“He’s lying,” Puff Daddy says.
I ignore him because Whitney is no longer on the treadmill. A quick look at the corner of my screen tells me she cut her workout short today.
“Damn it,” I mutter, searching feeds in other areas of the building only to come up empty.
Minimizing the image of her apartment door to the lower corner, I fight the urge to dig a little deeper. It’s probably only a few minutes of my fingers twitching near my keyboard before they start moving, but it feels like an eternity.
I don’t dig deep. I’m not going to invade her privacy much more than I already have, but I need to know what this woman does for fun.
“How would you like it if someone—”
“Finish that sentence, and you’ll stay home when I go to Nana’s.”
My crazy bird hardly ever listens, but the threat of not getting the chance to be spoiled by my grandmother works every time.
He’s the result of a teenage barter exchange I made in high school, and I can say most days I’m glad that minimal amount of information handed over to the principal in exchange for him was a move well made. I mean, should it really be illegal to help the school administration shut down a small drug ring going on around campus? The cops thought so when Mr. Woolry got arrested, but like a true gentleman he never ratted me out.
My fingers work over the keyboard, a smile tugging up the corners of my lips when I find her computer system way more protected than the average person’s. Her firewall is nothing to sneeze at, but it isn’t strong enough to keep me from backdooring her safeguards.
As I dig around, I’m tempted to leave a crumb for her to find later, but I don’t see her confronting me online as a way to introduce myself. I’m not very good at relationships and breaching personal information doesn’t seem like getting to know someone small talk.
“Bingo,” I sing when I hit pay dirt. “I fucking love this game. A little slow for my liking, but I’ve never been good at putting off instant gratification.”
I back out of her system after checking how many hours she’s logged on Orc’s Realm and set off to make a brand-new account. Playing ignorant is going to work much better for me than using my original account which has beaten the game in its entirety more than once. Plus, if she has a cat, which I suspect from the way she opens her door to visitors, then she has to have a ton of patience to help a noob on the game. Women with cats, I’ve discovered, are some of the most patient women in the world.
Puff Daddy yells at me for being a creep several more times, and it takes all of my focus not to turn my head to look at the box stashed away in the corner. Deacon told me to give it back to her, but I opened the damn thing. Just the idea of knocking on her door and handing over a box of kinky shit that she knows I’ve seen makes my heart race.
It's one thing to set up an online hookup and tell the girl you’re bringing supplies, but to show up on a doorstep uninvited, with those same things that belong to her, goes so far out of my wheelhouse, I would never even try it.Chapter 4Whitney
“That motherfu—”
I snap my mouth shut before the foul language slips out. I’ve been trying to get a better handle on my potty mouth, but it’s been slow going. I get even more agitated when I think back to why I even came to the conclusion I need to work on it. My mouth has never been a problem for people in the past, but one ten-year-old boy somehow sneaks his way into one of our in-game raids and his mother throws a shit fit.
Let’s just ignore the fact that the game is rated A for ADULTS ONLY, Karen, and blame my mouth for your child’s anger issues. I mean seriously, pay attention to what your kids are doing, people. The characters in Orc’s Realm celebrate very violent victories with graphic sex orgies. This isn’t Donkey Kong for heaven’s sake.
I close my eyes, breathing in deeply and blowing out slowly. It’s crazy how I can go on a tangent in my own head, but I guess it’s not very abnormal for someone who spends ninety-five percent of her time alone.
When I open my eyes again, the screen in front of me doesn’t change. Nope, the information staring back at me is just as anger-producing as it was moments ago.
Picking up my cell phone, I dial the number included in the contract for the job I’m working on.
“Ms. Nelson,” the male caller answers, and considering what I’m looking at right now, it’s no surprise he knew who was on the other end.