  “The wrong idea about a planet called Fartooga with an alien governing body?”

  He grimaces. “I questioned an entire table of romance authors for thirty minutes last week when I overheard one of them talking about shooting the mayor.”

  “All right, let’s make it simple. What happens if my hot chick has to pull him in for questioning?”

  “You want my opinion? Or what’s actually gonna happen? Our entire cybercrimes division is on this dick pic virus thing, but you know what? I’d shake that dude’s hand. Some asshole sends my daughter dick pics, yeah, I’m gonna press charges. That’s sexual harassment, but I can’t find the fucker, and we don’t have the manpower to prosecute every unsolicited dick pic anyway. So yeah, I’m gonna shake that guy’s hand, and I’m gonna walk away. But official law enforcement stance? Viruses are viruses are viruses, and billions of dollars worth of personal products were wiped out yesterday. Only hope is for them to cut a deal. Serve time fighting the official government list of real cybercriminals.”

  Thank fuck.

  Turning Eloise over to the cops is the last thing I want to do, but whoever she pissed off has people. Until I know how many people, I need options.

  And priority number one is keeping her safe.

  “So you’re saying make the hot chick go rogue?” I ask. “Like a double agent?”

  “Makes a good story, doesn’t it?”

  I pretend to mull it over while I chew a big bite of pastrami on rye. Give him the thoughtful, yeah, that could work nod.

  “You write books?” I ask him.

  He ducks his head with a half-laugh. “No, man. Me and English, we’re not friends.”

  “Too bad. You’ve got good instincts.”

  Not quite good enough, but good.

  And so long as I can call on him in a pinch, that’s good enough for me.

  23

  Rhett

  The first thing I see when I walk back into my apartment is Eloise. She’s showered, changed, re-spiked her hair, switched out her nose ring, and now she’s on a laptop in my roller chair, feet propped on the desk.

  “Who. The fuck. Gave her that?” I growl.

  She looks at me, loses her balance, and tips over backward. Parker and Willow shriek and lunge to help her, Willow grabbing Eloise, Parker going for the computer.

  “I did,” Pigpen growls back.

  At least he’s talking. Nice change.

  “I’m running facial recognition on the stooges who trashed my apartment,” Eloise tells me from the floor. She grunts once while Willow pulls her to sitting, and hell if the sight of her twisting and flopping out of the toppled chair doesn’t put the hard in my wood.

  Parker glares at me again while she hands the computer back to Eloise, and yeah, I know.

  She’s right.

  I leave. It’s what I do. Time and again, because that’s what my country needs from me.

  So it doesn’t matter that this spiky-haired chaos goddess is rapidly becoming an obsession. My job isn’t to be her forever.

  It’s to make sure she has the opportunity to find her forever by keeping her safe until the threat is neutralized.

  “What did you hack into to have a database to run facial recognition against?” I ask.

  “Details, schmetails.”

  My dick rises in direct proportion to my blood pressure. “They can fucking track your IP address.”

  She grins. “So you do know some real lingo. And I’m masked and re-routed through countries you can’t even pronounce, plus a server with a physical address on Saturn. It’s safe.”

  “If it was safe, you wouldn’t be using video from your apartment being fucking robbed to run facial recognition.”

  “Again with the details. You know what’s better than details? Banging. Give me three seconds to horrify these guys, and we can get it on like bunnies.”

  “I always thought you’d be more likely to hump like a squirrel,” Knox says.

  She grins. “Thank you.”

  “For comparing you to a squirrel?”

  “For thinking about me getting my O on.” She wiggles her brows at him, her eyebrow ring glints in the light, and I consider taking a lighter to Knox’s nuts again just on principle.

  “I thought I warned you about walking into that,” Parker says to him.

  “Shut the hell up.” I toss a bag of sandwiches on the
counter in the kitchen, stalk to Eloise, and snag the computer again.

  She lunges for my leg and hangs on like a puppy dog trying to hump a fire hydrant while I try to cross the room. It’s tight in here with all these extra people. “Don’t you people have work to do today?”

  “No,” they all reply.

  Except Eloise. “I was trying to do my work.”

  “You’re trying to cause chaos.”

  “I’m making the world a better place.” And then she starts singing a Michael Jackson song about healing the world, and she’s really awful, but Parker and Willow pick it up too. Pigpen joins in, and the three of them lock arms and sway to the music. Knox pulls out his phone, grinning, and starts recording.

  “Fucking fucktwats,” I mutter.

  Eloise sinks her teeth into my leg and bites down hard enough to make me yelp, mostly because I wasn’t expecting it. The computer wobbles, she grins up at me, and fuck me with an electric toothbrush, she’s so damn fascinating.

  Layers upon layers of lies and half-truths mixed with heart and soul and talent.

  Maybe not the singing talent, but she can bang the drums.

  And more.

  I kill the power on the computer, but I’m stupidly happy as I’m doing it.

  “What did she do this time?” Knox asks me when song time is over. “Denial of service attack on the Nigerian prince scammers? Set up a telemarketer scam to jam robocallers’ phone lines with calls from 666-666-6666? Download user data from a pirate site and sent it to the FBI?”

  “Child’s play,” Eloise scoffs. “I took care of a criminal so the authorities wouldn’t have to. I did the world a favor. You’re welcome.”

  “Oh my god.” Parker’s eyes go wide. “You—you’re—how—fuck.”

  “What?” Willow says.

  My sister points at me, then Eloise. “They’re like…the same. He’s a SEAL god. She’s a hacker god. But the ego. The saving the world… Oh my god. I need a paper bag. I can’t handle this.”

  “We’re not the same. I don’t have a dick. And if I did, it would be bigger than his.” Eloise frowns. “Although that really would give me a third leg, assuming I was still short, because his is pretty—”

  “Aaarrrrrggghhh!” Parker claps her hands over her ears.

  “Nuclear,” Eloise finishes with a grin.

  “Dude, if your junk’s radioactive, you should see a doctor,” Knox tells me.

  I drop the computer in the trash. Eloise shrieks. Willow gasps. Pigpen grunts out an irritated sigh.

  And in the midst of all of it, Eloise’s cat slinks out from behind the radiator and hacks up a hairball in the center of the floor.

  She lets go of my leg to grab the cat and cuddle it close. “Aww, poor baby.”

  It’s the most normal thing I’ve seen her do. And there go those strings around my heart tugging and pulling and making music like they’re a harp.

  “You’re cleaning that up,” I tell her gruffly.

  “Sure thing, Glory Ass.”

  Parker grimaces again.

  “And you,” I say, pointing to her. “You tell anyone Eloise is here, and I’ll tell Ma you’re pregnant.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.” I jerk my chin at Willow. “You tell anyone Eloise is here, and I’ll tell your stepfather Gallagher has herpes.”

  “My stepbrothers already forcibly had him tested for everything under the sun. Try another one.”

  “Who knew that would come in handy?” Parker says, shaking her head.

  “I know, right?”

  “Pretty sure the point is that you’re all in danger if anyone knows you’re friends with Eloise,” Knox pipes up.

  “Oh, we know,” Willow replies. “She’s worth it.”

  Eloise buries her head in her cat’s fur, but I catch the surprise.

  She doesn’t know they care.

  She doesn’t know anybody cares.

  “Don’t you have a brother?” Parker says suddenly.

  Eloise waves a hand. “He disowned me. He’ll be fine.”

  And more with the lying, but since Parker and Willow are both making those sympathetic girl noises, I don’t push it.

  As soon as we’re alone though, I’m getting the truth out of her.

  24

  Eloise

  If I had to be kidnapped and stuck in an apartment, I couldn’t have better eye candy. The apartment itself is pretty bare, except for the kitchen area, which is still overflowing with food bags. No plants, no pictures on the wall, nothing.

  It’s like this is temporary living.

  But the occupants make up for the weird unhappy feelings that come with the idea of this place being temporary for Rhett. And for being kidnapped.

  Okay, fine.

  I’m willingly staying here, because I actually feel safer here than I would if I ran away to Canada. Like the cold part of Canada where you have to drive over ice to get to real land and you might accidentally find diamonds, but I don’t want diamonds, I just want to be safe.

  Like I am right here.

  Rhett and Pigpen keep giving each other looks like they’re reading each other’s minds and plotting something, and it’s kinda hot to see two buff dudes connecting like that. I tell myself they’re talking about offering to be the beta testers for my new reverse harem, because otherwise I’ll start thinking about Rhett hiding his smile about me putting the ice cream in my duffel bag and the hairspray in the freezer.

  About him not turning me over to the cops.

  About him being all hot and protective and smart enough to not let on as to how smart he is.

  About him going down on me last night, and wondering if Pigpen will leave so he’ll do it again, or maybe if he’ll just do it again even with Pigpen here.

  People expect me to be into freaky shit. Might as well embrace it.

  Parker, Knox, and Willow bailed a few minutes ago. They promised they wouldn’t tell a soul, but we all know they’re headed to Sia and Chase’s place to talk about me.

  I don’t often assume they talk about me at all, but if they did, I’d also assume they compare notes on what they think the weirdest shit I’ve ever done is and how uncomfortable I’ve made them by asking ridiculously personal and sometimes gross questions.

  I’ve somehow stumbled into a crowd that doesn’t mind me being weird. Until now, I’ve just assumed they appreciate the entertainment. But the last few days have proven it’s more.

  They like me.

  And it’s making me feel things I’ve never trusted myself to feel. Things about belonging and friends and trust.

  “I could find out who the thugs were and where to find them if you let me have the computer back,” I tell Rhett, even though getting the computer in the first place to supposedly run facial recognition software was a cover because I wanted to check on my out-trolling a troll operation in my Vikings in Space game.

  “I can find out who the thugs were without giving you the computer back,” he replies.

  I wonder if he can do with his mind what I can do with a computer, even though I know it’s technically impossible, but then, technically impossible hasn’t ever stopped me. “I can pinpoint where Dirk Lemonson is located based on his IP address. I just haven’t done it yet because it’s harder than everything else I did. Which doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Just that I haven’t.”

  He does a really good job of acting like he’s not interested at having a name, but he can’t stop his eyes from going a smidge darker. “I can pinpoint where you are based on the location of your ass.”

  Princess Sparkle Butt yawns, stands, shows Rhett her ass, and then plops back down on top of his sheets.

  His bed is now hers. She’s claimed it, and she will fight to the death—or more likely to the annoyance—until he surrenders it.

  Both men’s phones buzz. They share a look, and Pigpen steps out of the apartment.

  “Does he ever talk? I mean, more than six words in two days?”

 
; “No.”

  “Because you pulled out his vocal cords with your pinky?”

  “Would that turn you on?”

  Now that he mentions it. “Violence is no leprechaun—little green men are hot—but I guess it might. A little.”

  “You’re soaking wet right now, aren’t you?”

  Is there a woman on the planet who wouldn’t be with that hazel smolder aimed at her? “Incontinence runs in my family.”

  His smolder goes smolderier—shut up, smolderier is too a word—and my nipples go nipplier.

  I’m really digging that he’s not at all turned off by me. Or that he cares enough to fake it. Both are equally attractive.

  And no, I don’t want to consider that he’s actually attracted to me, because that’s still scary.

  I scoot forward on the couch, and only partially because all the throbbing in my hoochie coochie is making sitting uncomfortable in the good way.

  He doesn’t break eye contact except briefly while he pulls his shirt over his head, exposing miles and miles of rigid muscle and inked skin. He’s sitting wide-legged on his desk chair, and he’s still managing to show off a six-pack.

  That takes skill.

  I like skill.

  “Is this more torture?” I ask.

  He rubs a hand over his chest, and fuck, I’m about to start panting. “You want a taste?” he asks.

  Oh, hell to the yes. This is the best kidnapping ever. “Only if you’re rubbed down with coconut oil first. That shit’s tasty.”

  He stands, his jeans riding low on his cut hips, and gives me a delectable view of the ass of glory while he strides three steps to the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and pulls out a tub of coconut oil.

  My mouth goes dry when he unscrews the lid, takes a big ol’ gloppy fistful, and rubs it over his chest.

  Slowly. Shoulder to shoulder, over his thick collarbones, circling his own nipples enough to make that throbbing between my legs turn into a full-on warning, warning, orgasm is imminent ache, with all the same hot wetness that he sparked with his tongue last night.

  He rubs lower, his hands caressing each individual pocket of muscle in his six-pack, and if he grabs his dick, which is straining his jeans again, I’m going to explode.