Chapter 2
BOONE
The guy on the screen won’t shut up about firewalls, which is funny, considering he’d set his password to some variation on the word password.
I lean back in my chair, my mic muted, nodding like I give a damn while he drones on about brand risk mitigation.
Translation: he’d clicked on a fake link from a fake woman who’d fake-flirted with him until she’d emptied his crypto wallet.
We’d clean it up. We always do, which is why he’d called me. A guy like him getting caught up in something like this?
The press would eat him alive.
If anyone had asked me, I’d have told them he deserved it for being such a fucking idiot, but he is counting on us to make sure it never gets out.
He’s paying us good money for it, too. Double our usual fee, to make it happen fast. So, I listen to his very valid worries about the risk to his brand, then unmute.
“Yeah,” I say when he pauses to breathe, my voice low and even, exactly as confident as he needs me to be. “We can isolate the breach and secure your accounts within forty-eight hours, but you’re going to need to stick to business platforms from now on.”
A polite way of saying stop thinking with your dick.
When my friends and I had first decided to throw our lot in together and start a cybersecurity firm, Dillon had made me take one of those bullshit online courses designed to teach people how to say things the nice way.
It turned out the level of help I needed was light-years beyond the course, but over time, I’ve learned how not to piss off high-profile clients or alienate celebrities.
It damn near cracks my teeth, the way I have to grind them to bite my tongue. I look at the man on my screen, finding it hard to believe his face is plastered on billboards all over the country. “Have you been experiencing any other issues we can help you with?”
He shakes his head and thanks me too many times, and I end the call before I say something I’ll regret. When his droning voice is gone, the silence hangs heavy in my office, just the hum of the servers and the wind pressing against the windows.
This house is too damn big for three guys, but we’d built it anyway.
Stone, glass, and steel on the edge of a ridge that looks down over the valley.
A tapestry of pines and brush spreads out below, clear blue skies a backdrop to the mountain peaks on the other side, streaked with afternoon sunlight.
I’ve never understood why they referred to this state as Big Sky Country until I actually came out here the first time. It’s crazy how different the sky is here compared to Chicago.
The view should feel peaceful, but to me, it mostly just feels empty. Tessa used to say the quiet out here felt like punishment. At the time, I hadn’t disagreed.
Then again, back in those days when she’d still been a part of my life, I’d been a headline. Boone Callaghan, The Reaper. Ten straight knockouts had made me something of a legend in the UFC.
Our lives had been a mess of crowds, lights, and noise. She’d loved the fucking noise. The roar of the crowd and the admiration from the fans. She’d loved the parties, the sponsorships, and shit, I was pretty sure she’d even loved the blood and the broken bones.
Idiot that I was, I’d mistaken it for her loving me, but when the lights had gone down on my career as a fighter, it’d turned out to be the final act of our marriage, too. She’d disappeared, taking half my savings and most of my trust in people with her.
Now I spend my nights chasing ghosts in code and pretending it’s enough. I stand up from behind my desk and stretch my arms over my head. My shoulder cracks, an old injury wanting some attention.
Out the window, I see a car snaking up the mountain road, signaling that Chance would soon be home.
It’s a good life, simple and predictable, but some nights I still catch myself staring at the snow-capped mountains, wondering what the hell I’m waiting for.
As I realize that I am falling down the rabbit hole, I turn away from the view and stride down three flights of stairs to the ground floor. The scent wafting from the kitchen hits me before I even clear the hall.
“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” I call out.
Dillon looks up from behind the counter when I walk in, grinning like he’s been caught stealing Christmas. “That depends on what you think I’m doing.”
“You’re baking cookies.”
He gestures at me with a spatula. “Correction. We’re baking cookies. You just didn’t know it yet.”
“It’s September.” I lean against the doorframe, my arms folded. “Why does it smell like Santa has been stress-baking?”
Dillon’s grin widens. He’s tall, broad, the best hacker in the business, and he looks like he could sell trouble by the pound, yet somehow, he’s as comfortable in a pink apron as a soldier in tactical gear.
“Relax, boss man,” he drawls. “This is just my charm in edible form, but if Santa calls in sick this year, at least we know I’ll be ready to cover for him.”
I roll my eyes. “Check the time, Gordon Ramsay. It’s smack-dab in the middle of our workday.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Also known as prime cookie hour. You’re welcome.”
“You have problems.”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “But I’m also about to have cookies.”
Sighing as I push away from the door, I walk to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. “I’ve got to head into town. Do we need anything?”
“Take some cookies to Lisa at the market,” Dillon says, turning back to the oven.
“Men don’t deliver cookies.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Men who like Lisa do.”
“Sure, but I don’t like Lisa.” I grunt and shake my head. “We already agreed she’s not the one, Dill.”
“Maybe she could be.” He winks and bends over, donning a pink mitt before sliding the tray from the oven. “She could’ve changed. Matured. It’s been a couple of years.”
“I’m pretty sure people don’t change who they are once they hit their thirties. Plus, she wants a guy who doesn’t live on top of a mountain with two other dudes.”
Dillon smiles as he straightens up. “Yeah, well, I’ve got layers. Like an onion. A sexy onion.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You never know. Maybe we judged her too harshly.” He grabs a cookie off the tray, blows on it, and offers it to me. “Just try it. Come on. It’ll put you in a better mood.”
“I don’t eat things that have sarcasm baked into them.”
He takes a dramatic bite, chewing while he talks. “Fine, but it’s your loss, big guy. Maybe you’d smile more if you had a little sugar in your system.”
When I don’t answer, he shrugs those broad shoulders, cocking a hip against the counter, blue eyes shining with mirth. “Someday you’re gonna thank me for keeping things interesting.”
“Doubt it.” I grab my keys off the hook. “Remember to turn the oven off when you’re done, and for the love of God, stop flirting with ideas we’ve already scrapped.”
“No promises.”
I turn to grab my jacket when he adds, “Bring back milk. We’re out.”
Turning on my heel, I leave him there with his cookies, the scent of butter trailing after me.
The drive into town takes twenty minutes on a quiet highway, the road carving through pine and patches of sunshine.
The valley spreads out below like a multicolored blanket, green interspersed with spots of yellow, red, and brown.
It’s the kind of view people pay money to see.
Eventually, nature gives way to development, and the outskirts of town come into view around the next bend. The familiar sign that proclaims we have a population of 5,556 speeds past, and, as always, I wonder when they were going to update that number.
Tourism has brought in a few newcomers, people who bought up and renovated old lodges and hotels.
When I finally reach the community center, the parking lot is empty except for three other cars. Eager to get this over with, I park right by the door and climb out, walking into the building and inhaling the scent of floor wax that always seems to hang in the air.
“Boone Callaghan,” Mara, the woman behind the desk, says, her smile a little too wide. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
“I figured I’d hand it over myself.” I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket and slide the envelope across the counter to her. “It’s the Booster Club check. It should cover the new uniforms for the basketball team.”
She glances at it, then back up at me, her lashes fluttering a little faster than normal. “That’s really generous of you guys. The kids will be thrilled.”
“We’re glad to help.”
Her eyes linger on mine for a second too long, a flirty, too-wide smile stuck to her lips. “Have you ever coached?”
“Nope. Not much of a people person.”
She laughs. “Well, if you ever want to stop by a game, I’m sure the moms would love to thank you in person.”
“I’ll pass that along,” I say, already turning toward the door. “Thanks, Mara. You have a good day now.”
Getting the hell out before she can hold me up any longer, I stride back to my truck and climb in, but I don’t start the engine right away. I just sit there for a second, looking out at the quiet parking lot.
Mara has been flirting with us for years, pretty much since the first donation we’d made to the Booster Club. Maybe she could’ve been the one, but she has a thin golden band on her left ring finger, and we don’t screw with marriages.
I finally turn over the engine and head to the market.