DARK WEB (BADGE BOYS Book 2)

by Tara Oakes

  Before the delay our flight was already scheduled as a red-eye. With the new departure time, the already exhausted passengers are trying their best to stay alert enough to crawl onto the plane when called. All but me, that is.

  I’m a night owl, always have been. I’ll routinely find myself drinking a glass of wine at my draft table at two or three in the morning. I’ve gotten what I had thought was my best work done when most other people were fast asleep. That’s one of the reasons I’ve never been able to keep a roommate. Not the only reason, but one of them.

  I laugh to myself bitterly as I think of what good all my “best” work is worth now.

  Anyone else who’s had the kind of day I’ve had would probably be more than happy to find a place where to lean their head and pass out, not having to think about the harsh, cruel words that were used during my interview today.

  Not me, though. No. I’m a glutton for punishment, and so I stand here in the corner taking big, hearty bites of the bar burger I’m devouring while replaying the scene over and over in my head.

  Katharine Harding has a very well known reputation in fashion. She’s a genius, an artist, a visionary. She also happens to have a razor sharp tongue and absolutely no concern for whom it might cut.

  This morning, while I was sitting across the desk from her in her very expensive downtown LA office, that vicious tongue was like barb wire, and I was the victim it wrapped around and strangled.

  All of that doesn’t matter right now, does it? She’d told me the truth, what no other person in this field had had the guts to tell me. She told me I don’t have it. Whatever it is.

  No matter how much a person studies, sketches, and networks, it doesn’t matter. If they don’t have it, they never will. It’s something you’re born with. At least now I know. I can stop wasting my time and accept the truth for what it is.

  If Katharine Harding says I don’t have it, then I guess I should be grateful to her for telling me now, before I waste another eight years of my life. Just because I know the truth, that doesn’t mean it’s not a hard pill to swallow though. Everything I am, everything I’ve done in my life has been to get me to one goal; to design clothes that people actually want to wear.

  I’ve barely been able to process all of this myself, let alone tell someone else. I’ve been avoiding my cell phone all day, knowing Mom and Lori have been anxious to hear about my interview.

  I’ve been excited and nervous for days, ever since I’d gotten the phone call from Katharine’s assistant to set up the interview. Somehow word had gotten to Katharine about some work I’d done at Fashion Week this year. I thought it was my big break, thought it was just what I’d been waiting for.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Of course Mom had told me that I had nothing to worry about. Lori too. To them, this interview was only the first step in my career finally taking off. They don’t know how cut throat this business can be, and I don’t have the heart to tell them. That’s why I’m putting off calling them back.

  I take another bite of my burger, holding tightly to the crinkling wax paper folded around the warm bun and watch the people nearby. There’s a mother with young twin girls, an arm around each of them as they snuggle into her sides. A college-age kid has his eyes glued to his laptop, while another man, looking to be in his forties, is browsing through a financial magazine.

  A blonde woman with thick-rimmed glasses knits a pastel blanket from a collection of yarn inside of a plastic shopping bag. She sees me watching her and smiles. Taking my last bite of the informal dinner in hand, I scan over the sleeping people until my eyes settle on two of the last remaining passengers.

  A large, strong, younger looking guy dressed in army fatigues with a duffel bag leaning against his left combat boot is talking softly to the woman in front of him. I can tell from the look they share, from the gentle and loving way she closes her eyes while listening to him, that they are in love.

  With the late hour, the normally harsh airport lights are dimmed, casting a soft glow upon them as I watch from a distance. He lifts his hand to caress her cheek and she leans her head, kissing his open palm.

  Suddenly I begin to feel immense guilt. Here I am, sulking and drowning my sorrows in junk food about my career, or lack thereof when people like those two are going through much more difficult things.

  I can’t even imagine how it must feel to send off a loved one, not knowing if you’ll see them again, if they’ll be safe. I’ve lived near NYC my whole life, and I know there are several army bases around the area. I have little doubt he’s traveling to one of them.

  I need to do something to take my mind off my own troubles. I need to do something that will make me feel good, in the midst of the looming feelings of inadequacy, even if for just a small moment.

  Unzipping the front pouch of my carry-on, I rummage for the printed copy of my ticket information. One very expensive, first class seat with my name on it is reserved for the five-hour flight from LAX to NYC.

  Before yesterday I had never flown first class before. Leave it to Katharine Harding to send first class tickets to and from my interview. Yesterday morning I had felt so important, so special, in that huge leather chair as the flight attendants doted on me. This is the good life I had thought to myself...

  Sure, the champagne had been fantastic, the extra legroom divine. But, in the end, I ended up in the same place as everyone else on the plane.

  “Excuse me,” I’m careful to speak in a whisper as many of the nearby people are trying to sleep.

  “Can I help you?” The airline employee behind the counter matches my whisper.

  I hand her my boarding pass. “I have a first class ticket for this flight. I’d like to switch seats if possible?”

  The auburn-haired twenty-something woman looks at me like I have two heads. Who in their right mind switches from first class? Her fingers begin typing quickly on the narrow keyboard before her as her eyes watch the computer screen.

  There’s a soft glow from the light of the screen reflecting on her skin. “Daphne Baker, seat 3A.” She reads from the screen. “What would you like to do, now?”

  I take one last glance over my shoulder at the couple holding tight to one another and know for sure that I’m doing the right thing. “I’d like to give that soldier over there my ticket. I’d like him to have my seat in first class and then I’ll downgrade my ticket to coach.”

  The woman I’m speaking to glances over in the direction of the soldier I’m speaking of. “This is highly unusual, Miss Baker.”

  I nod, “I’m sure. But, I’d love if you could look into it, please.” I spot her nametag for the first time. “Please, Kara.”

  Kara, the woman behind the counter takes a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime though, you should wait in the first class lounge so that I can find you when I have an answer.”

  “Thank you, Kara.” I point to the nearby door labeled lounge, with my eyebrow arched in question. She nods, confirming where I’ll need to go and I follow the silent direction, pushing against the door into the exclusivity of the room.

  Immediately I feel the difference in surroundings. What was generic and sterile looking from the outside couldn’t be any more different within this plush and luxurious lounge. Oversized, heavily padded leather chairs are sectioned in small groups filled with impeccably dressed people who barely glance up as I cautiously walk in.

  “Miss? Can I take your things?” I look to the jacketed waiter who’s greeting me.

  I shake my head. “No. No, thanks. I—I’m fine. I’ll just take a seat.”

  Spotting the first available seat, I take it nervously, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. I don’t know why I’m nervous, it’s not like I’ve never been around wealthy people before. Many of my clients are wealthy, and I’m certainly comfortable around them. Why is this so different?

  Maybe it has something to do with the sideways stares I’m getting from the overly botoxed
, fur-wearing woman across from me. Her eyes are shooting daggers, and her artificial lips are puckered tightly in a scowl.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Miss?” The waiter I’d met a moment ago asks me.

  My eyes light up and I blurt out, “Wine. Please. White.”

  I need a little something to take the edge off. Just knowing that the wine is on its way seems to do the trick and I can feel my shoulders begin to relax.

  “Hey there, Speedy Gonzales.”

  I freeze. I close my eyes. I know that voice.

  Crap!

  Slowly, I turn my head, knowing in my gut who I’ll find. The chair nearest to my right is taken. I can see that much from my periphery. I take stock of him as I now turn to face him, scanning my eyes upward from the ground. The same expensive leather shoes that I had seen before when he helped me collect my sketches. Dark rinse jeans that fit perfectly, as if they were made for him. Trust me, I make clothes for people, I know.

  A crisp, white, button-down shirt falls in a relaxed way around his hips, and at this exact moment I notice the gentle wafting of his cologne. I feel it swirling in my nostrils as I breathe it deep. I feel it hanging in my throat as I swallow. It’s heavy and light at the same time.

  His tanned wrists peak out from the rolled cuffs of his sleeve, adorned by nothing other than a simple watch. The buttons down the center of his shirt are held in place tightly as the muscles underneath push against the fabric, stretching it.

  Broad shoulders, thick neck, chiseled jaw with a speckling of very short stubble. Chestnut colored hair just long enough to have a wave to it, mussed, as if he likes to run his fingers back through it.

  Dark sunglasses rest on his perfectly proportioned nose. It’s passed midnight. Indoors. Why the hell does he have sunglasses on?

  “Miss Baker?” My attention is stolen by the friendly woman from behind the counter outside the first class lounge by the gate, Kara.

  I can feel the tall man’s eyes fixed on me from behind his ridiculous shades.

  “Yes?” I ask her. “Can we switch?”

  Kara leans down to answer. “I’m sorry. The gentleman’s not traveling alone and he is hesitant to be separated from his companion. They’re returning home from their honeymoon. I’m afraid it won’t work to switch your seat.”

  I bite my lip. I tend to do that when I’m trying to think my way out of a tough situation. “Hmm. I didn’t realize they were flying together.” I remember the loving looks they shared and even through I don’t know them, I’m happy to hear they’re on their honeymoon. Just because I think marriage is an archaic institution bound to fail, it doesn’t mean everyone else does. It’s not that I don’t believe in love, I’ve just never experienced the kind of thing I saw between the newlyweds outside in the waiting area.

  Kara begins to move, attempting to leave. “Wait. Could I give them my seat and then purchase another seat so they’ll be next to each other? Is there an empty seat in first class available?”

  I mean, how much could a first class ticket cost, anyway?

  Kara looks vaguely annoyed that I stopped her from leaving. “There’s one available first class ticket left.”

  “Sold!” I reply a little too loudly for some of the other passengers nearby. I’m gifted one or two nasty scowls in return. Lowering my voice, I ask. “How much will it cost?”

  Kara suddenly looks smug when answering. “Nineteen hundred dollars.”

  I lose my breath. Nineteen. Hundred. Dollars. That’s one month’s rent for me, and equal to the balance of my checking account. The disappointment is tightly wound through my voice. “Oh…”

  Sitting back in my chair I feel a wave of disappointment wash over me. Kara turns to leave for a second time.

  “I’m sorry, is there something wrong with your ticket?” The handsomely dressed, sunglass-wearing man to my side asks, having witnessed the scene unfold.

  Resting my head on my hand with my elbow propped up on the armrest that separates our seats, I shake my head. “No. I was trying to give my ticket to a soldier who’s waiting with coach, but he needs two tickets. I can’t afford the extra ticket, so it looks like I can’t make the switch.”

  I can’t even manage to do this correctly.

  Several small metal clicking sounds signal that he’s finally taking off those absurd sunglasses. I mean, who wears sunglasses like that, hmm? Who does he think he is? Brad Pitt?

  “Why would you give a perfect stranger your ticket?” He’s curious. I can sense his body shifting to sit closer.

  He’s nosy.

  “Do I need a reason? He certainly didn’t, whoever he is, when he signed up to protect our country. The least I could do is let him have a comfortable seat to say thanks. It doesn’t matter now though. It’s not going to happen.” I rub my temple to relieve the stress.

  “We’ll see about that.” The man stands and follows Kara out.

  What’s that supposed to mean? “We’ll see about that.” I watch his body as it walks away, his powerful gait marching further and further away until it disappears through the door.

  Who is this guy, with his delicious cologne, his nosy questions, and his arrogance?

  My recent behavior has earned me a fresh round of condescending eye rolls from Miss Plastic Surgery over there.

  Within two minutes I see the brown leather shoes land directly in front of me as I hang my head in defeat.

  “Let’s go, Speedy,” he holds his hand out to me.

  I eye it, but don’t take it. My eyes snake up the sleeve, following the muscular arm to those rock solid shoulders before settling on his gorgeous face no longer hidden by those silly sunglasses.

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  I know who he is. Hell, everyone knows who he is.

  Colton Webb.

  Sparkle magazine’s sexiest man alive. Multi-millionaire blockbuster actor, and object of every warm-blooded woman’s fantasies.

  “Ex—excuse me?” I just spoke with Colton Webb. Colton Webb is speaking to me. How is this happening?

  “This lounge is for first class passengers only.” His phrase is vague. I look around as we’re now the center of attention.

  “And? I still don’t understand.” I feel a dozen or so pairs of eyes boring into me. My neck begins to feel warm.

  He gives up on me taking his hand, and instead, reaches down to take hold of my carry-on. “We’re now considered second class citizens, sweetheart. Time to go get in line with the hundred or so regular everyday Joes.”

  I’m left behind as Mr. Hollywood takes himself, along with my bag, out of the first class lounge, leaving the door to begin its swing to close.

  “Wait!” I chase after him. “My bag!”

  Colton Webb just stole my bag. In what universe does this happen?

  CHAPTER TWO

  COLT

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Webb. I—I can’t thank you enough,” The closely shaven military man in full uniform shakes my hand once again.

  The flight attendant just recently made the announcement that it’s finally time to board, but the passengers are showing no signs of following her direction to line up, as they’re all gathered around the main attraction.

  Bright lights begin to flash from camera phones. I smile and slip my sunglasses back over my eyes. This is nothing I’m not used to. Bright, flashing, blinding lights that create a haze- unable to see the actual people on the other side of the lenses. I know the drill by now, just smile and nod. Give them what they want. Give them a money shot.

  I’m sure these pictures will pop up on at least ten different gossip blogs by the time I land in New York.

  “It’s my pleasure, soldier. Anything for a man in uniform, willing to risk his life protecting the rest of us.” I angle my head to the crowd. “I may play a hero on the big screen, but men like this one, they’re the real heroes.”

  Andrea, my PR specialist, is going to eat this shit up. She couldn’t have planned this better if she were here herself.


  A light round of applause breaks out.

  “But I’m not the only one to thank.” I reach blindly through the wall of flashing lights to take her hand and bring her into the spotlight.

  “What’s your name, Speedy?” I whisper into her ear, careful not to turn too sharply. I’ve had enough experience with paparazzi getting pictures of my right side to know just how far to turn my head before my chin looks weird.

  She looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Her large blue eyes are shocked, alert, darting around at all the flashes, not knowing where it’s safe to set her gaze. I remember that feeling- the helplessness, feeling like you’re in a cage.

  “Uh—uh, Daphne. My—my name’s Daphne.” She stammers.

  Daphne.

  I’ve wondered what her name was ever since I crashed into her, correction, ever since she crashed into me, earlier tonight. I never thought I’d see her again, never thought I’d know her name.

  Wrapping my arm around her stiff shoulders, I pull her into frame for the next round of pictures. “Just smile, Speedy.”

  “Daphne here also gave up her ticket in first class to these newlyweds so that they can extend their honeymoon a few more hours.” I inform the crowd, sharing the credit with this girl for what essentially was her idea.

  Snap, snap, snap. Picture after picture is taken.

  After we’ve held up the boarding process long enough, once more the flight attendant makes her intercom request for the passengers to please board the already delayed plane.

  I take Daphne’s bag and lead her towards the ramp as she’s still suffering from the shock of the bright lights that continue to bursting around us. The flight attendant scowls at us when we pass by, but I smooth the situation over by offering her the crooked smile the cameras love so much.

  Her cheeks blush. Her eyelashes flutter.

  Works. Every. Time.

  “What was that?” Daphne asks in an awkward hushed whisper so that our new fans don’t hear. She roughly takes her overnight bag from my hands and hugs it close as we shift sideways to fit down the narrow aisle of the jet.