Page 8 of Forbidden Deviant Games

“What’s this all about?” she asks curiously.

I contemplate my response, but she’s an outsider in this. A source of information, nothing more. To get her further involved will do nothing good … for either of us. Yet, somehow, I can’t seem to help myself. “Give me your cell,” I say, reaching my hand out.

She blinks but hands it over willingly. I enter my phone number in her contacts and send a message to myself to ensure that I have her number as well. Once I’m done, I hand the thing back to her and pick up my fork.

“Uh … Viks?” She holds her phone up and frowns at me and I know what she’s expecting. Something I won’t give her—an explanation. Her hopeful expression does nothing but back me into a corner. My jaw clenches. I can’t tell her anything, and I don’t want to pretend with her. Anything more I say will be tainted by the façade I give the rest of the world. She deserves better than that.

“Eat,” I say, “and then I’ll take you back to campus.”

Her expression falls and it guts me.

Even though she didn’t get an answer, at least I didn’t lie to her. Omitting is better than the alternative.

5

VIKS

Though I haven’t dealtwith many hackers in my time, each and every one I meet all seem to have something in common—an aversion to being healthy. Jackson Teller sits at the long L-shaped desk surrounded by a collection of technology. Narrow eyes glassy as he squints at the half a dozen computer screens lit with images that flash back and forth as he clicks and drags them all over the place. Smoke lingers above him as he puffs through what has to be his second pack of the day.

“Well?” I finally say after what feels like an eternity of fucking clicking and silence. “Do you have anything yet?”

“Hold your fucking horses, man,” he pops off, dragging the Marlboro Light from between his lips with a curse. “I’m almost—there!” He mutters something else, setting his cigarette in a nearby overflowing ashtray as his fingers fly across the keyboard. “Got ya, you motherfucker. Thought you could hide from me? Not a chance, dickstain. I get everyone. I’m the fucking king of—”

“Teller,” I cut him off, unwilling and in no fucking mood to let him fall into another one of his ‘I am the king’ deliriums. “Focus. Do you have a clear image of the man’s face?”

“Yeah, I got the motherfucker,” Teller says proudly. “And a name too—Patrick Kennedy.”

“Patrick Kennedy?” I repeat, rounding the desk to get a good look. Teller tightens up and lifts his cigarette back to his mouth, puffing furiously. I don’t give a fuck. I know he hates it when people invade his personal space. With how much he’s getting paid for this fucking job, he can keep his yap shut and deal.

Sure enough, there are several grainy images of the man from the security camera—this time from different angles. Each one ripped in pieces and placed together to get a full profile. He was good, I’ll have to hand it to him. From the looks of it, Teller had to splice the images all together since there wasn’t a damn one we could use with a full frontal view of him. That tells me another thing—he’s a professional.

“He’s got a rap sheet a mile long,” Teller states. It’s not shocking.

“Print it,” I order. “As well as all the images including the one you put together.” My phone buzzes in my pocket and I know, without looking, who it is. I’m already late. Nicholas is expecting me and he is not a man who likes to be kept waiting.

I hang around long enough for Teller to finish printing what I asked him to. I grab the stacks of paper, warm off the press, and shove them into a folder before heading for the door. “Keep your phone on,” I call over my shoulder as I book it out of the five hundred square foot apartment he claims makes him feel safe. How anyone can feel safe living in a goddamn box, I’ll never know.

Several minutes later, I pull into the Carter mansion driveway, shucking my jacket to try and rid myself of the damn cigarette smell from Teller’s apartment, and grab the materials I just collected before heading up to meet Nicholas. Unfortunately, as I enter the estate, pushing through the front door, I spot him coming down the staircase, followed by a tall, leggy brunette that is most certainly not Mrs. Carter.

Nicholas spots me. “Viks,” he says, “I apologize, but you’ll have to update me later on that project I have you working on. I’ve got a prior engagement with Ms. Bairns.”

I step to the side, letting the door hang open as a butler hurries out from the shadows with a jacket, holding it up for him as he slips inside before taking the woman’s arm and leading her outside. “Of course, sir,” I say, nodding as he passes me by.

The door closes with a quiet snick at his back and I release a breath, reaching up and scrubbing a hand down my face. Rushing over here only to be left waiting—that’s so fucking like him. The butler disappears and I’m left alone in the foyer with the file in my hand.

“What’d you think?” a soft voice intrudes on my solitude and I look up to see Dean descending the staircase, a gym bag thrown over his shoulder.

I arch a brow up at him. “About what, kid?” I ask.

“His new toy,” he says, finishing his descent. Fuck, this kid’s gonna be a big guy. Only sixteen and already he’s almost my fucking height. I can damn near look him in the eyes when most grown men are beneath me.

“You think he’s fucking her?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

Dean shrugs, hefting his bag up further along his arm. “Probably yeah. She’s over here all the time.”

I press my lips together. Though I know it may seem like Nicholas is fucking Ms. Bairns to his son—who knows nothing of the woman’s actual job—I know the truth. I quietly debate on telling him. On one hand, relieving Nicholas’ son’s worries that his father might be cheating on his mother isn’t any of my fucking business and definitely not in my job description. Yet, on the other, I know Dean is a good kid. Even if he doesn’t have the greatest relationship with either parent—no kid wants to grow up thinking he was born out of anything but care and love.

I release a sigh and shake my head, reaching up to rub over the top of his head. “Don’t worry about it too much,” I say. “He’s not fucking her.”

---