by Jina Bacarr
“I imagine she couldn’t resist your charm,” she snarled.
“It works on you every time.”
“Can it, Steven. You’re the best-looking field agent I have, but the FBI didn’t hire you for your looks.”
He let that pass.
“Believe me, Jordan, you haven’t seen this girl.” He whistled under his breath. “She’s sensational.”
He’d never forget how she’d ground her butt into his groin, teasing him, making him crazy. Dry humping him until he couldn’t take it any longer. To knock him off balance? He had to find out. He’d slid her jeans down over her smooth skin and grabbed her ass. A more perfect ass he’d never seen. And one that gave a guy all kinds of sinful thoughts. Damn, he was going ballistic over this chick.
Why? Because she’d touched a nerve in him.
For all her brave talk, he swore she wasn’t as easy a lay as she made out.
Maybe it was the glasses, which he found sexy, that gave her the innocent air. In the end it was his job to make sure she wasn’t a threat to him.
“Listen up, Steven,” Jordan was saying, “we’ve been trying to bring in this corporate sleazeball for months and get him to talk.” She paused, no doubt to gulp down her coffee. Black. Always. “And now you’re telling me when you get the chance to get the goods on him, you let your dick do the talking.”
“You’ll have my full report in the morning, Jordan,” Steve promised, knowing he faced another sleepless night. He hadn’t copied the whole file, but what he had seen didn’t advance the investigation. Frustrated, he downed the last of his coffee. This case was keeping them both up late. Briggs had drawn the attention of the FBI when his bank reported that he split up large financial transactions into smaller ones and then tried unsuccessfully to take his name off them. They needed evidence to prove he was structuring the transfers to evade reporting them. It didn’t stop there. It was the why that had them baffled. According to their sources, Briggs had made several unexplained overseas trips. Not to mention extravagant dinners at posh hotels, yet Pepper said her boss was cheap.
Steve’s gut told him something bigger was at stake than tax evasion. He’d put out feelers on the street and had a few nibbles. What he’d learned so far wasn’t pretty. He suspected Briggs was involved in money laundering. All he needed was proof.
“I want to see you in my office first thing in the morning,” Jordan finished with a yawn. “Is that clear?”
“Anything you say, ma’am,” Steve said, signing off, knowing she hated him calling her ma’am.
“Seven o’clock sharp,” she insisted. “Before breakfast.”
“I’ll bring the beer,” he said, grinning. “You bring the doughnuts.”
Then he hung up.
He pulled the baseball cap down low over his eyes to take a quick snooze, planning his next move. His balls tightened. Damn, he couldn’t concentrate. How could he even think? He couldn’t forget his encounter in the copy room with the redhead. There was something about that girl that got under his skin.
He intended to find out more about this Pepper. Who she was, where she came from. And why she was working late. That made her suspect in his eyes. She knew something, but what?
He intended to get a full report on her.
Pepper. Smooth, round ass. Sweet, sexy bod.
A perfect fit for his dick.
Are you as hot as your name? he’d asked her.
You bet she was.
This case just got a whole lot more interesting.
* * *
This was one goddamn screwed-up night.
I’d barely zipped up my jeans when the Wicked Witch of the West made me pack up my things and give her back the key to the girls’ daisy-wallpapered bathroom. We were the only two who used it since the company wasn’t big on hiring females unless forced to do so. All the other employees were guys. No receptionist up front. Nobody answered the phone when customers needed tech support since all the calls were routed overseas.
Just rooms filled with programmers and graphic art designers. A geek junkie’s heaven on earth.
Then Ms. Sims recited the employee policy to me like it was the Miranda Rights.
“You are hereby ordered not to contact anyone at the company after your termination,” she said, stuffing the documents she’d taken from me into a folder. I grabbed my coffee cup and closed up my backpack. I assumed she would report the break-in to the protection services Mr. Briggs hired to keep out interlopers.
Which made me wonder—
Where was the security guy who walked the perimeter? This wasn’t the first time he’d messed up. The only reason he kept his job was because he was Ms. Sims’s nephew.
“Why not?” I asked, confused. I often traded programming shortcuts with the guys.
“If you dare to initiate conversation with our employees,” she said, hands on her hips, “I will contact the authorities and have you arrested as an accomplice.”
“Accomplice to what?” I wanted to know. “You got your file back. Nothing was taken.”
Except my pride.
I didn’t mention the copies. Why make things worse? Mr. Briggs’s tax records couldn’t be that important unless he had an ex-wife no one knew about. Besides, I’d never live it down if anyone found out about this, especially Cindy. We’ve traded secrets and diaries since high school. She’d think it was romantic and want all the juicy details.
“True, but you did allow that man in here.” She fumbled around for the right words. “He could have seen our new video game design.”
“I doubt it.” I threw the words back at her. “He was too busy eyeing my ass.”
That did it. The wrath of the Emerald City flying monkeys rained down upon me.
“You little slut,” Ms. Sims screamed. “Get out, now!”
I swore I saw smoke coming out of her ears. I shouldn’t have said that, but I couldn’t help it. She’d had it in for me since Mr. Briggs hired me. She was the Queen Bee until I arrived. She was jealous since I got all the attention from the guys. Was it my fault she didn’t know WTF code from the acronym for the expletive?
That was the end of my career at the video game company. The office manager threw me out on my butt with no references, no severance package.
Nada. I got screwed and the thief got away.
All because I forgot to buy batteries for my vibrator.
* * *
I figured I wouldn’t have a problem finding work since video game programmers were a hot commodity. Yeah, right. Nobody told me the job market had gone cold. Or so it seemed to me. Over the next week, I sent out fifty résumés a day online and went on interviews only to have them tell me they’ve stopped interviewing for that position. Which was a nice way of saying “not interested.”
Worse yet, I discovered no one would hire me because I’d been fired for “misconduct of a nonbusiness nature.” That piece of information was leaked to me by a kind soul at the unemployment office. I was persona non grata there, as well. No checks from the state hit my mailbox. Even those online personality tests had it in for me with their trick questions.
You’re fucked. You’ll never work in this town again.
I shouldn’t have mouthed off to the office manager, but my offbeat personality had its roots in my traumatic childhood. Shuffled from one foster home to another, I pulled off numerous crazy stunts to get attention. When I was in junior high, the other kids wouldn’t stop bullying me, saying I was different and didn’t have a real family. So I hacked into the school computer to find out what was in my file. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t find out anything I didn’t already know.
When I was in high school, I wrote a software program to help me learn fact-driven data at a faster pace. Instead of praise for my efforts, I got stung for my antics. You’d think I’d done something wrong, like designing a T-shirt with a logo that was really a cheat sheet. Since then, I learned to shy away from people to keep from getting hurt.
When I went away to
college to get my degree in computer science thanks to a scholarship, I found the only way to be accepted as an equal by the übergeeks was to play down my looks with jeans and red plaid flannel shirts.
And glasses.
I shied away from getting contacts. I had to admit I used the specs as a shield against the world. Recent life-changing moments showed me I couldn’t hide anymore. The naked truth was, I was desperate. Past-due rent and an empty fridge were a real incentive for me to rev up my computer skills.
Time for me to do a little snooping to set the record straight.
* * *
Dawn.
There was something about my old company at this time of day that got to me. Like it wasn’t real, only imagined.
A gothic gingerbread house.
Fog sat lazy and white over the trolley wires, while the winding streets gave off a mood of nonchalance before dealing with the seething passion of the morning sun. Birds flitted from tree to tree, flapping their wings to keep warm.
I pulled my flannel shirt closer around me to keep out the wet chill as I traipsed in my clunky leather boots through the pink and white azaleas around the back of the house. I was amazed how the delicate flowers tugged at their roots in their attempt to grow tall and strong like the wisteria vines hugging the worn brown sandstone. They provided great cover for my private entrance, allowing me to enter unseen through a hidden door leading into a basement room used for storage.
It was a jib door that looked like a window. When lifted and opened, it led into the rear of the house. Most likely it had provided a discreet means of entry for the Victorian gentleman or lady wishing to return home unobserved.
For me, it was the perfect way to sneak inside and put my plan into action.
I treaded carefully so as not to disturb the plump cat snoozing outside the secret door. A habit of hers recently. I’d arrived at the office before anyone else and then waited for the security guard to make his rounds before gaining entrance. No worry. I knew his habits. He did his job in slo-mo. By the time he came this way again, I’d be long gone. I knew what I was looking for. We all left our digital footprints. You just had to know where to look.
Two days ago I installed a device to track the keystrokes the office manager made on her keyboard. Yesterday I recovered it, uploaded it to my computer and then retrieved her password. I was well aware I was guilty of hacking, but I firmly believed I’d been fired unjustly. I felt warranted in righting that wrong. I just wanted my life back.
I sat down at her computer and, after a few clicks, I was in.
Yes.
I drew in my breath, nervous and excited as files popped up on the screen. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for: a list of former employees. I knew that Ms. Sims used an off-site human resources company to answer job inquiries about their ex-staff. She must have given them the off-putting information about my termination. All I had to do was change that info in my file.
I scrolled through the names, looking for my moniker. Once I found it, I’d change the reason for my dismissal to “termination without cause.” Then I’d add that I was part of a company layoff.
Next, I’d write a letter on the video company letterhead documenting that my efforts were of value to the company, but “because of the weak economy and a slowdown in the technology field,” they’d had no choice but to terminate my employment.
With luck, no one would notice the change in my file, and I could email it to the various job banks to clear my record.
It didn’t work out like I planned.
My file was gone. Disappeared. Like I never existed.
I stared at the computer screen as if I were reading another language, one beyond my comprehension. I felt dumb, foolish. I traced my steps again, tried another file, opened it. Nothing. Another file, still nothing.
I sat back, thinking. How did Mr. Briggs intend to explain my disappearance to the IRS? It occurred to me that might not be a bad thing. Still, I kept searching through the files, scrolling up and down, doing a name search.
I came up with zip.
What happened?
Where was my file?
I didn’t even blink, as if by sheer mental force I could will the pixels to form my name. Zilch. I rubbed my eyes. Nothing changed. Finally, I had to admit no computer trick or maneuver was going to bring back my file. I couldn’t fix what wasn’t there.
That left me no choice. I had to see Mr. Briggs in person and demand an explanation.
That presented a new problem. How was I going to get close enough to confront him? No doubt Ms. Sims would have security haul my ass out before I could talk to him. I would have to corner him somewhere off the premises, but where?
I had bounced forward, my feet flat on the floor, opening various files while looking for his calendar, when something strange on the screen caught my eye.
What was this?
Mr. Briggs was doing business with companies I didn’t recognize. Offshore companies, by the locales of their bank transactions. Weird. I shrugged it off, since outsourcing work in this business was common.
I closed the file and kept looking until I located his calendar. Scrolling through it, I could see he was out of town for the remainder of the week. Then he had meetings across the Bay at snooty banks with security so tight even I couldn’t hack into their system. Later, a haircut at an exclusive salon. I could go all scissor hands and scare the hell out of him until he gave me my job back. Not a good career move.
Wait. Next Thursday he had a luncheon appointment at a place called The Mermaid’s Tale.
A sushi restaurant.
Cool.
I knew just the person who could help me snag a gig there.
Cindy Ball.
Former prom queen. Do-gooder. And all-round girl-gone-wild.
Better yet, she owed me one.
Chapter Three
“I can’t do it, Pepper,” Cindy said, glossing her lips so red she looked like a fire hydrant eager for a hot firefighter to push her buttons. “I could get fired.”
“You’ve got to help me, Cindy,” I pleaded, “my life depends on it.”
“That’s what you said when Mr. Ambrose found out you were doing my French homework and he threatened to fail us both.” She kept glancing down at her phone. She was waiting for a text from her agent about an important audition.
“He didn’t, did he?”
“No, because you discovered he was sleeping with the girls’ tennis coach.” She raised a finely drawn brow. “You always were a snoop, Pepper.”
Thanks, Cindy.
Still, it was Cindy who came to my rescue when the foster family I was living with tossed me out after I checked their computer and found out they were bilking the system. Her parents were squeamish about having a high school tech whiz with a questionable past under their roof until I showed her dad how to use his new computer software to maximize his tax deductions. Without their support, I would have fallen through the cracks and ended up on the streets. Instead, I went to college and dragged Cindy along with me, much to her family’s relief. We were best pals, though we had different goals. I wanted to be a spy, which made Cindy roll her eyes. She wanted to be a reality TV star. I put up with her dreams and she put up with mine. No questions asked. It was an unbreakable bond between us.
“You wouldn’t have passed his class without me, would you?” I shot back.
“No, but—”
“I so need this favor, Cindy.” I said, poking around her cramped bedroom. Her Barbie doll collection with their sparkly gowns and tiaras grinned at me from every corner. As if they knew my ass was on the line.
“The restaurant owner has strict rules about anyone taking my place at the table,” she insisted. She bit down on her lip anxious-like when she heard a text come in.
“Just this once,” I begged. As long as I didn’t spill sake all over Mr. Briggs, I didn’t see what the big deal was. “I’ll give you the tips, too.”
Cindy looked at me funn
y, which I didn’t understand. Last I heard she was a waitress at The Mermaid’s Tale in between acting gigs. If you could call being a pair of dancing legs in a commercial an acting job.
“I’m not allowed to accept tips,” she said, reading the text.
“Why not? The Mermaid’s Tale is a hot spot for business luncheons. Are these guys that tight with their money?” I asked. When the one-percenters stopped tipping the pretty waitresses, you knew the economy was bad.
She blushed. “I got promoted at the restaurant.”
“Are you a cook?” I asked, imagining myself chopping up raw fish and cutting off a finger.
“I’m a sushi model.”
“A what?”
“Men eat raw sushi off my naked body.”
“Jesus fricking Christ.” I flipped out at the thought of having to take off my clothes to get my job back.
“You may be in luck after all, Pepper,” Cindy said, tapping a message on her phone. “I just got word the hair show audition is next Thursday.”
“So?” Why did I ever come up with this dumb idea?
“The manager is cool about letting me go on auditions since he’s an actor, too. He won’t say anything.” Her face lit up. “I’ll do it.”
“Hold on, Cindy, I wouldn’t want you to lose your job,” I said, stalling. Suddenly my bright idea didn’t seem so bright. This was so not in my line of work. I was a programmer, not a supermodel.
“Where’s your James Bond spirit, Pepper?”
“You don’t wear anything?” I had to ask. The idea of my body as the sushi blue-plate special of the day made me cringe. I got goose bumps thinking about the icy cold fish wiggling between my thighs, even if they were dead fish.
“A banana leaf covers me here.” She pointed to her crotch. “And big chrysanthemums cover my breasts.”
“How big?”
“Big enough. Since I got my implants, we’re about the same size.”
I still wasn’t convinced. I’d been hiding my body under red flannel tent city so long, I wasn’t sure I’d pass the hot bod test. Sure, I was thin because I often forgot to eat when I was working, but I didn’t have a tan. Cindy assured me I could wear body makeup. It was like having a thin sheet over your bare skin, she said.