Tomorrow. In a public place where I’m less tempted to touch her. Tomorrow, we’ll work on it together.
I don’t question the rightness of the way that feels, because nothing about Kylie’s effect on me makes sense.
Only Kylie. Kylie alone makes sense to me.
~.~
Kylie
The lights are on in the little house we rented near the university. I chose that locale because it’s hip and there are plenty of restaurants and shops within walking distance. I always pick places where it’s easy to blend in.
“Mémé?” I push open the door and then stop. Something feels off. Hairs prickling on the back of my neck, I step in, trying to identify what’s different.
Nothing seems out of place.
“Mémé?” It comes out sharp, and I hope she’s not in bed already.
I look around the kitchen and see unpacked grocery bags on the floor. Alarm bells go off full force.
My phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket and stare at the words number blocked. Normally, I would never answer, but something’s not right, so I swipe the screen and put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“You did not follow our instructions.” The voice is computer generated. A surge of anger rips through me.
“Fuck your instructions.”
“We’re fucking your grandmother. You should have done what you were told.”
Ice floods my veins. I sway on my feet. “Mémé?” I scream, running through the house.
“Install the code, and you’ll see the old lady again.” The call ends before I can rip them a new one. I’m not sure what I would have said. Most likely, I’m going to kill you motherfuckers!
My hand shakes with fury as I race through the house again. Of course, I know it’s fruitless. She’s gone. They have her. And I have no choice but to bring down Jackson King’s multi-billion dollar empire to get her back.
I want to retch. And scream. Mostly, I’d like to get my hands on whoever thought kidnapping an old lady was a good idea and ram a meat tenderizer down their throat.
Kylie
I’m sorry, Jackson.
My crush-induced idiotic decision to go straight to Jackson instead of getting the hell out of Dodge with Mémé last night has more than backfired.
I placed the one person I love, the only family member I have left, in terrible danger. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her. So, despite the compelling moments I’ve had with Jackson King, despite my desire to make a genuine connection with him, to trust he could bridge the giant gap I’d set up between myself and the rest of the world, his company will be going down by my hand. Mémé is more important.
I have to get the thumb drive back from him without arousing suspicion. I decide to go with direct.
It’s definitely a Chucks day. Wearing a short jean skirt, an anime T-shirt and my black sparkle Converse, I march into SeCure at 6:45 a. m. I figure it will be open, and I’m banking on Jackson being in early to stay on top of the threat. I take the stairs to the eighth floor.
The lights are off, doors locked. I plop down on the floor in front of Jackson’s office, lean my back against his door, and pull out my personal laptop. I’m out of things to research-I stayed up all night trying to trace the blocked phone number from the threatening call to an IP address, but haven’t locked it down yet.
How did they find me? I’ve been so careful, all these years.
The elevator dings. I look up from my screen, fingers still flying over the keyboard, seeking data strings.
Jackson stops when he sees me. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I scramble up to my feet. “Nope. You?”
“Not at all.”
“What’d you find?” I’m going with the let’s pretend we’re allies and in this together tactic. He lifts a brow to let me know I’m out of line. He’s in charge, and we’re not a team. “Sorry. Am I supposed to kiss your ass and call you Mr. King at work?”
“I liked when you called me sir,” he says, unlocking his door and stepping past me.
“I’ll bet you did,” I mutter, the memory of his dominant handling of me last night flooding back. I trail in behind him, making myself at home in his ginormous office by plopping down in a chair and pulling my laptop back out. “I brought my personal computer to load the malware. I’d like a chance to study it, if you’re ready to let me take a look.” Fear and necessity have brought back the old Kylie, the one capable of lying to anyone, even Jackson King, my personal kryptonite.
He ignores me, his face unreadable as he pulls out his own laptop and drops it into the docking station.
Too fidgety to sit there and wait for him to deem me worthy of answering, I ask, “Should I make the coffee?” He must have his own personal refreshment station on this floor.
He stops moving, his eyes lighter in the sunlight that streams in through his wall-to-wall windows. There’s something predatory about the way he looks at me. Like my offer to make coffee turned him on. Well, maybe he has a master-slave fetish thing going. He gets off on being served. He definitely was bossy with Sam, his housemate.
“Cream, no sugar.”
“Where is it?”
“Around the corner to the right. You’ll find it.”
Funny, but I might have the flip side of the same fetish because it turns me on to fetch his coffee.
Grateful for the expenditure of the manic energy that’s ruling me, I slip out of his office and make the coffee. It’s freshly ground beans from Peet’s, and there’s real half and half in the fridge below. I make myself a cup, too, and head back, just as his secretary arrives.
If looks could kill, I’d be in twenty pieces on the floor.
“Don’t worry about his coffee,” I say breezily. “I already got it.”
She gives me the up-and-down sweep of the eyes, her lip curling when she sees my sneakers.