Close Enough to Hurt, page 10
“Please.” I adjust my dress and sit.
With patience that shouldn’t surprise me, Daniel kneels at my side and gives me step-by-step instructions to enter code and access the camera feeds. It doesn’t take long—turns out Brent’s never updated the camera firmware and left it vulnerable with a backdoor entrance other hackers discovered a while ago.
“Happens more than you’d think.” Daniel shrugs. “Sometimes we have to work hard; other times we take advantage of laziness.”
When we portal into the Palace of Privilege, Brent is on-screen, front and center.
“Oh! There he is!” I clap my hands together, delighted.
Daniel breathes, “A first try, no less.”
I meet his dark gaze, glowing under his approval, then focus on Brent.
Brent’s on the phone, and we can hear every word—but even if we couldn’t, the half-lidded expression on his face would tell me everything I need to know. He’s talking to another woman, beseeching, hoping for a booty call after plan A fell through.
Or maybe looking for someone else to bring to this Friday’s sex party. I was underwhelmed the last time I attended one, at an entrepreneur’s villa in Napa several years ago, but then again, I hadn’t had Molly like many revelers. Tellingly, no sexual paradigms were harmed during the night, despite the highfalutin talk from the venture capitalist who invited me. It was the same old tired, patriarchal bullshit, all the men masters of this small, odd universe, all the women of a certain age and attractiveness vastly outnumbering the men. Weirdly, all the men were heterosexual—nary a dude hooking up with another dude. The women, of course, were expected to be more flexible. Yawn.
I have to laugh the longer we listen to Brent’s pleading. “And here I thought I was special,” I say in mock disappointment. “What a bastard.”
“We don’t have to keep watching.” Daniel lifts his glasses and rubs his eye, wincing. “Or listening. I just wanted to show you how to do it from your home.”
“Well, we might see him run to the bathroom, so don’t cut the feed yet.”
Daniel looks at me, thick brows lifted in surprise. He turns toward the black-and-white video and bites the inside of his cheek, holding in a laugh. Then he gives up and throws his head back. “You bad girl.”
What I wouldn’t give to hear that sound every day. I fold my arms across my chest. “Not to worry. He had it coming.”
His smile fades. “In what way?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes I do.”
“Tough shit.” I shrug. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
“I thought that was my job.” He cracks another bitter smile, an arrow straight through my sternum. When did he start looking so sad? Could it be my fault, the clueless hanger-on disrupting the otherwise happy, Apple commercial life he might enjoy? “Worrying about my wayward friend.”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it.” I speak to the dark-green, glittery toenails I repainted, willing the tightness in my throat to go away. The polish is much more Dylan than Delilah, not that Brent would ever notice. “I don’t want you to fret. I promise I’m okay.” I make myself meet Daniel’s eyes, so he’ll know I mean it.
He chews his bottom lip, radiating skepticism, face taut with concern.
“All right,” he says, wisely backing off. “But if he hurts you in any way, you’ll tell me. Right?”
“So you can go over to the Emporium of Bad Design and blow my cover? No, Haas.” I laugh without humor. “Just no.”
“There are other ways,” he says. “None of which I’d hesitate to employ. Just say the word.”
I look past his shoulder at the panorama of city lights, tiny constellations in the dark. What would it be like to watch the sun rise from these windows, filling his home with sunshine, illuminating him again, contour by contour?
Why do I keep burning for something I can’t have? His whole future is lined up already, neat rows of black-and-white dominoes. No room for a chaos entity like me.
It doesn’t stop me from demanding, “Why are you so good to me?”
The words are out before I can stop them and followed by deafening silence.
Daniel doesn’t look away. “Do you have to ask, Dylan?” His voice is hoarse, like he just finished one of his runs up and down the vertiginous hills of Fog City. “What do you want me to say?”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I …” Why is it so impossible to be around him sometimes? We go from light and sunny to excruciating pressure in seconds, as if all we had to do was reach a hand into the water to touch the bottom of the ocean. No doubt my unhelpful revelation—I want him, so much, have been aching for him longer than I can remember—has something to do with our newfound awkwardness. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“No.” He stands up fast, pushing the desk chair away, but winces as he does. Now I notice it: his entire face is pinched with pain. Has been all night, despite his hiding it well. “Don’t be.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. Torn between concern and self-preservation.
He nods, but he’s not very convincing. “All good.”
“No, you’re not.” I push him back down. “Sit. What’s going on with you?”
He slumps into his chair, shaking his head, but even the small movement makes him wince again.
Looking resigned, he rolls his head my way. “I get these excruciating cluster headaches. They come on in the middle of the night, like there’s a hot coal in my skull.” He rubs the offending eye socket, brows crinkled.
I bite my lip. “How long has this been going on?”
“Since I got promoted.” His smile is wry. “Stress makes it worse. Which makes sense. There’s been a lot of that lately, with Oma and everything. Dad is not handling it well. She’s our glue, you know? And it’s just … a lot.”
My eyes water. “I know exactly what you mean.” When one person in your family suffers, everyone does. So is the way of things when you love.
“And tech feels toxic sometimes. The sixty-, eighty-hour workweeks. The douchebags and their egos.” He sighs. “Why are people, Dylan?”
“Beats me. I’m just glad to be in business.” I knew he logged insane hours sometimes, but that kind of grind stuns even my workaholic soul. As does the fact that he’s always made time for me, even when he had none to spare.
“I love coding,” he continues, “and working on big projects, managing a team, but sometimes I think if I have to move, I’ll miss my family, but I won’t miss my job.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, frowning. “To Seoul, that is.”
I ignore the sharp stab his eventual move spurs and edge closer, leaning a hip on his desk. “You’ve dealt with these headaches for two years. My brother in Christ, why have you never said anything?” To me, anyway.
“They’re episodic, thank God, but suffer in silence is my trademark.” He musters a weak smile for me before he closes his eyes again, head resting on the padded back. “You know that.”
“I’m so sorry.” I crack my knuckles. “If I’d known you were hurting, I would’ve left you in peace and not barged in with my nonsense. You already have so much on your plate—”
“Your safety is not nonsense,” he croaks, eyes still closed. “And it’s not your fault, Dylan.”
Damn you, Daniel. I wish he’d knock it off with his sweet nothings. Stop taking a blowtorch to my frozen fortress.
“Still.” I lean closer, a hand outstretched. I can’t stop myself from touching him. Trying to help. Seems like the least I could do. He just looks so miserable. “Could I maybe try to …?”
“Try to what—” He startles as he feels my fingertips on his brow, then holds himself still as a statue, unbreathing. “Oh.”
“I did work as a massage therapist for a while. I might be able to help?”
“I remember.” The corner of his mouth folds in a smile. “Jill of all trades.”
“Is it okay?”
“Yes.” He speaks so softly, I almost miss his sigh of assent.
I carefully remove his glasses and place them on his desk, then trace the straight slash of his eyebrow with the pad of my thumb, feeling the small, tense muscles relax under my gentle pressure.
“That feels …” He groans a little. “It hurts, but it feels good too.”
“Should I keep going?”
“Please.”
I start light, bracing one hand on his shoulder, the other on his temple. In slow, sweeping strokes, I cover the tender high points of his face, lingering at his temple, over his brow bone, working into his hairline and scalp. His skin is burning hot, fine-grained, silken under my fingertips.
“Maybe you could freelance?” I offer.
He shakes his head with a small huff of amusement. “I like health insurance.”
“Are you sure?” I try not to smile. “There’s probably a crystal for this.”
“And steady income.” He beams, broad and real, eyes still closed.
My breath catches. I pause a beat, dazed.
“Well, you got me there,” I say as soon as I’m able, and continue my work.
Minutes or hours pass, and the stiff muscles become pliable, his shoulders sagging with the weight of relief. His mouth has parted ever so slightly, revealing the true shape of his generous Cupid’s bow again. His breathing has changed, shifting to deep, measured pulls. Even his pulse has slowed, a lazy throb at the base of his throat.
I can’t look away from the soft shape of his lips in the dim light.
I could kiss him.
I think he’d let me.
I think he’d let me slide onto his lap and sink my hands back into all that dark hair and hold on tight as I took what I wanted.
I make myself let go. “Better?”
“Dylan.” He opens his eyes, looking up at me with his own hazy, indecipherable expression. “Thank you. That felt …”
“I should go.” My voice is too loud in his hushed apartment.
Cowardly, but if I stay any longer, I don’t trust myself to do the right thing. I’ve had too much wine. Too much playacting with Brent to put up necessary walls with Daniel and pretend he doesn’t mean everything to me. Even now, the words dance on the tip of my tongue, a nonsensical jumble of I want you, please let me, mineminemine.
I back away like he’s fire, almost falling over my feet. The late hour and the alcohol make me clumsy and conspicuous, like a hermit crab wrestling with a new, too-large shell.
“Dylan.” He lurches upright and catches me with an arm around my back before I trip on the corner of his sofa. “It’s late. Stay here for the night.”
His hand is so warm, I swear his fingerprints brand my skin. I gawp at him like a beached fish and try to find a reason to say no, but my brain hurts and I’m not thinking clearly around him. I wonder when I stopped.
No. He belongs to someone else. How could I forget?
I slink out of his hold, twisting away. His handprint glows on the small of my back. “I can get a ride. No big thing.”
“Stay here.” With a hand on my shoulder, he nudges me in the direction of his room. “I’d feel better if you did. You take my bed, and I’ll sleep out here.”
“If I stay, I’ll have to do the walk of shame back to my house.” I look up at him. He looms like a large shadow. “So far as Brent knows, I’m at home and pining for him.”
His hand falls, and he sighs, imbuing the sound with testiness at the reminder of Brent. “Fine. Let me at least drive you back, then?”
“No need.” I skitter past the edge of the couch and hurry toward the door. I’m seconds away from making a terrible decision and seeing if the rest of his skin beneath his prim button-ups is as flawless as his face. Acres of hammered gold waiting for me to explore. I slip on my flats and reach for the door. My hand is shaking.
“Dylan. Just wait.”
I turn around, hesitant. So afraid of myself I don’t even want to look him in the eye.
“I didn’t mean to scare you off. Or make you uncomfortable. Are we …” He swallows hard. “Are we good?”
“We’re always good.” I try to smile. “Like I said, you get a pass for pretty much everything.”
He doesn’t return my smile. Just looks at me, steady and unrelenting, as if he can make me confess the dumb things tumbling around in my head. Dumb, because even if he were mine for the taking, I don’t know how a real relationship would work. All I’ve ever had are meaningless flings. Throwaway fucks I couldn’t care less about. The second anyone got too close, I straight-armed them off the cliff and into the bay. Cruelty, thy name is woman.
“Good night, Haas.” I wrench the door open and run from his home.
CHAPTER
11
IN THE MORNING, I feel every ounce of wine left in my system. My mouth is drier than the Mojave, and most importantly, I’m pretty sure I came within seconds of making a colossally bad decision at Daniel’s last night. Again, the firelight spelled my doom. That or hormones I can’t wrangle.
Or his aching vulnerability, trusting and malleable under my hands, giving himself over to me.
“Temporary insanity.”
I fling off the covers, slump out of bed, and open my laptop. I was still buzzed when he gave me instructions, so God knows whether I’ll remember the magic words. Checking to see how Brent’s night went might boost my mood, though.
Several abortive attempts at hacking Brent’s home security later, I haven’t managed to crack it.
“For Bjork’s sake.” I slam the laptop shut and toss it to the end of the bed, disgusted with my incompetence. The only thing standing between me and direct access to the House of Hauteur is my pride. Guess I’ll have to ask Daniel again for help. Considering how well the last visit went, though—What the hell happened there?—I’d better try hacking a few more times before I plead my case with him.
I flop back into bed and stare at the frescoed ceiling.
“I didn’t imagine it, did I?” The way Daniel tried to convince me to stay. The heat in his irises, like embers. A shudder racks my shoulders, and my insides twist at the memory. Something has changed, altering our structure. Like we built a bridge on either side of the strait between us, working toward a golden spike.
Information is a gift, I tell my clients. When you have all the information, all the variables, you can choose your actions accordingly.
I might’ve oversold it. For example, wondering if your best friend wants you the same way you want him could be, in fact, intolerable. We’ve both made choices leading us away from one another, walking parallel paths, never crossing lines.
“Daniel.” I sigh his name, the way I’ve wanted to for ages. “What have you done to me?”
* * *
After caffeinating, right down to business with two cups of coffee, I open my laptop again. I’m due for a check-in with Dr. Chang, to let her know how things are going re ruining Brent’s life. No huge strides to mention yet, but it’s early days. Since I declined to put out last night, I bet he’ll be back for more.
After I hit send on my email apprising her of my progress, an email from my favorite journalist pops up in my in-box. Amazing I almost forgot about him in the hustle to ingratiate myself with Brent.
“Rhys Morgan, you persistent motherfucker.” I open the message, jittery. I overdid it with the caffeine. It’s either that or this wily investigative journalist raising the hackles on my neck. Has he changed his mind on waiting for two weeks and decided to publish now?
I miss my kayaking buddy. Can we meet—off the record —and just talk?
“Off the record, my ass.” I close my email.
Then I open it again, finally noticing the attachment he included. Damn my curiosity. I click it.
It’s … a proposed target for Lady Justice. A failed gubernatorial candidate who’s been credibly accused of sexually harassing underage girls. Rhys has pages and pages of documentation, going back a decade, and an actual bullet list of reasons this person should be the next person in my cross hairs. An olive branch, albeit an odd one.
“I’ll be damned.” I sit back, popping my knuckles.
He knows who I am, and he means to … help? It’s a lot like Daniel’s quiet entrée into my life.
Maybe it’s the coffee singing in my veins, but inspiration strikes like dry lightning in the desert, firing me up.
Instead of shutting Rhys down, what if I let him know who my current target is? And why I’m hunting Brent? For God’s sake, it’s Theranos worthy. He might even get a Pulitzer for it. More importantly, if I brought him into the fold, maybe Rhys could be an ally instead of a would-be adversary. It seems like he might be angling for that, anyway.
Then again, it could all be a trap.
Can he be trusted? Daniel’s voice asks the million-dollar question. I already know what my cautious partner in crime would say about this proposed alliance—feck no. But I’m not accountable to him, only to myself.
With new determination, I create a fresh file on my laptop and begin my keyword search, fingers flying over the keyboard.
My burner rings. I sigh in disgust when I see Brent’s number and let it go to voice mail. Let him sweat. After all, he did call me a fucking tease.
In an hour, I know more about Rhys than he does. His articles share a recurring theme: rooting out corruption. Exposing those who abuse their power. Everyone from dirty cops in LA to private military cartels to politicians in the pockets of their extremist donors. (Which is to say, most. Slime.)
Heart pounding, I reply to Rhys’s email with a time and place, a coffee shop closer to my real home in Sausalito. Can’t risk running into Brent around here. If Rhys wants to meet me, he’ll have to do it this morning before I change my mind and think better of it.
I get a reply within minutes.
I’ll be there. Looking forward to seeing you again, Dylan.
I snort. “I bet you are.”
Let’s hope he’s ready to join me on the hunt for the white whale.
* * *
I take public transit across the Golden Gate. It’s a gorgeous fall day, the kind we dream about all year, with clear blue skies and views stretching to infinity.
