Chapter 2 #2
“Anything comes up, you nip it in the butt.”
Dimitri grinds his jaw.
“It’s bud. Nip it in the bud,” I correct, hiding a smile as I grab a spare USB-C cord from the bin to plug in Alfano’s laptop.
Mac flashes that mega-watt smile. “Oh, that’s right,” he chuckles, as obvious as he is unrepentant about the intentional mistake.
Dimitri curses him under his breath, and I don’t quite catch the whole phrase—a real tragedy, since the man is as creative as he is explicit when it comes to foreign insults—but I catch something that roughly translates to turd from a haunted toilet.
I watch them climb into Mac’s car, then close myself back into the glowing blue lights and relative quiet of my surveillance van.
My heart is still pounding hard—both from exertion and the remnants of adrenaline—and I realize my earpiece channels are still open as I hear the car doors slam, the engine start up, then the radio come on.
After a beat, there’s a low grumble: “If you start singing, I will kick you out.”
“But then who’s gonna drive your bloody arse home?” Mac quips, trying to imitate my accent. “Hey Wes, think Nicole’s got a Band-Aid big enough?”
“Dunno. But she’s certainly the only one of us willing to kiss it better.”
“Then I will jump out,” Dimitri continues, dramatic with his threats in a way I don't think he fully appreciates.
“Tuck and roll,” I reply breezily.
“Yeah, and it’s a full moon tonight, so at least you’ll be able to see to make your way back.”
“Mudak!” Dimitri hisses.
With a chuckle, I long-tap my earpieces to block out their bickering while I get to work. I plug in Alfano’s laptop, then fire it up and groan at the dreaded update screen. Brilliant. This is going to take ages.
But at least I’ve got a distraction.
A notification dings, and the corner of my screen blinks, flashing green and blue from her custom avatar in the IRC—internet relay chat—I set up for my spiders. She’s one of them, but she’s so much more than that, too.
My spiders fall into two broad categories—people who do things for me, and informants.
The task monkeys get the chores that I could do, or could create a program to do for me, but it’s easier if I pay them for their time. They review security footage when I’m up against a time crunch, manually sort through unsearchable data, or create databases from stolen records acquired elsewhere.
My informants range from enthusiastic amateur sleuths to professionals dealing in secrets that I can buy for the right price.
Some of them are one-offs, when the right person was in the right place at the right time and learned something useful.
Some of them have a passing interest in true crime, some fancy themselves detectives, and some have the right connections.
She is in a class of her own. I can only daydream about what I could do if I had a team of people like mermaidav at my disposal. We’d rule the world.
I know all my spiders by username, bank account info, who vouched for them, and not much else.
Of course, I always perform an initial test to ensure a potential informant isn’t law enforcement, but otherwise I make it a point to encourage anonymity.
A business that deals in secrets wouldn’t thrive if I didn’t let my informants have their own.
I don’t ask personal questions; I don’t entertain any.
But after almost two years of intriguing exchanges, I have to admit that I’ve done a bit (a lot) of extracurricular digging on my favorite spider. Fat lot of good it did me.
In the past, it’s taken me as long as a few hours to get someone’s social security number and online passwords with nothing more than an IP address to start.
But not mermaidav. Her IP is blocked, which isn’t normally a problem, but I couldn’t get around it—so whatever she’s using is as impressive as it is illegal. Perhaps even homemade.
And damn if all that futile digging didn’t just make me admire her even more. I love a challenge.
All I have to go on is that she is a woman, likely in her mid-to-late 20s based on the slang she uses, and is awake during hours that indicate we’re in roughly the same time zone.
And that she can get pretty much whatever I want.
It’s honestly mystifying. She’s either the best hacker I’ve never heard of, or she knows people on the inside.
As I pull up her chat window, I check the time and swallow down the urge to admonish her for her ridiculous sleep schedule. It’s 2 AM, which means she’s probably messaging me from bed. A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth.
SpyderMan: Can’t sleep?
mermaidav: You know me. I finished the short story collection you sent, too, so I’m fresh out of reading material that’ll put me to sleep.
I grin.
SpyderMan: Isaac Asimov isn’t for you, I take it.
mermaidav: I’m still not sure how the least boring person I know has the most boring taste in books.
SpyderMan: You say boring; I’d call it classic. Refined, even.
mermaidav: lol of course you would. Either way, the book is dry as hell.
SpyderMan: Well, it is hard sci-fi. Story-forward, character development takes a back seat…
mermaidav: That and a distinct lack of wieners. To its detriment, I’d argue.
That drags a laugh from deep in my chest, and I send her an amused reaction in the chat.
mermaidav: Nothing against sci-fi, but I prefer it in my books when the world’s ending, or the aliens are invading, or the machines are rising up… and someone’s getting railed. Preferably by the aliens or machines.
SpyderMan: Oh, I’m aware. Your picks for our little book club are always very… educational.
mermaidav: Yes! See? You get it. I love how nontoxic your masculinity is. Romance books are basically a how-to guide, and men are sleeping on it because they don’t want to read girl books. I love our book club.
Really, we go back-and-forth trading recommendations, but calling it a book club amuses both of us.
What she doesn’t know is that I’ve already read every book in the digital library she shared with me.
Not because I particularly care to read about women getting banged by blokes with bat wings, but because she does and I’m interested in what she’s interested in.
And, frankly, like she said, it’s a bit of a cheat code into the female psyche and their sexual fantasies.
And if my research has told me anything, it’s that her sexual appetites lean towards a man who knows how to take charge. And isn’t that just too fucking perfect?
mermaidav: Since I didn’t finish your last pick, I’ll let you pick again.
SpyderMan: Very kind of you.
mermaidav: I’m a giver. Hit me with your best shot, nerd. Or I may not be so generous next time.
I chuckle, a warmth curling through my belly at both the teasing nickname and challenge.
SpyderMan: Let’s try Dune. That’s had a resurgence in popularity lately.
mermaidav: Hmm… that’s the one with the giant sandworms, right?
SpyderMan: Correct
mermaidav: A giant sandworm is kind of like a wiener, I guess.
If there had been something in my mouth, I would have spat it out.
This girl. So bright. So damn funny. No one else so consistently surprises and amuses me. It makes me eager to talk to her every time—eager to try to keep up. It makes me look at things that happen in my daily life and wonder what kind of humorous spin she’d put on them if she were there.
SpyderMan: Not if it’s got teeth. Christ. What sorts of dicks are you dealing with?
mermaidav: A lady never tells.
SpyderMan: Cheeky.
mermaidav: Anyway, if I can’t sleep, I might as well make some $. I was about to post an offer for services, but you got anything better up for grabs, boss man?
SpyderMan: If you’re going for honorifics, I much prefer “Sir.”
The dots appear, letting me know she’s responding. I feel myself stirring in anticipation of her quip, knowing it’ll be her characteristic mixture of sass and wit. To distract myself, I toss back the rest of my energy drink and drop the empty can into the bag at my feet.
mermaidav: Careful, Sir, or I might report you for workplace harassment.
I scrub my face with a groan and inhale deeply.
I could flirt aimlessly with her all night, but I’ve got a dead cartel dealer, and I’d quite like to know who beat us to the punch.
So I switch to the encrypted text so she can use her private key to read the next message.
No one should ever be listening on my own private IRC, but someone in my position can never be too careful. I drop a file into the encrypted chat.
SpyderMan: Better get straight to it, then. I could use a hand sorting and filling in some data for the big boss.
mermaidav: Some data, he says. Do you know how much computing power this is going to take? It’s a pretty big ask, my guy.
I know it’s a colloquialism, but the possessive pronoun stirs something deep and primal in me. Something that wants to hear it from her lips. Something that wants to take as much as it wants to be owned.
SpyderMan: It is. Are you saying you’re not up to the task?
mermaidav: No, obviously I’m trying to drive up the price.
That makes me laugh again.
SpyderMan: Shouldn’t be too hard for a clever girl like you
mermaidav: See, that’s not fair. You know my weakness is praise. Lol. How much?
SpyderMan: $700 for what I need within the next 24 hours. Every hour after, -$100.
mermaidav: Miss me with your low-balling. I’m not getting out of bed for less than 1K.
Images flash before my eyes. My mind conjures dark sheets twisted around a soft body.
I have no idea what she looks like, but my brain conjures smooth, bare legs and an oversized band shirt.
Is she tall? Short? Pale? Tan? Thick, like I like?
I don’t care ultimately—it’s her mind and personality I’m attracted to—but I’m still burning to know.
And I desperately want to ask what she wears to bed. I bet I’m right about the band shirt.
SpyderMan: Who said you had to get out of bed?
mermaidav: I can think of much more pleasurable things to do here than data mine.
My blood surges in my ears, a mixture of anticipation and sudden, intense arousal. Is she like so many women, with a bedside table in easy reach, stocked with naughty toys? Fuck, I hope so.
Don’t go there, Wesley.
It’s not about the money—I’ve got more than enough that the difference she wants is a drop in the ocean—and part of me would give her whatever she wanted or asked for.
But it’s about respect, and a well-established power dynamic.
I make the rules. I don’t let anyone dictate terms to me, and I know for a fact that my offer is more than fair.
And for her, she needs the money, but that’s not why she pushes back.
She delights in getting a rise out of people—me—and eliciting reactions from an unaffected distance.
Such a fucking brat.
The back and forth is stirring my blood.
It’s a special kind of rush, and I know she gets off on it, too.
My heart pounds hard in my chest, and my cock is starting to feel the results of that increased circulation.
My extremities are tingling, muscles filling with an antsy need to move.
I clench my hands a few times, watching the veins pop beneath the ink before I reply.
SpyderMan: Your prerogative, as always.
mermaidav: You are so lucky I’m bored. I hope you realize you just created a situation in which I have no motivation to give you anything before my time is up. You’ll have what you want in 23 hours and 59 minutes, Sir.
The winking face she sends after brings a dark smile to my lips.
I’m not sure what I like better about her response—her flippancy or the transparency about it. As always, the confidence is fucking hot, and the bratty tone of her malicious compliance is right up my street.
She logs off, and I’m left ignoring the return of the empty feeling in my chest that always seems to disappear when I talk to her.