Chapter 18 Wren
WREN
Ican’t sleep.
Even though I’ve somehow curled up behind Catfish. The big spoon to his, well, bigger one. My arm is over his waist.
My hand is trapped beneath his, pressed up against his rock-solid abs.
With my nose pressed up against his shoulders, I can smell the musky and reassuring warmth of him.
Trusting your body with anyone is a risk. Add in less understood and accepted things like queerness and transness, and there’s a different layer of threat due to societal violence against us.
But I trust Catfish with my body wholeheartedly. The way we had sex earlier is enough to blow anyone’s mind. I came, which is a miracle of its own. But there’s something intuitive and unbiker-like in the way Catfish handled me.
I fully expect there to be a learning curve regarding triggers.
And I may have to address my own. Sexually, I’ve always existed as a switch.
Someone who could both dominate and be subservient.
I don’t think I’ve picked the people I’ve been with based on which of those I want to be at any given time.
In any relationship, things evolve as you gain comfort with expressing your needs to the other person. But given what just happened in the shower, I’m confident that it’s something River and I can navigate.
A small bubble of worry floats to the surface. That I shouldn’t be here. That I should go so this man doesn’t get hurt for me again. But I tamp it down and try to cling to the sliver of happiness I’ve found.
I enjoy the peace of lying here with him like this, in sheets that still smell of our love making, for a few moments more, before extricating my hand.
He grumbles as I do but doesn’t truly wake up.
The air is cool. I’m not sure what the heating controls are set at, but it’s certainly not quite warm enough yet.
I grab a pair of thick socks, the hoodie Catfish wore yesterday off the chair, and my laptop and slip out of the bedroom.
The house is so quiet and peaceful. Catfish said there are two prospects keeping an eye on the place with patrols from an outbuilding I’ve been assured has some form of heating.
But maybe what I should do is use the time to select and order the security system for Atom’s ranch house. As I head down the stairs, I consider what it’s going to need. Some form of perimeter sensors. Actual cameras.
And I’m going to look for some regular work. Or see if Calista has any projects she wants outsourced. Because I need to make some money and pay my way. I’m tired of living off the Outlaws’ hospitality.
It wouldn’t take much for me to do a couple of projects, and then I can pay for the security system and installation as my gift to Atom for letting me stay here.
The kitchen light is bright when I switch it on, and I wince as I place my laptop down on the counter.
Before I start the coffee, I tug the fluffy socks on and pull Catfish’s hoodie over my head.
It smells of him, a scent I’m coming to associate with good things, like safety and comfort and care.
Once I’ve set the coffee to brew, I grab a cup from the cupboard and wait impatiently with my hands on the cool marble counter.
I need to establish some kind of normal while I’m here.
I haven’t been to the gym in, like, ten days, but Catfish mentioned the club has one in one of the outbuildings behind the clubhouse.
Perhaps if I ask him, he’ll take me there to get a sweat on.
Although, maybe I shouldn’t word it that way. Or he’ll come up with other ideas to get the two of us sweaty and I won’t be able to say no.
I need to set some kind of working hours and split my time between making some money and going back through all the files with a fine-tooth comb.
When I finally perch my butt on the leather stool, I open my laptop.
Steam swirls above my coffee cup as I wait for the interface to open.
I don’t have any social media. It’s rare for someone my age to not have a single space dedicated to sharing every mundane detail of my life.
But every photo a person ever posts has metadata.
Even if they are shared privately. Where it was taken.
What device it was taken with. Eighty percent of people never strip it.
They don’t know you can triangulate a home address with three photos, but I’ve done it.
Once, a guy I was tracking shared a picture of a dog in his yard.
Two clicks later, I had his exact house up on Google Earth.
And don’t get me started on data brokers whose whole business is selling digital profiles. The average American has data points in over seven hundred separate databases. You delete a post? Doesn’t matter. It’s already been scraped and archived six ways to Sunday.
Privacy isn’t a switch. It’s a slow and steady erosion. A drip-by-drip loss that most people never see coming.
But some days, I do envy people having that kind of power to keep in touch with friends and family with the ease of a click. To have that passing connection where you can see what people you care about are up to. There are kids I’ve passed through the system with that I’d love an update from.
I guess the other thing with having a social media account is that I could convince myself I’m being busy while checking out their feed in between work deadlines.
Instead, I have no choice but to head straight to work.
There’s an alert on one of my early accounts, and it’s another message from Special Agent Chase that sits accusingly on my laptop.
I hover my cursor over the email address. It looks legitimate as email addresses go. I pay specific attention to small details. Scammers hope you don’t. They switch out the placements of periods. They sneak in Cyrillic letters to look like regular letters. But this is a clear email.
A quick internet search tells me that the setup of the email address format is correct for the FBI. Which suggests it has come from an official domain as opposed to a scammer. Everything I can see on both the regular and dark web says that this is a legitimate email from the FBI.
I’ve already checked this once, but I do it again.
Paranoia is a wild thing. I’ve seen people in my field become total head cases, utterly lost in the gray of conspiracy and permanent threat.
It’s easy sitting here to think it won’t happen to me, but the truth of it is, a bit like your privacy, your grip on the world can also slip out of your hands drip by drip.
Following the trail I’ve already scoured, I can see that a special agent named Dorian Chase does, indeed, still work where he says he works.
So, I open the email and read it.
Wren,
I know you are seeing these emails. So, I’m going to try one last time to see if this is enough to get you to respond.
You have vital information we require relating to the Los Jarales cartel.
We’re willing to make a deal with you that requires no time served for your role in the hacking in return for those funds and information that might lead to the shutting down of their network.
You have seven days to respond, or I will personally make sure that you are added to the Most Wanted list. To avoid flight risk, I have already added you to various watchlists, so do not attempt to flee.
On a scale of one to ten, I’m about a hundred in not helping this guy with anything.
It’s hard to say why the email bothers me so much beyond this not being how the FBI actually works. Or how I thought it worked. I’m pretty sure it’s not up to FBI agents if I serve time or not. Surely that’s something only the legal system can determine.
I fire a quick note to Saint, the former FBI undercover agent turned biker, to check before I switch into another app and try to track the IP address.
The software I use is illegal, open source, and written by a friend, 404Bae.
She got her username for constantly ghosting people mid chat and has a tattoo of a heartbroken Wi-Fi symbol.
The tracking is weird. The email bounced around overseas before coming back to an FBI node. It’s not impossible that someone has managed to hack the FBI, or maybe it’s someone who has managed to take control of Dorian Chase’s account.
I read back through the email again.
One last time.
Vital information…Los Jarales cartel.
Ignore role in hacking in return for funds and information.
Shutting down of their network.
Seven days to respond…Most Wanted.
Added you to various watchlists.
Well, fuck that shit.
I message another friend, Krillbyte.
Me: You got five to do me a favor?
I wait two minutes before the dots start to bounce in reply.
Krillbyte: What do you need, NullTrace?
I chose NullTrace as my handle because it was blunt and uncompromising, and I pretty much bet my reputation on it. That I could do whatever people wanted, leaving no trace behind.
Me: If someone you knew ended up on the alphabet MW?
Krillbyte: Leave it with me.
Me: Love you forever
Krillbyte: No, you won’t ;-)
One of the things I love about what Calista did was how she brought a fiercely protective small group of us together. People who had complementing skills and a craving for privacy. HexaPixie, LagRabbit, Krillbyte, Keyghost, Scalpel0x, and me.
I glance back at the email again to read it one more time. Beneath the core message is a whole bunch of logistics of where to reach Chase.
Since spending time with Catfish and his family and seeing the Colorado Outlaws through his lens, the band around my chest has loosened. But I can feel it start to cinch tighter again.
Outside, the early morning is still pitch-dark, sharp and feathered with cold. In the daylight, I can see the cottonwoods that line the north fence and the dirt road. A glance at the clock on the oven tells me it’s close to seven a.m. And across the paddock, I see the lights go on in the barn.
Must be Atom getting things started for the day.
I haven’t had the chance to thank him properly for helping Catfish convince Grudge to let us move here.
In the very first meeting I had when I met the Colorado bikers, I said I’d be happy at the bakery, but mainly because I thought I’d be allowed to at least walk Main Street, perhaps visit the diner.
I wonder if we could invite Atom and Ember over for dinner one night.
Like a double date.
“Wren?” I hear Catfish’s yell, and it makes me jump. There’s urgency in it. Not quite panic, but something demanding.
The thud of footsteps vibrates through the kitchen wall as he charges toward me, and on instinct, I slip off the stool, sending it flying, and crouch down behind the kitchen island.
Whoever is coming for me must be out there.