Inserting the drive into the USB slot, I save this article to it. Then I go to his documents and without scrolling through, upload every last one to the drive. Next is his personal email account, which mercifully opens straight away without requiring a password. I go to his private folder—for real, who labels a folder private in their own email—and copy everything that’s in there. I don’t have the luxury of time to determine what’s pertinent and what isn’t.
Then I go into his client profiles and portfolios set up through our company server that he has on here. I copy all of that as well and just as the last of the files are uploading, I hear a sound out on the main floor, quickly followed by the overhead lights flickering on one by one.
My eyes scan the office outside Rich’s open door, but I don’t hear anyone. Just a low male grumble, but that’s it. Then… “Hey, yeah, I left my computer sitting right on my desk.” Fuck. It’s Rich. And he’s headed this way, coming right for his computer.
His computer that I’m currently in and stealing stuff from.
Holy shit.
My heart explodes in my chest, a jolt of adrenaline shooting straight through my veins, making my vision slightly fuzzy. I glance down, checking the USB drive and whether I have everything on here or not, I yank it from his computer, close out the open windows I have and slam his laptop screen down louder than I intend.
But I was clumsy. Flustered. And I have no damn clue if I closed everything out the way I should have. If it was obvious that someone was just on this computer searching around.
“I know,” he says, and it’s just now that I catch the faintest hint of someone else’s voice. “They were a half a fucking game out, man. One win and the wild card was ours. I can’t believe they let up that walk-off home run like that.”
The Sox. He’s talking baseball with someone who is likely part of the cleaning crew.
Sweet mother in heaven, thank you for the rabid obsession of Boston sports fans.
Tucking the drive back into my pocket, I edge toward the door, slinging my own bag up and over my shoulder. Sweat slicks my hands and the back of my neck as I angle myself, peering out his door. His voice isn’t that far off and I might be fucked, no matter what.
Both of the guys are standing by the first row of cubicles about fifteen feet away. Sean is leaning against his large cleaning unit that houses all his equipment and Rich is angled in his direction as they lament the Sox’ tragic loss and the end of their season.
All it would take for them to see me is a twist of their heads.
That’s it and I’m done.
Slinking down low, I maneuver myself in the direction of my office door when the toe of my shoe catches on a corner of the rug and I trip, banging noisily into the doorframe. I don’t have to look to know both of them will now be looking my way so I instantly spring up, shifting as fast as I can in front of my office door all the while plastering on the cocky grin I’m known for around here.
“Hey,” I say, casually sauntering in their direction with slow, purposeful strides. “I thought I heard voices. What brings you back, Rich?”
Rich watches me intently, suspicious eyes flickering behind me in the direction of his office and then back to me, and I know he’s questioning exactly where I came from.
“I uh. I forgot my laptop. Had to come back for it so I can finish some things up at home.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, man. I hope you weren’t too far away when you realized.” I smack his shoulder and turn to Sean. “How’s it going? I’m finished up for the night, so I won’t be in your way again.” I chuckle. It sounds fake as hell. Rich is eying me so hard I’m shocked he’s not bursting a blood vessel in it. “I’m headed over to The Garden for the B’s game.”
“Lucky bastard,” Sean grouses with his thick Southie accent. “A buddy of mine is going next week. Good seats too. You takin’ your woman?”
My woman? And why does my mind instantly go to Rina when he asks that? A woman who is certainly not mine. Yet a woman who I most certainly want to be. I haven’t heard from her all week, but I’m being patient. Biding my time. If she thinks I’m done with her and truly leaving the ball in her court, she’s mad.
“Nah. Just me and my guys. I might hit up my woman after.” I give him the sleazy wink, hoping Dick sees me as a like-minded asshole in that.
Sean chuckles. “Have fun. Now that the Sox are out it’s up to the Pats and the B’s. At least until basketball starts up.”
“I’m with you on that, brother. Have a good night, guys.”
And without another word or waiting on Rich to say more or even drip the accusation that is clearly on his tongue, I move straight for the elevators. And the second the doors shut behind me, I sag against the wall, breathing heavy and sweating miserably under my jacket and shirt.
Fuck. That was close. Insanely close.
Too close.
And worse yet, I have no idea if Rich not only saw me, but if the second he opens his laptop if he’ll know I was on it.
17
rina
Saturday mornings at this hour, the world is typically still asleep. Though when I step into my favorite coffee spot I’ve been avoiding since a certain man entered town, you’d never know it. It’s packed for six fifteen. That’s right, I said six fifteen.
Staring around from table to table, all filled with college-age-looking kids hovering over computer screens and tablets. “Turf wars,” the barista says, catching my eye as she blows some of her long bangs back from her face. “They’ve been here since five when we opened.”
“Ah.” I nod in understanding as I approach the counter. “They’re using your Wi-Fi while they hack. Clever. I think. I honestly don’t know how any of that works.”
“Me either. But it’s like clockwork. Every October third.”
“That’s because a hundred and three is a prime number.” She scrunches her eyes at me in confusion. “The number one-oh-three. October third. It’s a prime number. Then again so is a hundred and one, a hundred and seven, and a hundred and nine, so I’m not sure what the three symbolizes.”
“Smart and beautiful,” one of the kids says without removing his eyes from the computer.
“I am, but I only know about your cyberwar because my brother went to MIT, though he wasn’t a computer science major. You guys going to nail Caltech this year?”
He rolls his head over his shoulder to briefly meet my eyes. “We always do. If we win, can I buy you coffee? Or a drink tonight?”
I open my mouth to answer when someone beats me to it. “No. You can’t.”
Brecken.
I spin around in place to find a hot and sweaty Brecken wearing track shorts and a sports tee that clings to absolutely every single one of his muscles, eyeballing the kid who just asked me out. The guy gets the simple yet effective message quickly because he immediately returns to his computer. The menacing snarl on Brecken’s face might have also had something to do with it.
“Hey.” I sound nervous. Why do I sound nervous? Oh right, he propositioned me for sex, and I’ve been avoiding him ever since.