I draw in a shaky breath and let it out. “I think this surprise might be okay.” He grins, kisses me again, and leads me inside.
I barely have time to take in the sleek black slate of the bathroom before I’m rushing through my shower to make my appointment. Face down on a heated, padded table, dim lighting beckoning me toward sleep, the masseuse digs her elbow into the meaty part just beneath my shoulder blade and banishes any thoughts of a quick nap.
She finds muscles I didn’t know I had, the knots crunching under the pressure. When she’s done, I feel like I’ve been pounded with a meat tenderizer, and I want to curl up on the table for that nap.
I make my way out of the spa and to the room, two levels down. Nick’s on the balcony. His gaze trained on the view, he doesn’t turn toward me as I step outside. The sun’s gone, stars obliterated by the light pollution. The moon’s out, though, and streetlights dot the hillside below. I stand next to him so our arms brush against each other. “This time last year, I was probably laughing at something Charlie said, trying not to snort beer out of my nose.”
Nick reaches for my hand and curves his around mine. I ignore the tingling in my nose and sniff hard. “Denise would have thrown a napkin at his head, my mother would have chastised them both, and Turner would have been stone-faced at the end of the table, one eye on the door, the other on the table.”
He rubs his thumb along the back of my hand. “No smiles from your dad?”
I shake my head. “He rarely smiles in public. Not even at my mother.” The tingling increases, and my eyes start to burn. “There is this bar that has karaoke on Friday and Saturday nights. It’s always packed, and since it’s so close to the university, they let people underage in, stamping their wrists so they can’t buy alcohol. We went there for my birthday freshman year, and went back the next two. Last year was the first year we didn’t have to get stamped, and Scott insisted it was my duty as the birthday girl to get plastered. I had the worst hangover the next day. Couldn’t get out of bed. Haven’t been that wasted since.”
“You were drunk that first night at the condo.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t nearly as bad.” Looking back, that first night in the condo when I dumped my beer over his head was the first clue I had that Nick was more than interested. Sometimes I wish we hadn’t lost so much time between his initial denial and my long recovery. I drop his hand and tuck my own inside the sleeve of my robe. “Anyway, freshman year was the start of a tradition. Dinner with Denise and my parents at El Dorado, karaoke with Scott and a couple other friends. It feels weird to be doing anything else.”
Shivering once in the rapidly cooling air, I go up on my toes and kiss his cheek. “Thanks for the massage. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”
He wraps an arm around my waist and steers me inside. “I hope the change in your birthday plans isn’t too horrible.”
I drop my head onto his chest for a moment, slipping my arms around his waist. “No,” I say softly. “Honestly, with everything that’s going on, I planned to ignore it. Thought I might call my mother this evening, maybe Denise and Scott if you say it’s okay, but otherwise, I just wanted it to pass.” A sudden thought hits me, and I tip my head back. “How’d you know today was my birthday, anyway?” I didn’t tell him. Hell, I don’t even know when his birthday is.
“Same way I found out when your theater class met.” He drops a kiss on my nose at my scowl. “Denise told me as well when I took them to the airport and threatened bodily harm if I didn’t A—get you enchiladas with mole sauce and B—find a way for her to call you tonight. So there’s enchiladas on the table and a secure line waiting for you. She’s going to call in about an hour.”
The tingling becomes painful and tears well. If I had doubts about his feelings, any doubts at all, everything he’s done in the past few hours erased them and then some. I rest my head against his chest as I wait for the tears to recede.
It’s official. If Nick leaves me, I will be devastated.
I lift my head, and he kisses the corner of my mouth. He busies himself warming the food while I wash my hands.
He’s on the phone as I step out of the bathroom, and he points to the table and the plate of food. Delicious, delicious mole sauce, all for me. I glance at the other plate and smirk. Nick still hasn’t learned his lesson about the mole sauce. He opted for the tomatillo sauce.
Next to my plate is a small flip phone. I poke it with a finger, then cut into the enchilada. The first bite is chocolaty perfection. He looks up and grins at my groan before moving back out to the balcony to finish his conversation.
I’m halfway through my food when he comes inside, phone in his pocket. “Business won’t wait, huh?”
He sits and cuts into his once-again cold enchiladas. He grimaces at the first bite. “Mexican, no matter how good it is, should not be eaten cold.” He gets up to stick the plate in the microwave on top of the minibar. “Business, as you put it, doesn’t care if we’re dealing with internal family shit. Deals need to close, money needs to be made, and projects still have to be finished on time. We’re pushing out a new app in a few weeks, and I haven’t been keeping as close an eye on it as I should have been.”
Do you have any idea how much money Dom’s losing? I drop my gaze to my plate. I haven’t told Nick about my little visit with Isaiah. Telling him would only give him more ammunition to fuel his worry, and since Isaiah didn’t actually do anything, I figure Nick doesn’t need to know. I cut off another bite and stick it in my mouth. “I know you’ve been worried about me, but if you need to spend more time at the office, I can find ways to entertain myself,” I say after I’ve swallowed.
“This is an unexpected setback. Cory was in charge of the project, and his assistant has been doing a good job of keeping up, but the whole team’s shaken and slowed by Cory’s death.” He takes the plate from the microwave and sets it on the table, closer to me than he was before. He scoots the chair over and sits. “Tell me about Tori.”
It takes me a minute to remember who he’s talking about. I take a sip of water before answering. “I met her the same day you did. She was covertly fangirling you before you came over.” I grin. “She was relatively calm after Scott was shot, dialed 911 after a little prompting, and came by the hospital even though she’d never met Scott before.” Turner asked me to do this on occasion, formulate opinions based on what little information you could glean from a first impression. He wanted to look for weaknesses, but I have a feeling Nick’s not interested in those. “She kept her head and had the compassion to check in on a stranger and stick around until she knew he’d be all right. I’d want to take a closer look. Are you thinking of hiring her?”
His smile is slow and wicked. “Have I ever told you how much I love your brain? There’s a few internships available at some of my companies. I’d like her to apply.”
The next hour passes in a blur of Mexican food and beer and Denise’s voice happy and relaxed on the other end of a phone line. My phone, my actual phone, rings right as I hang up with Denise, and I catch Scott’s name on the screen. Nick gives me a thumbs up to answer the call, and I manage to pick it up before it goes to voicemail.
He’s telling me more about Tori when Nick’s phone goes off again, and he moves away to answer it. From the way his expression goes from thunderous to dangerously blank, I know the news isn’t good. I hang up with Scott after a promise to get together with him and Tori in another day or so and turn my attention to Nick. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re going to need to get dressed. Someone’s hacked into the mainframe and released a virus. Peter’s trying to contain it, but it’s eating away at the app scheduled to launch. If he can’t stop it soon, we’ll have to start over.”
This is new. Isaiah’s gone after loved ones, taken out key employees, but he has yet to attack the legit side directly. “He wants you to lose everything,” I say, heading for the bag Nick brought with him. I pull out clean clothes,
drop the robe, and hurriedly drag on pants and a long-sleeve shirt.
“Seems like it. I’ve texted Con. He’s on his way in. He’s not as good as me or Peter, but he should be able to help slow it down.”
The last of my pleasure sluices away. I know someone who can stop this from destroying everything Nick’s built. I turn to him, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Do you trust me?” At his frown, I sigh. “With the app. Your business. Do you trust me?” He nods slowly, and I pick up my phone. “I’ll have Turner meet Constantine there.”
Chapter 22
“Your dad repairs computers.” Nick says this like it’ll convince me to call Turner back and tell him never mind. It didn’t work the first three times he said it, and it won’t work now.
“Turner works with computers. Full stop. He repairs the hardware and knows his way around the operating systems like he’s designed them himself. Considering he did create one himself, that’s not exactly a stretch.” I pull my gaze away from the night-dark freeway and turn toward him. “Seriously, what’s the big deal? You want this problem solved quickly. If anyone can find a way to stop the virus from killing everything, and Peter hasn’t already figured it out, Turner can.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, and I lean across the center console to kiss it. “Nick. What’s wrong?”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens, and he checks his blind spot before merging the car into the next lane. “Every time you see him, you shut down,” he finally says. “It fuckin’ pisses me off because I can’t do anything about it, and even if I could, I don’t know what that would be.” He shoots me a glance. “You really think he can fix this?”
I’m not some naive little girl who thinks her daddy is a superhero. I know my father’s skills. But Nick’s right. Seeing him tears open the wounds, and I don’t know how to close them permanently. I don’t know if that will ever be possible.
I take his hand from the steering wheel and fold my own into it. “I think if your guys can’t fix it, and Turner can’t fix it, no one will be able to.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I boost a hip off the seat to dig it out. I hold it up after reading the name on the screen. “It’s Constantine. Turner’s there and setting up.”
Nick’s hand squeezes mine before he puts it back on the wheel. “Another fifteen minutes. Let’s hope this doesn’t go any further.”
I push the phone back into my pocket and fold my hands in my lap, inching closer to shutdown the nearer we get to Nick’s office. I don’t want to. I wish it wasn’t a necessity. It’s the only way I can get through this, though.
Nick parks in the underground garage and takes my hand in his as we head for the stairs. There’s enough left of the Cass who loves him not to shake off his hold. I want to. I want so badly to close down completely, fall into the empty, blank space inside. It’s a safe place. A familiar one.
One growing more familiar every day.
The stairs are quiet, nightlights illuminating the vacant stairwell. Our progress slows to a crawl once we realize the motion sensitive lights aren’t brightening like they should. They’re designed to be energy efficient and come up as someone walks past. They’re not doing it. He nudges me behind him and starts to climb.
The only thing louder than our footsteps is our breathing, but I strain my ears anyway, on alert for the tiniest sound, ready to vault over the railing to the staircase below. Guns out, eyes scanning the dark corners, we arrive at the eighth floor without interruption, and Nick lets us out of the stairwell.
While there’s a small server room on the ninth floor, most of the servers are on the eighth, taking up about a third of the floor. Cold air rushes out as we walk in. Peter’s already there, a thick cable dangling down to a laptop balanced on his knees. Constantine’s on the near side of him, fingers racing across the keyboard of his own laptop.
Standing at the terminal is Turner. The faint light from the screen reflects off the glasses he wears for close work and reading.
For the first time since Nick told me he had to get to the office, I’m uncertain about my role here. My skills aren’t up to Constantine’s level, much less my father’s. I know how to cover my tracks well enough I can’t be found by anyone who doesn’t possess hacker skills, but dismantling a hacker’s attack, stopping a virus from eating away at a program? I’d just get in the way.
“Cassidy.” My gaze snaps back to Turner. “We’ll need water and food.”
If I weren’t already so far removed from this, I would be pissed at his dismissal. As it is, it’s a little flicker of annoyance, because he’s right—I’m good for being the coffee girl at this stage. “Back in ten.”
Nick places a hand on my arm. “Cass—”
Now I do shake off his hold. “He’s right,” I say quietly. “Get to work, Nick. I’m not much use at this stage. Too advanced.”
The twelfth floor break room has all the best goodies. After losing a full minute to listening for out of place noises in the stairwell, I climb the stairs and ease open the door. The floor sounds as empty as the stairwell, but I muffle my steps as best I can anyway and tiptoe into the break room for supplies. I find a reusable shopping bag stashed in a cupboard and fill it with a couple of water bottles and some protein bars, constantly checking the shifting shadows for sudden movements.
My paranoid vigilance proves necessary when I step out of the break room and catch a glimpse of a man ducking into the stairwell. Setting the bag down with a muffled plop, I draw my knife from the sheath at my ankle and follow him.
The landing’s empty, and thanks to the disabled motion detectors, I have no way of knowing which way he could have gone. The stairs only go up two more flights to the roof, so I check that way first. It’s empty, and the door is closed and locked.
Which leaves down.
My breath shallow, I creep down the stairs as quickly as I can. He could be almost to the bottom by now. By the time I reach the eighth floor, I’m calculating the worth of trying to track the guy down or checking in on the men’s progress.
Checking in means Turner will want to know where his precious water is.
A faint squeak from below makes up my mind for me. My sneakers will do the same on the polished concrete, and I’ll slip in socks. I yank off my shoes and socks and race down the stairs barefoot, my feet slapping against the cool surface.
Footsteps clatter below me, and I risk breaking my neck to peer over the railing as I fly down the stairs. A dark head flashes in and out of view two levels down. I’m fast, but not that fast. I won’t be able to catch him before he reaches the bottom.
A shot cracks the quiet and pings off the railing. I flatten myself against the wall. Rookie mistake. There’s no point in wasting bullets if you can’t see your target. I crouch on the step and inch toward the railing, sprawling on my back when another bullet zips past. I flip onto my belly and slither up to the landing above.
There’s two options: let whoever it is go, or wait him out and swing over the railing to the next flight of stairs in an attempt to make up some distance. I’m not wearing shoes, the drop is several feet and awkward, increasing the chances I’ll hurt myself, and since this guy has proven himself to be a dumbass with a gun, I could end up getting shot for my troubles.
On the other hand, if he’s the one who fed the virus into the system, he might be able to get it out faster than we can.
I slip the knife back into its sheath and draw my gun. Holding my breath, I scoot to the top of the stairs and shift forward to balance on the balls of my feet. It’s awkward, moving like this, but it makes for a smaller target. I turn sideways and place my back to the wall, stepping down one stair at a time. At the landing, I slide forward onto my stomach and belly crawl to the railing.
Another shot, this one barely over my head, and I curse my decision to go after this guy and lift my head to line up my shot. The report of the gun kicks up my arm, and I drop my head, bracing myself for his answering bullet. I press my cheek to
the cement as his curses drift up through the stairwell.
“Cass?”
No point in being all stealthy, I guess. “Eighth floor landing. He’s got a gun, and he’s stupid enough to use it,” I call out.
Footsteps, thunderously loud, and they stop abruptly on the landing above. “Why are you lying on the floor?”
“Gun. Bullets flying. I’d rather not get shot again.” More footsteps, this time from below. “If you’re coming with me, you might want to hurry.”
Nick descends the stairs, back to the wall, and kneels beside me. “He’s not going anywhere.” I arch a brow when he grins. “Doors at the lobby level and the garage levels are locked.” He places my shoes and socks next to me. “You might want these.”
* * * *
He reminds me of a scared teenager. Face pale but set, hair damp with sweat, blood seeping from the wound on his arm where I managed to graze him with my shot, but there’s a defiance in his eyes warring with the fear.
Nick cuffing him to a chair doesn’t help matters.
Turner and Peter are still in the server room, desperately trying to eradicate the virus. After the standoff in the stairwell, the guy had taken off running for the ground floor. I took my time putting on my shoes and socks while Nick backed up and took the elevator to the garage, keying himself in through the door at the bottom. Trapped between the two of us, gun swinging like a pendulum, Nick relieved him of his gun when he stupidly turned his back.
Game of Vengeance Page 18