Heartthrob for the Hacker (SAFE Haven Security #4)

Prologue

SYDNEY

Is this what a salmon feels like?

The thought almost makes me laugh out loud.

I can now say I understand what “swimming up-stream” feels like. The crowds from the venue continue in the opposite direction as Katie and I shoulder our way through. It’s a challenge, given how short we both are.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way.

People grumble, side-eyeing the two of us as we slip through spaces my cat wouldn’t even fit through. Nerves dance in my belly, mixing with the excitement from the concert that still rings in my ears.

Katie tugs on my cross-body purse and I glance back. Her black Boys Next Door T-shirt matches mine, though the second I got it, I took a pair of scissors and cut the neck out so that it hangs off one shoulder, exposing the lacy strap of my teal bra.

“What?” I ask.

“Maybe we should just go home,” she says, eyes wide as people continue streaming around us.

No. No way. We’ve come this far. And I have a plan. A plan that allows me to meet Cy Darby. One where he flashes me a smile—the same smile he wore during the video for “When She Smiles”—and tells me he feels that immediate connection too. The one that ends with our happily ever after.

And I am this close.

“It’s easy. I already told you. All we have to do is bribe the security guys to let us backstage.” I grasp her arm and tug her forward again. She finally moves, nearly making me topple over at the shift in resistance.

“There’s no way you’re going to bribe anybody with the ten dollars you have left after we stopped at the souvenir stand,” she hisses.

The crowd thins out, and I release a breath, shaking my head. God, I hope the waves in my hair still resemble the beachy kind I was trying for and not Little Orphan Annie.

“I spent the money my dad gave me. But my birthday money is still right here.” I tug the folded bills from my bra and show her, then stuff them back inside.

Two hundred dollars.

I’ve been saving birthday and Christmas money for a year for this.

“Would you relax? We don’t want to miss the chance.”

“How do you even know where to go? There aren’t any signs—”

I shrug, going for more nonchalant than I feel. Nerves swirl in my belly as I try to remember what I had read online.

“The schematics are on the web. Last year someone posted a Reddit thread about how they did this with Just One Yesterday.”

As we continue down the main hallway, workers ignore us, too preoccupied with shutting down concession stands and cleaning up counters strewn with soda droplets and ketchup stains. Near the end, between one of the stands and a brick wall in a little cutout, is a metal fire door.

Giddy, I dart for it, and when I try the handle and the nondescript door opens soundlessly, I shoot a grin over my shoulder.

“Hurry up,” I whisper, ushering her inside and easing the door closed quietly.

“Now what?” she whispers back.

“This way.”

Silently, we shuffle to the end of the hallway.

I try the next door, and when it opens too, I barely bite back my triumphant cry.

There are more people back here, but they all ignore the two teenagers walking through the area.

Just in case, I throw back my shoulders and affect far more confidence than I possess.

Then I move closer to the muscle-bound man with SECURITY emblazoned on his left pec.

“Names?” he asks, sizing me up, then doing the same to Katie.

She, of course, is shaking in her boots. Fuck. We’re so close to meeting Cy, and she’s going to get us kicked out.

I elbow her, silently willing her to knock it off. Then I lean forward, knowing he can see down my shirt and not giving a shit. Time to use my feminine wiles.

Whatever those are.

“We’re here to meet Cy and Asher. They invited us earlier.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

“Nice try, kid. Unless your name is on my list, you ain’t getting anywhere near the band.”

My stomach sinks. Fuck.

“Syd,” Katie whines behind me.

I wave my hand at her, then delve into my shirt and pluck out the cash I tucked there.

“Would this help get our names on your list?” I ask, flashing two one-hundred-dollar bills at him.

He snatches them from my hand and quickly tucks them into his pocket.

“None of my business,” he says. “Ladies.”

He steps to the side, and just like that, we’re through. I practically sprint down the hall, headed for where the music pulses, dragging Katie behind me.

God, if I knew she’d be this much of a pain in the ass, I’d have come alone.

I shove her into the dimly lit room, then follow. It takes several heartbeats for my eyes to adjust, and in that time, I blindly accept the drink a stranger shoves in my direction. Eventually, when I’ve become accustomed to the dark, I take in the room, drinking in as many details as I can.

When I see him, I squeeze the solo cup until it almost cracks.

“Oh my God, there he is,” I squeal.

Cy Darby.

Frontman for Boys Next Door. All six foot one of him. Laughing like a normal guy where he sits on the couch next to two of his bandmates—Soren and Asher.

In my imagination, this is when he looks up and locks eyes with me, and that half smile kicks up the corner of his mouth. His eyes light up and he moves closer, introducing himself and demanding to know my name.

Reality—the bitch that she is—couldn’t be any farther off. Because in reality, he continues talking to Soren and Asher, completely ignoring me.

I take a drink, and suddenly fire travels down my belly and swirls around my nerves, lighting my insides in alcohol-infused flames. I cough, choking on the liquid, my eyes watering.

“Don’t drink that. What if it’s spiked?” Katie hisses.

“It is,” I choke out, blinking and coughing again. It feels like I’m being burned to death from the inside out.

I don’t bother to tell her that it’s more than just spiked—it’s all alcohol.

She takes my cup and hers and sets them on a flat surface behind us, then procures two bottles of water from somewhere nearby. She hands one to me, and I chug it to extinguish the flames.

“Whatever that was, it was nasty,” I tell her, pointing to the offensive cups.

Worse than the White Claw seltzers her older brother bought for us when we went to the beach earlier this summer. Worse than the wine Mom sometimes lets me sip from her glass at dinner.

“Now what?” Katie asks.

Cy is standing now. Talking to the other guys in the band. Several women whose outfits are way more revealing than mine surround them.

A tingle of excitement rushes through me. “Time to go introduce ourselves.”

Katie grips my hand like a lifeline as I stride over and wait at the edge of the circle, hoping Cy will feel my attention. And within seconds, he does. When his eyes meet mine, his scowl morphs into a smile.

I do a happy dance in my head and greet him with a sultry smile of my own. At least, I think it’s sultry. I had to Google what that word meant.

Pretty hard for a virgin to evoke “a passionate or strongly sexual nature or attraction,” but I want Cy. I want him to be my first.

My only.

“Hi, gorgeous. I’m Cy.” He holds out a hand.

I slide mine into it, and I swear my soul leaves my body. It’s like I’m watching our interaction from above. He lifts my hand to his lips—his lips!—and presses a kiss against the back of it, shooting me a wink.

“I-I know,” I say breathlessly.

Smirking, he tugs me away from Katie, who stares after me with wide eyes.

Hopefully someone will approach her. There’s no way she’ll start a conversation on her own.

“Do you have a name? Or should I just call you gorgeous all night?”

He can call me whatever he wants if he keeps staring at me the way he is.

Heart racing, I say, “I’m Sydney. But you can call…” The rest of the words get stuck in my throat. Damn, I wish I had my water bottle.

Cool me would tell him that he could call me gorgeous if he wanted.

But tongue-tied me is standing in front of him awkwardly.

“Thirsty, Sydney?” he asks, leading me toward the table of drinks.

He picks up two shot glasses and holds one out to me. “Bottoms up.”

He downs his drink, and I follow his lead, the fire returning to my belly. I grimace, laying my palm against my stomach and trying to breathe out without being too obvious about it.

A low laugh rumbles out of him.

“What’s the matter, gorgeous? Vodka not your drink?”

No, vodka is definitely not my drink.

“I’m more of a tequila fan myself,” I tell him, hoping like hell I sound like I know what I’m talking about.

Tequila is one alcohol I actually have tried, though only because I’ve taken a sip or two of Dad’s margarita at our favorite Mexican restaurant. Those aren’t bad at all.

“Noted,” he says. “Did you enjoy the show?”

I nod. “Yes. So much. Boys Next Door is my favorite band,” I gush, my face warming under his attention.

“Obviously.” He drags his finger along the frayed collar of my shirt before toying with my bra strap.

I hold my breath. Cy Darby is touching me. Almost. Butterflies swarm my stomach, setting the vodka to spinning in some sort of centrifuge that makes my whole body heat in a warm tingle.

“Who’s your favorite boy?” he murmurs, his attention shifting from my eyes to my lips.

My mouth suddenly feels like Death Valley. My family drove through it last summer and stopped along the way to pick up drinks at the gas station. Any moisture is long gone.

I drag my tongue along my lips. “You.”

He smiles—that smile, the one I’ve been waiting for—and takes the shot glass from my fingers, then backs me against the wall.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he tells me.

The room spins around me, the edges of my vision growing fuzzy.

Have I stopped breathing?

“O-okay.”

“Before I do. I have a question for you.” He drags his nose along my jaw and settles his hands on my hips. His thumbs tease the exposed skin between my shirt and the waistband of my jean shorts.

The slight glide of his warm, callused skin against mine scrambles my brain.

“I love you,” I breathe out.

Holy shit! My heart plummets. Did I just say that out loud? Kill me now.

I’m ready for a hole to open in the floor beneath my feet and swallow me, yet he doesn’t react. No smile, no frown either. And he doesn’t push me away. Is it possible he didn’t hear me? Thank God the music in the room is as loud as it is.

Brow furrowed, he shakes his head and leans forward.

“What did you say?” His lips coast my ear as he asks.

I shiver. Wanting him to keep doing what he’s doing.

“Nothing,” I blurt. “What did you want to ask me?”

“How old are you? I-I only ask because…” He trails off.

I want to know what’s prompting his question. Instead of asking, I arch an eyebrow and push my lips out in a pout as I hook my fingers in the belt loops of his jeans.

“How old do you think I am?”

His attention drifts back to my lips and he leans closer. My eyes drift closed and his breath mingles with mine.

And then it’s gone.

“Bruh, do you know how old these two are?”

My eyes pop open, and I find Asher standing with Katie tucked into his side in a brotherly, protective gesture. Fuck.

“Fifteen,” he says when Cy doesn’t respond.

All the color drains from Cy’s face as his attention pivots between Katie and me.

“Fifteen?” The look of horror on his face would be laughable if it didn’t make me feel like I was a baby.

“Sixteen,” I correct. “My birthday was last week.”

“Fuck.” He jerks back, putting space between us, and yanks his hands through his hair.

My hands fall lamely to my sides, dread gathering inside me.

“If the label found out—” Asher says.

Cy slices his hand through the air, cutting him off. “I got it.”

He turns to me, and gone is the sexy, enigmatic singer. The one who told me he wanted to kiss me. In his place is someone else. A man I don’t recognize. A cocky, arrogant pod person who enjoys looking down on me.

He pities me. It’s clear in the tight-lipped smile and awkward posture.

Fuck his pity.

“Listen…” He trails off. Suddenly he’s forgotten my name, and so much for wanting to call me gorgeous.

“Sydney,” I grit out, my molars grinding.

What’s with the one-eighty personality change? He’s attracted to me, I know it.

“Cindy,” he says.

I don’t correct him. Why bother?

It’s not like he gives a shit.

Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and shrug the neckline of my shirt back up my shoulder.

“Thanks for coming to the show,” he says blandly. “Did you want me to autograph something for you? We can take a selfie.” He holds out his hand for my phone.

I don’t move to collect it from my purse. Why would I want to document the worst day of my life?

“I’m good, thanks.” It’s a lie, but it’s not like I’ll tell him anything different.

He grins, pointing at me. “Anything for a fan. Thanks for coming tonight. It was great meeting you.”

Before I can respond, he practically vaporizes. Between one blink and the next, he’s on the other side of the room. Asher gives Katie a look, then turns it on me. The kind of look a big brother would give to his younger sisters. Then he slowly follows Cy.

I turn to my best friend. “What the hell? You told him we were only fifteen?”

“He asked what I did for a living,” she stammers. “I told him I was still in school. Then he asked what college, so I told him high school. It just…slipped out?”

I was so close. This close to kissing Cy Darby.

Scanning the room, I search for him. He’s already found another girl, his hand in the back pocket of her jeans, his lips close to her ear.

As if he senses my attention, he shifts, his eyes colliding with mine.

They widen briefly, but he quickly turns back to the girl at his side, spinning her and planting his lips on hers.

He slides his hands to her ass, and the image blurs in front of me as tears well.

Nooo!

I don’t scream it the way I want. And I don’t let a single traitorous tear fall. My heart might shatter into a million pieces as their kiss drags on and turns into a full-on make-out session. But he’s not worth my tears.

“Let’s get out of here.” I don’t feel so great. It may be the heartbreak talking. Or maybe the alcohol. Probably a combination of the two. Regardless, I can’t stay here any longer.

Fuck all rock stars. Or pop stars, or whatever the hell these guys think they are.

Fuck Boys Next Door.

And most of all, fuck Cyrus Darby.