I shook my head at her. “Still looking for a story?” I teased. The only lead we had was sitting in front of me. I’d told Cecelia earlier that I was inviting Zoey out for drinks to investigate her, but it was only partially true.
“No,” she answered sharply, “look, we need to get one thing straight. I’m just making conversation. I consider all of this to be off the record. I’m not… you’re not a source. And I’m not investigating you or anything.”
She looked offended. I backpedaled. My growing guilt over investigating her for possible motive or evidence related to the data breach made me feel like an asshole. I honestly wished I could trust her, but I was too cynical.
“I’m sorry,” I told her honestly, primarily because I didn’t want to make her angry, “look, I’m not used to having social interactions with journalists. I don’t know the rules.”
She smiled another one of her winning, reassuring smiles. I was starting not to trust that particular expression. It seemed like maybe she used it to cover up her real feelings.
“It’s ok,” she replied, “I’m overly sensitive about it. I don’t want you to think I have some kind of ulterior motive. I mean, I did, earlier when I was snooping around looking for your office, obviously. But I just want to get dessert right now.”
“Fair enough,” I told her, “I’m probably over-sensitive about it too. After having my, uh, footage aboard the ISS leaked, I’m just a little wary.”
Zoey nodded, and her next smile, while still beautiful, was a bit smaller and more guarded. I might be kidding myself, but I thought this reaction was more genuine than her ‘journalist’ smile.
“I get it,” she said, “especially after having your data stolen, it must be hard to trust anybody. Particularly someone like me. I was really surprised when you called.”
She was blushing again. She’d dressed more casually for tonight than I’d seen before, wearing a black skirt and cream-colored blouse. She tucked her hair back behind her ear, looking much more like an innocent school girl than a conniving reporter and possible burglar. I found myself wondering if it was all a part of an act.
The awkward conversation was then rescued by Carla arriving with our pies and coffee.
“I can’t believe you got the coconut cream,” I told her as we ate, “it’s literally the only flavor of pie I don’t like.”
“Really?” Zoey answered, “I love coconut flavored stuff. Pina coladas, macaroons, those Girl Scout cookies with the coconut flakes. All of it. Makes me think of home.”
“Where’s home?” I asked curiously.
“Florida,” she replied smiling, “I mean, we don’t actually have any coconut trees except way down in the keys, but coconut tastes like the beach to me.”
“What brought you so far north?” I questioned. Zoey didn’t look particularly like a beach girl. She didn’t even have a tan.
“College. I went to Columbia for journalism. Supposedly it’s the best? I got great internships but then I got laid off twice in a year since nobody reads newspapers anymore. Demand is low for junior reporters these days,” she said, shrugging sadly.
“You’ll find something,” I replied confidently, and it earned me another small smile. The truth was that Zoey was obviously driven and very smart. If anyone could succeed in her struggling field it ought to be her. Or, barring that, she could always be a criminal and a liar, my inner cynic suggested.
“Well,” she said after another bite of nasty coconut pie, “there’s always JuicyNews. It may not be the New York Times, but whatever. Somebody’s got to cover Angelica’s preferences on sparkling water. It pays the bills, too. Making a living as a writer is an achievement all on its own.”
She sounded a bit like she was trying to convince herself.
“I know a lot of people,” I started to say, but she cut me off.
“No. No way,” she said, smiling but shaking her head, “I’m not asking for help, really. I’ve got industry connections, too. I’ll be fine. Sorry, I was just complaining. Let’s talk about something else.”
I nodded. I could respect that she didn’t want my help. If it was true, it honestly made me think more of her. Our conversation turned to other topics, and then before I knew it, hours had passed. Zoey talked circles around me. Before tonight, I had always thought I was good at steering a conversation. Clearly, I needed to brush up on my skills.
“You can’t seriously believe in aliens, Nathan,” Zoey managed, trying to conceal her laughter, “I mean, sure, probably somewhere in an infinite universe, but come on.”
“There are so many people that believe they’ve had these experiences,” I argued playfully, not sure how I got tricked into taking this position, “it would be silly not to at least leave the door open to the possibility that they aren’t all liars.”
“Ok. Fine. Maybe they aren’t all liars. Some of them are probably crazy. Or their experiences can be explained by natural phenomena. Or they had a weird drug experience. But not aliens.”
“Why not? Is it really so hard to believe that aliens might find us interesting?”
“I barely find us interesting! And if aliens are real, what about ghosts? What about Bigfoot. Do you, Nathan Breyer, believe in Bigfoot?”
“Off the record?” I asked, smirking. I’d already admitted to aliens. Might as well go all in.
Zoey rolled her eyes at me dramatically.
“Sure. Off the record. Bigfoot, yes or no?”
“I’m a hard maybe on Bigfoot. I want to believe.”
“On a scale from one to ten where one is no Bigfoot and ten is our President is a secret Sasquatch and they live among us, where would a ‘hard maybe’ rank?”
“Probably like a six. I’ve definitely met few probable secret Sasquatches in my time. I mean, my own supposed twin has way too much back hair.”
We both dissolved into childish laughter. The restaurant was empty at this point, and we were paid up and just lingering. Poor Carla probably wanted to go home, although I actually hadn’t seen her for a while. Maybe she’d just given up and left. We should probably have left hours ago.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Zoey asked, looking around and clearly coming to the same conclusion, “I only live two blocks away, and we could walk to my place.”
“Sure,” I agreed, hoping we wouldn’t get jumped or something, but eager to spend more time with Zoey. The voice of Cecelia in the back of my mind also reminded me that being in Zoey’s apartment might give me the opportunity to snoop and help reveal if she was involved in the data breach. Still I was surprised she lived anywhere near the diner. This was a really rough area. When I asked Zoey if she wanted to meet here, I hadn’t realized she lived so close. “Lead the way.”
10
Zoey
We were at my door before I started getting nervous. Had I really invited the sexy billionaire back to my shitty shoebox apartment? I looked back at him to confirm. Yes, yes, I had.
Taking a deep breath, I pressed the battered, poorly painted door open. There it was, in all its glory: the entire net wealth of Zoey Melissa Atkinson (minus the Civic, which was probably a liability rather than an asset).
My apartment was small. Mercilessly small. So small that being a minimalist was a necessity rather than a choice. I’d actually been a minimalist back when I could afford more than 300 square feet, but I’d really had to step it up a notch in this apartment. The upside was it was always perfectly clean because there wasn’t much to keep clean.
“Cozy, huh?” I remarked at Nathan’s obvious shock, then laughed at his expression. It wasn’t that bad. At least it had high ceilings and nice windows, plus no roommates. There was no way I could live with roommates again. After four long years in the dorms, I would never be able to cohabitate with other women again.
“Yeah,” he said weakly, stepping into my petite kitchen.
“Do you want some tea?” I asked, feeling weirdly ashamed of my little home. I turned my back to Nathan and pulled out the tea ket
tle from its home under the sink. He must think I was some kind of peasant.
“Sure,” he replied haltingly, recovering somewhat and moving into what passed as my dining room and office, “your apartment reminds me of the ISS a bit. It’s very efficient.”
“That’s why they call it an efficiency,” I quipped, feeling a bit defensive as my humiliation grew stale, “I guess you’re not used to how the other half lives?”
The tips of his ears turned pink.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, “I’m really not trying to be a snob. It’s bred in.”
“It’s ok,” I told him, shrugging, “at least you cop to being a snob. Most people would deny it.”
I put the electric teakettle on and pulled out some mugs from my little cupboard. Usually I drank cheap green tea, but I had some nicer loose-leaf jasmine tea in the back of the cupboard that I rationed. This counted as a special occasion. I didn’t have a lot of company over, and I hadn’t ever had a man visit me in this apartment during the year since I moved in. When Nathan saw me fussing with the tin, the pink on his ears turned a darker red.
“Actually,” he said abruptly, “I don’t like tea. I don’t know why I said that a second ago.”
Was he nervous? That was adorable. Never in a million years would I have thought he’d be intimidated by me. The idea made me quickly stifle a chuckle. He was so far out of my league both physically and economically that it wasn’t even funny. He didn’t reciprocate my smile at him.
“Oh. Ok. Is something the matter?” I asked, putting the tea back in the cupboard and moving in closer to him.
He looked at me with his blue-green eyes wide and wary. He shook his head. I wasn’t wearing high heels tonight, so he was several inches taller than me when I stepped up close to his chest. I kissed him gently, brushing my fingers down the sides of his face. He gripped my waist tightly like he had that afternoon in his office, kissing me back tentatively. He tasted like blueberries and ice cream.
Our kisses began to become more insistent, and I felt a giddy, heart-squeezing passion beginning to rise in me. Shifting out of my shoes one awkward foot at a time, I held onto his shoulders for balance. Once I was barefoot Nathan lifted my shirt over my head with increasing urgency. I pulled his shirttail from his waistband as he snapped the clasp at the back of my bra and pulled it off. But before I could start on the buttons he unexpectedly pulled away and stepped back.
“I’m so sorry, Zoey,” he said, stepping away again and then going around me so he was back in the kitchenette and out of my grasp, “I, um, I can’t do this.”
I didn’t know what to say. No one had ever put me in this sort of a situation before. Had he changed his mind in the last five minutes? Was my apartment really that ugly? Was I ugly? Did I look bad with my shirt off? I’d worn my nicest bra, which was dark purple with little rhinestones on the straps. I’d spent a long time on my hair and makeup and I thought I looked ok…
All I could do was cross my arms across my chest in an ‘x’ shape to cover myself a little bit and stare at him in confusion. Finally, since I guess he was waiting for an answer or some kind of a response, I nodded. He looked really anxious and unhappy and I guess somehow it was my fault.
I swallowed hard and put on my happy, reassuring smile. There was no reason for me to embarrass myself any further. Of course, he didn’t want me. Clearly, he’d come to his senses. When he saw my apartment he probably remembered he could do a lot better than spend the evening with a starving gossip columnist.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, putting on a polite expression, “it’s not a big deal. It was fun getting dessert, but it is getting pretty late, huh? We both have to work tomorrow. Maybe another time.”
“Yeah,” he answered, moving closer to the door while I continued to stand, useless and half-naked in the living room, “I’ll call you.”
He fled.
When he was gone I moved over to the door, locked the three massive locks that protected me from my awful neighborhood outside, and then melted to the ground for a good, long cry.
11
Nathan
I had to get out of there. When Zoey was in my arms, kissing me and letting me undress her, I choked. I just couldn’t continue with her knowing that I had doubts about her honesty and intending to snoop around in her tiny apartment later. Maybe she had been behind the data breach, but I wouldn’t use my real attraction to her, or what at least seemed like her real attraction to me, in order to trick her into letting me investigate her. There had to be another way.
People use sex to manipulate each other all the time. If it was just that, just sex, I would have done it without hesitation. I’d done as much and worse before.
But I really liked Zoey. She was funny, kind, and smart. Zoey interested me more than any woman had in a long time. The thought of using her just made me feel dirty. Even though I was furious about the theft of my data, there was no proof that Zoey had anything to do with it. She had motive to steal data. She was practically living in poverty, but that didn’t make her guilty. I felt like shit for leading her on, and doubly so because I really wanted her.
But leaving the way I did, she probably wouldn’t push me into the ocean if I was on fire, let alone invite me into her bed. I had my car drive itself across town back to my own apartment in defeat. Not only was self-driving technology really cool, it came in handy when I was feeling too guilty and sexually frustrated to drive. Thoughts of her soft lips and fantastic tits flitted through my head the entire time, torturing me.
“Incoming text from Cecelia,” the car told me as I was sitting in the parking garage under my apartment with my head in my hands, “’You up?’”
Cecelia, a happily married woman who thought I was obnoxious on a personal level, wasn’t looking for a booty call. She must have a reason to reach out this late. I called her. She answered on the first ring.
“What’s up?” I asked her, hopeful that she was texting because she figured out what happened.
“We just finished reviewing all the security footage from all the cameras onsite,” she said, ignoring all the social niceties and getting straight to the point the way she always did, “there’s a one-hour gap in the security footage of the server room. Whoever actually accessed the data may not be the person who disabled the security cameras, or it may have been one person, because we can’t figure out how exactly the security cameras were turned off yet. Realistically, anyone with the right passwords and access to the hardwired machines or network connected devices in the building could have gone into the system and switched off the cameras.”
“That’s not new information, just confirmation of old information. Were you able to track Zoey’s movements throughout the building in order to exclude her?” If Cecelia didn’t have news, she wouldn’t be calling, but unfortunately, we didn’t always agree on what the most important points were.
“Not yet,” Cecelia said, “your little tabloid-writer friend took a roundabout route through the building. She was following multiple people with badges. She drops off and shows back up on cameras for half an hour before she arrives in the executive suite. She definitely had the opportunity to access a computer and mess with the cameras during the times she wasn’t recorded.”
“We knew that already. What is the information you called to tell me?” I snapped irritably. Cecelia had been adamant that Zoey was behind the hack from the moment we first discussed it. She’d begun reviewing the security footage, seen a woman sneaking in where she shouldn’t have been, and decided it was definitely her.
“We figured out exactly when the camera system was accessed,” Cecelia answered, not even noticing that my tone had gone from hopeful to harsh, “and it was during one of the gaps in the security footage when we know Atkinson was somewhere on the ninth floor but not on camera near the exits.”
“So, go through the key stroke logging of every terminal on that floor,” I barked. She should know this already.
“We’re doing t
hat now. Unfortunately, there are nine hundred and seventy-five computers on that level, and at least three times as many tablets and phones that have network access which could have potentially been moved to that level.”
“How long will it take?”
“Everyone is still here, but even working around the clock? At least five days.”
“Is there another way to figure out if it was Zoey?”
“Sure. She could tell us which computer she used.”
“Besides that.”
“No.”
“What you’re really telling me is that my choice is to either devote sixty people to five days of round the clock work on the hunch that we could prove that Zoey disabled the cameras while she was on the ninth floor, or to continue trying to investigate in other ways?”
“Yes.”
I took a deep breath.
“I don’t like either of those options,” I said finally, “so I want you to put a small group, maybe twenty-five percent, on the key logging and keep everyone else trying to figure out a more efficient way to determine what happened. We can’t waste five days going through key logging when the manned test is in four.”
Cecelia was silent, which was her version of disagreement.
“Does that make sense?” I finally followed up.
“It does,” she said shortly, “I’ll keep you updated on the progress. When would you like the next report?”
I looked at the clock. It was two a.m.
“Seven a.m.,” I said, “and let people sleep, Cecelia. Put them on shifts, but I don’t want anyone working more than ten hours straight. It’s bad for their health and makes them sloppy.”
“Alright. Just out of curiosity,” she finally ventured, “did you manage to get anything out of Atkinson tonight?”
“No,” I responded, “I didn’t. I also think it might be better if we just told her the evidence suggests she might have been involved.”
Kiss and Tell (Scions of Sin Book 2) Page 5