Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
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?”