The Hot Gamer (A Romance Love Story) (Hargrave Brothers - Book #3)

by Alexa Davis

  "What does the smart grip do?" she asked, softening a bit and leaning forward. "How does something like that work?"

  "It takes the basic fingerprint identification process and puts it into the grip of a gun, making each gun an individually owned weapon," I said as I got up to grab a prototype from my desk drawer. I came back carrying a plastic gun that had a grip already installed on it. "See here how there are contact points molded to the grip of the gun? These are used to register the gun to the legal owner, and once they're set, no one but the legal owner, or people he's programmed into the gun, will be able to fire it. Watch." I pointed the gun at my desk and pulled the trigger several times. The gun clicked with each pull. Then, I turned to Olivia and held it grip out towards her. She took it and looked at me quizzically.

  "Shoot it at my desk," I laughed. "Grab the grip and then pull the trigger."

  "It won't fire," she observed as she aimed the barrel at my desk and tried to pull the trigger. "It's jammed."

  "No, it's grip technology working perfectly," I said solemnly as she handed the gun back to me. I set it on the table with the barrel pointing away from both of us and continued explaining. "That means that stolen guns will be rendered unusable and accidents are rendered almost impossible because even when kids get a hold of the guns, they won't be able to shoot them."

  "That's amazing," she said as she scribbled a few notes on her pad. "But how would that have prevented your friend’s parents from being killed?"

  "That's part of the bill I'm trying to get Congress to pass," I explained. "I want grip technology to be part of a standard three-day waiting period. No one can sell a grip gun without a license and no license can be issued without a background check – no matter where the gun is sold."

  "What about private sales? Couldn't someone just sell the gun and add the user to their grip profile?"

  "Yes, but then their own grip profile would still be in the gun, so if anything happened, the authorities could trace the gun back to the original owner and private sales without a license would be subject to strict penalties," I said. "The idea behind this technology is not to eliminate owners, but to keep guns out of the hands of those who commit crimes and to prevent accidents."

  "What are the statistics on that, though?" she asked. "Is it really enough to warrant retrofitting every gun in America with it? And how much does that cost, anyway?"

  "The technology itself isn't terribly expensive. We're talking between three to five hundred dollars to outfit a gun, depending on what type of gun it is, but GRIPTech is going to subsidize a large part of the technology for those who already own guns, so the cost will be lowered to fifty to a hundred dollars per gun," I said.

  "Bigger guns require bigger grips. And yes, the stats show that smart grips could go a long way in preventing accidents among children and teens. In one year in this country, there are over three thousand children killed by guns. Add to it another two thousand accidental shootings and we're starting to talk about a significant number of preventable deaths and injuries."

  "What about illegally obtained weapons?" she asked as she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. She was intrigued, but I was momentarily thrown off balance as my eyes were drawn to the tops of her breasts spilling out of her t-shirt. I quickly averted my eyes, stood up and walked to my desk to look for the colorful handouts we had made on gun statistics in the U.S. Olivia watched as a small smile played at the edge of her lips, and for a moment, I wondered if she had bent over on purpose.

  "We've got statistics somewhere here," I said as I dug into the files in my draw and pulled out a few sheets of paper. "Here, I found them."

  "That's good," she said as I crossed the room and handed them to her. She looked up at me as she took the papers from me, and I was struck by the fact that her eyes had gone from deep green to a color that now looked more golden. I shook my head, and she looked down to study the papers I'd given her.

  "We don't have statistics on illegal weapons injuries, yet," I said. "We're working on that, but no one keeps a database of those numbers, so we have to extrapolate them ourselves."

  "So, would you call yourself anti-gun, at all?" she asked as she scanned the paper and made a few notes.

  "No way. Look, I one-hundred percent believe that individuals who pass background checks and are responsible about their ownership should be the people who own guns in this country," I said. "I don't want to take anyone's guns away from them."

  "Not even after your friend's parents were killed by a guy with a gun?" she asked with a surprised look. "That seems really controversial in and of itself, doesn't it? I mean, don't the anti-gun folks want you and your friend on their side as a testament to the fact that guns kill people?"

  "Hell no; why would I ever want to punish responsible gun owners for the idiotic mistakes of people who are not responsible? It's like telling people that because someone crashed their car after drinking and driving that we should take cars away from everyone," I protested. "It's ludicrous. Why should people who do the right thing be punished because of a few bad apples? I simply want to make it less likely that the bad apples can get their hands on weapons without proper checks. And as for the anti-gun groups, well, let's just say that they have their own brand of propaganda that I don't buy, either. In some ways, they're just as bad as the pro-gun folks."

  "This is very interesting," she said thoughtfully. "How so? And, what about Davis Russo? Why is he out to get you?"

  "He's not out to get me," I lied. I couldn't afford to have my plans being laid bare in the newspaper just yet. I needed the secrecy for the time being, and then once we'd figured out how to tap into the power in Congress, I'd give her the scoop. "He's just an old blowhard who wants to protect the AWN. And, the anti-gun folks are the ones who are pushing people's backs against the wall with their no tolerance calls. It’s not helpful. What we need in this country are laws that help keep the guns out of the hands of those we know will do harm and will prevent accidents. That's why I'm pushing so hard for the HR 8212. I believe that we can make a huge dent in the accident figures in the first year."

  "Davis said some pretty inflammatory things about you," she observed. "Why?"

  "His job is to protect the membership of his organization and whip up support against anything that they think threatens their Second Amendment rights," I said, feeling like I was back on truthful ground. "He's a man who is solid in his convictions and sometimes uses inflammatory rhetoric to rally the troops."

  "He seems like an ass to me," she said as she scribbled a few notes on her pad. "I'm just curious why he wouldn't buy into the safety issue. Is there some kind of money issue at play here?"

  "He's concerned that his constituency won't be able to afford all of the retrofitting required, but we've written the allowance for each owner into the bill we're putting before Congress, so that should help ease his worries a bit," I said. She knew more about this than I'd expected and I was afraid that she'd inadvertently stumble on something I didn't yet want to let out of the bag, so I began trying to wrap up the conversation. "I'm sure there are other, personal reasons Mr. Russo does what he does, but you'd have to interview him and find out those things."

  "This is interesting," she said, scribbling notes on her pad. "There doesn't seem to be any real reason for opposing your bill, and yet Russo is hell-bent on making sure it doesn't make it to the floor. Do you think he had anything to do with the shootings of the senators on the Hill last weekend?"

  "Davis Russo?" I said trying to keep my voice even and calm. My gut told me that he had everything to do with the shootings, but my common sense told me not to make that speculation unless I had cold hard evidence to back it up. "Why would he want to kill senators?"

  "I am sure I have no idea," Olivia said, eyeing me suspiciously. I suddenly felt like I had back in grade school when the teacher had caught me hiding a candy in my desk. She knew I knew something, but she wasn't going to force me to admit it – yet. "There's something you're not
telling me, Redding."

  "Linc, call me Linc," I said in a stern voice. I was irritated that she was trying to get me to spill information that I didn't want to share. "I've answered your questions, I'm not sure what else there is."

  "Well, in my line of work, I deal with a lot of people who lie," she said with a raised eyebrow. "And right now, you are exhibiting some of the classic signs of someone who is not telling the truth."

  "So, you come into my office, ask me all the questions you want, and then accuse me of lying to you?" I snapped. "Some reporter you are. I was expecting something a bit more professional."

  "Oh, really? I'm not professional?" she said, narrowing her eyes. "You're looking down my shirt while I'm asking you questions and I'm the one who gets called unprofessional. Interesting. You rich boys really are full of yourselves, aren't you? And as far as the money issue goes, I'd say you're forgetting to mention a huge part of the issue, which is that if you get the bill passed, you stand to make billions in profits over the next few years since you hold the patent for the smart technology that would be fitted to every gun. I'd say that was a huge motivation, wouldn't you?"

  "I didn't...I...it was..." I sputtered, furious that she'd caught me and even more pissed that she hadn't just let it go. "No, profit has never been a motivation for me, Ms. Moore."

  "Oh, right, sure. I totally believe that," she said rolling her eyes as she gathered her things. "You know, after all the rudeness on the street, I decided to give you one more shot after the flowers – which were very nice, thank you. But you really aren't a very nice guy, are you?"

  "Me? I'm not a nice guy?" I shot back. I was fighting not to lose my temper, but she was poking all the wrong places and it was firing me up. "Lady, I've been nothing but nice to you considering the fact that you had appallingly bad manners at the coffee shop and then failed to pay attention to where you were going and ran into me like a bulldozer on the sidewalk. I was simply trying to be the bigger person about the collision and... Oh, forget it, you're just a stubborn redhead."

  "I'm rude? I'm stubborn? Guess again, buddy!" Red splotches appeared on her cheeks as she said, "I did not do anything wrong in the coffee shop or on the sidewalk. You, on the other hand, think the world should step aside for your little special snowflake self and bow down! I came over here to do an interview, not get judged by some little Richie Rich boy who has a chip on his shoulder and lies!"

  "I don't have a chip on my shoulder!" I yelled as she quickly shoved her recorder and notebook into her bag and yanked it up off the chair. "And, I am not lying! You are an absolutely impossible woman! You're pig headed and stubborn and I'm seriously starting to question whether I should have entrusted you with all of the information I've given you!"

  "Well, it's too late now, buddy," she growled. Her eyes were flashing with anger and for a moment, I feared what she'd say next. "I've gathered the information and I'm writing the story whether you like it or not. Now, I can't promise that it's going to be all sweetness and light, but who knows, maybe Russo is a bigger jerk than you are and you'll come off looking like a choirboy. Thanks for the coffee – and the flowers. They were nice. See ya!"

  And with that, she turned and stomped out of the office. As I watched her angry exit, I muttered, "Good riddance!" I wondered whether I was going to have to file a lawsuit against the paper when she published an article that publicly defamed my company and me. By the time Brant came in to report on his findings, I had calmed down and decided to cross that bridge when I came to it, but until then, I would let go of the idea that I could win over Olivia Moore.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Olivia

  "That arrogant jerk!" I shouted at Carl as I marched across the newsroom and slammed my bag down on my desk. "I swear, there's no way on earth I'm going to that damn ball on Friday! Not after what just happened!"

  "What happened, Olivia?" Carl asked without turning around. He was typing furiously and while I wanted to stop and ask what he was working on, I was too pissed at Linc to do so.

  "That little boy just gave me a great interview and then as I was packing up to go, he insulted me!" I cried. I began frantically pulling things out of my bag and tossing them on the desk. I dug deeper, looking for the recorder, and when I couldn't find it, I turned my bag upside down and shook the remaining contents out onto the desk.

  "What did you say to him?" Carl tossed over his shoulder.

  "Who, me? What did I say?" I shot back as I reached in, unzipped the side pocket, and found the recorder and my heart moved back into my chest.

  "Yes, you, sunshine," he replied as he looked from his fingers to his screen. "You are a difficult woman, Olivia. The poor guy hasn't had time to get used to you."

  "You're crusin' for a bruisin', my friend," I warned. "He insulted me, told me that I had bad manners, and that it was my fault we collided on the sidewalk. He acted like he had nothing to do with it?"

  "Olivia, calm down," Carl said as he stopped typing and turned around. "I know you're worked up about something, but it can't just be about this Redding guy and what he said. Hell, I've heard men say far worse things to you and watched you stay completely calm! What's bothering you?"

  "Something doesn't sit right with this whole shooting, Carl," I admitted as I felt the air rushing out of my emotional balloon. Carl was right; I was pissed at Linc, but not for the reason he thought. I was pissed because as I sat there interviewing him, I could feel my body practically pulsing in his presence, and I couldn't stop thinking about what it would feel like to stand up and press myself against his strong chest while he leaned down and-

  "Earth to Olivia," Carl said as he waved a hand in front of my face and whistled a little. "Hello? Anybody in there?"

  "Sorry, I was just thinking about..." I trailed off as I tried to push the illicit thoughts I was having about Linc Redding out of my mind. I was way too pissed at the man for lying and being rude to me.

  "You sure it's the interview that's got you worked up, Liv?" Carl asked. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with admitting that Redding is a hot guy that you'd like to-"

  "Carl!" I shouted with a smile. "Knock it off! That's so inappropriate!"

  "Liv, it's really okay, you know," he said quietly. "You're allowed to be attracted to someone again. You don't have to spend your life in a cloister atoning for your sins or whatever it is you think you're doing. You're allowed to be happy."

  "It's not that," I protested dropping my eyes to the floor so I wouldn't have to see Carl's sympathy written across his face. "It's that there's a story here and he's not giving me all the information I need to write it! Plus, he's just kind of a jerk!"

  "Right right," he said. "But I'm here to tell you that it's time, Liv. You've done your penance and it's time for you to start living again."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever," I muttered as the tears welled up in my eyes. Carl reached across the divide and patted my head as he smiled. I knew he meant well, but some things took a little longer to process. I grumbled, "I'm not going to that damn gala, though."

  "Not going to what gala?" Frank asked as he rounded the corner on his way toward Carl and I. "Did you get invited to the Christmas Gala?"

  "Yeah, Linc Redding gave me a ticket with the damn flowers, but there's no way I'm going to that damn thing after today," I said stubbornly. "He's lucky I don't have a choice but to write this article. Jerk."

  "Why, what did you do, Olivia?" Frank asked as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at me.

  "Why am I always the bad guy?" I protested.

  "Because you are a stubborn woman," Frank replied.

  "See, told you!" Carl mouthed from behind Frank before turning back to his computer and resuming his fast-paced typing.

  "Well, I'm not going to spend a fortune on a dress for that stupid event," I grumbled. "It's a waste of time and money."

  "What if I said the paper will pay for your dress?" Frank asked. "Within reasonable limits, of course."

  "What is wrong wit
h you, Frank?" I cried. "Why is it so important that I go to that stupid thing?"

  "It's important because no other reporter from this paper, or any other paper for that matter, has been invited and I want you there to see what happens and to report on it!" Frank declared. "We need to do something to get back on top of the newspaper game in this town, and the Washington Gala may offer that chance, along with a few other things." He looked over at Carl who was typing furiously, but stopped long enough to raise a fist over his head in solidarity.

  "You're going to authorize a dress on my expense account?" I asked. "You sure about that?"

  "Like I said, within reason," he replied with a smile. "We need this, kiddo. We need a big story and I need to you to figure out how to get in there behind the scenes and get that story."

  "I think I might have some story worthy stuff from today's interview," I said as I pulled out my notes and started reviewing them. "Davis Russo is kind of a mystery, isn't he? I mean, how does a guy get to the position he's in with so little experience and so few connections? What's his story Frank?"

  "Russo's been around for ages, I'm not sure I know what his story is," Frank admitted. "I heard he was a Pentecostal preacher down in rural Virginia for a while, but I don't know if that's true or not."

  I was quickly jotting down what Frank said and made a note to do some research into Russo's background. "What do you need for tomorrow's paper, Frank?"

  "I've got a cover story, but I could use something below the fold," he said gesturing toward Carl. "We've got a political fight on the floor of the Senate starting up and I want to make that the lead. What have you got?"