Raincheck (Caldwell Brothers Book 6)

by Colleen Charles

  “I don’t need money,” I snap without thought. “So, if untold riches are your big pitch, sorry you wasted your time, Mr. Caldwell. Goodbye.”

  I turn to leave. First that Dante clown, and now this. Jesus, what is with these wealthy, entitled, casino-owning assholes? They think they can wave their magic money around and treat the rest of us like their personal chess pieces?

  Checkmate.

  “I know you don’t need money,” Nixon retorts. “But you know who does? Geeks Vegas. From what I understand, they need all the resources they can get. Imagine what they could do with seven figures.”

  I pause, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Okay, so this Nixon Caldwell character clearly likes to play the role of the Shadowy Omniscient Manipulator, that much is obvious. And yeah, fine, he got some hacker to follow my digital trail. Whatever. I hadn’t really guarded my Ostrich persona all that well to begin with. Because it was clearly only birthed to fuck with him.

  But Geeks Vegas?

  How the hell could he know about that?

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Hawk says, his eyes narrowing into slits. “What are you talking about?”

  For the first time today, I really look at him. The way his wild hair curls around his shoulders, the broad shoulders leading down to his tapered waist. The way his eyes spark with ideas or anger. Without reason, my body responds, tightening into an inferno of heat. I hate his fucking guts. I hate everything about him.

  I do.

  “Are you kidding me?” I storm. Anyone who’s anyone in our industry gives of themselves to Geeks Vegas. They’re on the front lines of one of the poorest, most uneducated dangerous places for youth in the US.

  He ignores me, and for some reason, that makes me even angrier than his insults. He leans closer to Nixon. “Who is ‘Geeks Vegas?’ Sounds like a nickname for some coder gone awry.”

  “Geeks Vegas isn’t a who, it’s a what,” Nixon replies with a smile. “Specifically, it’s a charity organization that supplies computers and software to school districts and low-income families. Then, underprivileged kids who have been through their programs, teach families how to use their new equipment. Some of the best coders and software developers that UNLV has ever seen came from Geeks Vegas.”

  “And you’d probably know all about them if you didn’t spend all of your time kissing your own ass,” I shot at Hawk.

  “Maybe he would,” Nixon interjects quickly before Hawk can fire back at me. “But what he wouldn’t know is how many hours you’ve spent volunteering your time and services to them. For anyone to know that, they’d have to do some extremely deep digging and learn some of your other aliases. You’ve got quite a collection, by the way. I’m impressed.”

  “Okay, even if I were inclined to work with you – which, again, I’m not – I’m getting very weirded out by the level of stalking it would take for you to find out all this stuff about me.”

  My skin crawls at the hands of Nixon Caldwell, and I feel violated. I like to keep my distance from people and keep my secrets to myself. Even Neon doesn’t know I volunteer for Geeks Vegas. And if he knew how much money I gave them, well...he’d shit a brick. Most of the private funding they receive for computers is from my foundation. If I wanted a bunch of curious people I barely know and don’t even like crawling up my ass with a microscope, I’d work in an office.

  “Not stalking, just a precaution,” Nixon insists. “I would think it goes without saying that before offering to work with anyone on security for my casino, I’d conduct a thorough background check. Geeks Vegas is a fine organization, but they’re still underfunded, understaffed, and unable to reach one-tenth of the people they need to. On average, they net a few hundred thousand dollars in donations each year, leaving volunteers like you to scrape and scrounge for viable parts to build computers. But what if they were suddenly given, say, one million dollars? Can you imagine all the good they could do with that money?”

  I feel my eyebrows jump up before I can conceal my surprise. The offer entices me more than I care to admit, especially, to an arrogant ass like him. The children who need those computers – the ones from broken homes and shitty neighborhoods, the ones who really need access to the outside world via the internet, if only so they could have a hope in hell of creating better lives for themselves – have been making due with the hastily-assembled Frankenstein machines and bug-infested secondhand software Geeks Vegas could afford to give them. But with a million dollars, they could actually change people’s lives for the better. More people than I can do by myself.

  “And that’s your offer?” I back up a few steps. It feels like if I can just put some space between me and Hawk, I’ll be able to breathe again without the air getting trapped in my throat. “I help Hawk rebuild the security program, and in return, you donate a million dollars to Geeks Vegas? I have to say, that sounds like you’re doing yourself a favor, given the good publicity a donation like that would bring you. Not to mention the tax benefits.”

  Nixon spreads his arms expansively. “I already make plenty of charitable donations to the tune of a tenth of my revenue. Las Vegas Magazine already lauds my family’s name. To me, this would just be one more. But to you...it’s personal.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. But you know that wouldn’t be enough either, right? I’d also want–”

  “You’d want to share credit for it, plus a percentage of the profits,” Nixon finishes for me. “Naturally. Those demands are perfectly reasonable, and I’ll make sure they’re included in the contracts my attorneys will draw up. You do have your own business to think about, after all.”

  I can’t believe I’m seriously considering this.

  But you are.

  For the donation to Geeks Vegas, and the hope that will buy for kids and families who rely on those computer screens as windows into a larger world. Even with my personal donations, we struggle to outfit all the needy families with hardware and software. I also seriously consider the benefits to Haven Security when I can claim even partial credit for developing a revolutionary new security program.

  And my dad will be so proud of me.

  For the money, maybe only a little. I don’t need it, but it’s nice to know I’m worth it, and that every dollar is one more tiny confirmation of my worth as a developer. And with my good investments over the years, I can do that much more for kids in need.

  And... well, maybe – if I’m being totally honest with myself – maybe also for the chance to show Hawk what I’m actually capable of doing. To finally pay him back for that day years ago by taking him down a peg or two. Or five.

  Or to infinity and beyond.

  If Hawk lives long enough.

  His chiseled face turns crimson with rage, and I can practically take his pulse just from looking at the side of his neck. It’s a beautiful sight, even more satisfying than our interlude a few days ago. I take a mental snapshot, hoping to preserve the image for future times when I’m feeling down and need a little ego boost.

  “Okay, I’m in,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  Nixon nods. “A very sensible decision. I’ll contact my brother, and Reagan will have the contract for you to sign first thing tomorrow.”

  “Excuse me, but what the actual fuck?” Hawk’s voice rises in pitch until he sounds like a little girl singing a show tune or a man about to have his balls cut off, and I try to hide a smile. “I haven’t agreed to work with her. I haven’t agreed to any of this!”

  “That’s fine,” Nixon says in an easy, friendly tone. “You’re perfectly within your rights to refuse this offer. And, as the sole investor in your security project who’s patiently waited the full amount of development time outlined in our original contract, I’m perfectly within my rights to demand that you either produce the finished result now or refund the investment capital I’ve given you.”

  I actually suppress laughter until my eyes water. The helpless, bewildered look in Hawk’s eyes reminds me of a rabbit in the split-second before a car reduces i
t to roadkill.

  “That’s...you can’t...” Hawk stammers. “There was a fire! You said yourself, it wasn’t my fault! We’re friends for fuck’s sake!”

  “Hmm, that I did,” Nixon says. “And we are friends. But this is business. My lawyers run this show, especially Reagan. He says you can legally be held accountable for not taking steps to prevent this – backing up your work off-site, for example. But hey, we go way back, and I’m a reasonable guy. You don’t have to hand it over right now. I’ll give you an extra...” Nixon glances at his watch. “...hour to finish it. Oh, heck, we’re friends, right? Make it an hour and a half.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Hawk answers through clenched teeth. “I couldn’t rewrite all that code in a week and a half.”

  “Oh, no. That’s a shame. It looks as though you owe me a somewhat gargantuan sum, then. Do you happen to have your checkbook on you, or shall I notify Reagan, so he can start preparing a lawsuit?”

  “You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t sic that Brooks Brothers wearing pitbull on me in my darkest hour? Your brother has no mercy.”

  Hawk looks like a kid who’s about to watch his puppy get shot. I almost feel sorry for him. But only for a second.

  “I’m afraid I would.” Nixon walks behind his desk and sits down in his chrome office chair so he looks like a king on his throne. “I like you, Hawk, but I love my casino, and I’ll keep it away from Dante by any means necessary. So, make your decision, but please, do it quickly. Patience has never been my virtue.”

  After a long, venomous pause, Hawk murmurs, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Splendid.” Nixon claps his hands and rubs them together. “I knew everyone would see reason. Now, I imagine tempers between you are flaring a bit right now. Ordinarily, I’d just step back and trust both of you to work all that out in your own time, but unfortunately, we’re in a bit of a hurry. So instead, I’ve reserved a table for the two of you at Best of Both Worlds tonight. Your dinner will be on me, of course. Have some drinks. Tell some jokes. Swap some stories. Do whatever you have to in order to work together, because starting tomorrow, that’s precisely what you’ll be expected to do. And let’s make something crystal clear. If either of you privately tries to come to me and complain about your working relationship, I will not be happy. I’m your investor, not your kindergarten teacher. Is that understood?”

  We both nod. Nixon smiles, flashing a sliver of white teeth.

  “‘Blessed is the peacemaker,’” he recites, “‘for truly, he shall be called a child of God.’ It’s a new role for me, and I’m kind of digging it. Now go. Oh, and please...give my best to Dixie. Have her prepare a tableside Caesar for you, Waverly. You’ll love it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Hawk

  We sit in the back of the town car that Caldwell provided, and all the way to the restaurant, Waverly doesn’t say a word. A wall of impenetrable anger stalls conversation, trapping it inside the emotional structure. She just sits there, staring out the window at the neon lights of the Strip. Due to the fact that she hates me, and I didn’t want to pander to her in any way, shape or form, I still haven’t gotten a good look at her. All I know is she’s all platinum blonde hair like Daenerys on Game of Thrones, and she possesses some killer curves that she’s trying to hide. She’s failing. I just hope I don’t end up like John Snow before he gets his magical second wind.

  I blink, and a vision flashes, taking me by surprise. Waverly is splayed out on my bed, all waterfalls of silky hair, full tits, and wet pussy. Desire shoots through me like pain, and I force myself to remember my place. I’m a man without a past, and after today, maybe not even a future. She’s not for the likes of me.

  Her silence doesn’t annoy me, because even if she does decide to speak, I’m not wholly certain that I’d hear her. My blood crashes in my ears, and my temples feel like they’re being used as bongo drums. I’ve got my hands clasped tightly in my lap to prevent them from shaking with anger. I rely on every ounce of self-control not to go absolutely nuclear.

  How could Caldwell do this to me? Sure, he’s a money guy, and most money guys can’t be trusted to respect guys like me who wear clothes with holes, live on junk food, and conjure up codes and apps and programs from thin air – fine, I’m used to that. It’s why I don’t deal with them anymore. Shit, it’s why I barely even leave my workroom anymore.

  But I thought my friend was different. I thought the years of comradery between us make him more than just an empty suit. I thought he understood me and appreciated our relationship along with the unique skill set I bring to the table.

  “It’s not your fault,” he’d said. Right. Sure. Until you need something from me and can hold it over my head.

  The hell of it is, on top of it all, guilt rages through my body right alongside the anger as if they’re both facing off in an emotional drag race. Because I can rant and rave all I want about him stabbing me in the back with this maneuver, but deep down, I know it really is my fault that he hasn’t gotten what he paid for. I haven’t come through. I should have backed up my work better. Hell, I should have been doing that daily – probably even hourly during the particularly sensitive parts. It’s a lesson most hardcore coders bitterly learn before they’re twenty years old.

  Never, ever take your hands off the wheel.

  But no. I thought I was in the zone. Nothing could touch me. I was The Invincible Hawk Stryker, and I couldn’t be bothered to pause my vital work long enough to protect it, could I? Fires? Losing all your work? No, those were things that happened to mere mortals, weren’t they? Certainly not to the mighty Hawk Stryker, Modern Prometheus, Sacred Lightbringer of HTML and C++.

  I hear Waverly’s voice and turn to look at her. “Sorry, what?”

  “I said we’re here,” she repeats, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

  We both get out of the car and walk toward the door. Waverly’s lush mouth is set in a tight line, and she keeps sneaking glances at me. I’ll admit, I haven’t been putting my best foot forward, but neither has she. She opens the door and walks in, then grudgingly holds it open behind her, waiting for me. I follow her in, and the hostess seats us instantly. We’re the only ones in the place who aren’t dressed up in expensive evening wear. I’ve been here so many times that I barely even notice anymore, but the restaurant’s wealthy clientele are openly staring at her torn jeans and frayed t-shirt, and she glares back at them like someone who’s just stepped out onto the surface of a strange alien world.

  Once we’re seated and the host leaves us with the menus, Waverly opens her mouth, closes it again for a moment, then slowly says, “Um, thank you for not holding the door open for me. I should have known you’re no gentleman.”

  Gentleman?

  I roll my eyes. “Jesus, we’ve been here two seconds, and you’re already being sarcastic. ‘Hold the door open for you?’ What, you’re used to dinners with fucking Sir Galahad? Besides, I would have gotten the door if you hadn’t run ahead of me like a scalded cat.”

  Waverly flinches, and for a moment, it looks like she’s about to spit an insult back at me. Instead, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “No, I wasn’t, uh...I wasn’t being sarcastic. I actually do hate it when guys do that. Hold the door open for me, I mean. It’s, um, patronizing and misogynistic, I think. So. Yeah. Thanks. For, um...not...doing that.” She trails off.

  I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to say. A huge gap lies between being considerate and misogynistic. Before I can sweep it away, an image of me holding doors open for her, fighting ogres for her, and picking up her dropped handkerchief, settles inside my brain.

  A rush of protective emotion grabs me by the throat. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

  A long and uncomfortable silence follows, during which we both pretend to study our menus. The words in front of me blur into a jumbled mess. All I can think about is how my friend treated me, how he backed me into a corner and dictated
terms to me like I’m on his payroll. Being treated like a minion is one of the biggest reasons I chose coding and independent software development in the first place – so I’d never be pushed around and expected to just follow some boss’s orders without a second thought. Even if I don’t bring money and power to the table, I bring my really big brain. I want to use it. I’ll never be anyone’s employee. And I thought I’d done that. I really thought I was free.

  Then Nixon Fucking Caldwell gives the leash a little jerk and...

  “You’ve been here before, right?” Waverly asks, her eyes nervously darting to mine and then back to the menu. “What’s good? What do you usually get when you’re here?”

  She’s right. I’ve been here plenty of times. But in that moment, I cannot think of a single thing I’ve ever ordered here, or whether anything I got was any good. It’s like my skull is full of a deep red fog, and no matter what I do, I can’t clear it away.

  “I don’t know. It’s all good. Order whatever you want, I don’t care.”

  She winces, then pinches the bridge of her nose and takes another deep breath. “Look, for what it’s worth, what Nixon said to you back there was kind of harsh. Not backing up your work, losing your stuff...it happens, you know? It’s just a thing that happens to all of us. If you’re able to stop what you’re doing long enough to back it up, odds are you aren’t passionate enough about it to be working on it anyway, right? I get that. I do. I’ve lost plenty of projects that way.”

  For the first time, I realize that she’s not just trying to cut the tension with small talk – these comments are meant to be peace offerings. Part of me feels a grudging respect for her since she’s the first to try to put the obvious hostility between us aside. I want it to be that simple for me too. I want to follow her to the high road, so we can work together.