Remember Me (7 page)

Griff nods. “I know your guy went under. Thought you could use mine instead.”

“You have someone?”

“Yeah.” Griff edges a little closer and his hand—stained with faded blue ink—cradles my jawline . . . my cheek. His thumb grazes my lower lip and we both swallow. Hard.

“That would be amazing, Griff. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

Jesus. Could I sound any stiffer? I want this thing between us fixed and I don't know how to do it. Do I kiss him and apologize? Or do I just kiss him?

Maybe it's because of the DVD or maybe it's just because this is my first boyfriend, but I keep thinking about how my mom tried to fix things with my dad. She did it wrong. I wanted to do it better.

And I'm not.

“I want you to be safe,” Griff says. “My guy is . . . a bit of a dick. He's good though. Really good.”

I nod, sounds fine to me, but there's something about the way Griff offered his builder that makes me think he kinda sorta wants me to say no.

“Are you okay?” I ask, hoping he hears the
are we okay?
hovering underneath.

“Yeah. 'Course.” Griff shrugs, watching his fingers trace across my skin. His touch is so light and it makes my stomach feel liquid and heavy. “It's just that, when I thought about being with you . . . this isn't how I pictured it.”

I force a smile, lean into his hand.

That makes two of us.

7

Griff follows me home, leaving his bike at my house so we can head to Five Points in the Mini. The clouds above us have turned the pale cream of baseball leather, promising better weather to come, but traffic is slow. It takes us almost an hour to reach downtown Atlanta, and when we finally turn down the last side street, I'm sure Griff is screwing with me.

“This is it,” he says, motioning to the squat building on our left. Usually computer specialists work out of storefronts or their houses and we're turning in to an abandoned restaurant that looks like something out of
The Walking Dead
.

“You take me to the nicest places,” I joke, negotiating around an enormous pothole. I'm trying for funny. Griff doesn't even crack a smile. His eyes are pinned to the caving-in front awning and the man in a hoodie standing under it.

“Is that your builder?” I ask, and Griff shakes his head, mouth set.

“No.”

We park and get out, Griff coming around to my side before I can even shut my door. “Hey, I have a confession,” he says. “I had to tell him who you really were.”

I stiffen and Griff sweeps his hands down my arms. “He doesn't take new clients, but I knew he was a fan of your work so . . .”

I force a smile. “It's okay.”

Only it's kind of not. I'm careful to keep my hacking life separate from my real life. Griff's one of the few people who knows both and he gave me away. As soon as I think it, though, I smother the thought. Griff did this to help me with something he doesn't even want any part of.

I close my hand around Griff's and squeeze, following him across the parking lot. Up under the restaurant's awning, the hoodie guy starts to pace. The closer we get, the harder his feet stab into the sidewalk.

“What do you want?” he demands, voice creaky and rusted, a box lid unused to opening.

“Looking for Milo Gray,” Griff says, easing sideways so I have to peer around him. “He here?”

“Maybe.” The guy moves toward us. This close, his eyes are an ashy gray like whatever's inside him is burning its way to the surface.

Homeless. Maybe high.
He doesn't look well. His skin is the color of overcreamed coffee and his clothes are stained and rumpled. The stench is enough to make my eyes water.

“Who are you?” He's talking to me now and it makes Griff stiffen.

“Wick,” I say.

He mouths my name, twitches, and Griff's breath stalls. I curve my hand around his forearm.
It's okay. It's okay.

Then suddenly it's not.

The guy lunges at me and I duck, stumbling back and lashing out with my fist. I connect with his throat. He coughs hard and goes to his knees.

“Hey!” Another voice—a guy's—comes from my left. I jerk sideways and the newcomer lunges forward, ripping past me to crouch by the guy. He nearly gets flattened for his efforts though. The man leaps up and takes off.

Leaving the new guy to round on me. He surges forward, shoving me into the restaurant's wall. “Who the hell are you?”

“Wick Tate.” I start to knee him in the groin and he twists sideways, swearing. “Who the hell are
you
?”

“Milo Gray.” His hands loosen and he moves back a step. “World's greatest builder.”

 

“Who was that?”
Griff asks. Outside the restaurant, the storm has regrouped and rain bleeds down the dusty windows in veins.

Milo studies Griff. “No one that concerns you.”

“That's because it was your dad, wasn't it?” Both boys pivot to stare at me and I pretend to straighten my shirtsleeve so I can cradle my throbbing arm. “Attached earlobes. It runs in families, right? So maybe he's your dad or really older brother?”

“Dad.” Now Milo's studying
me
. His eyes linger and I shiver. Griff's guy doesn't look like a techie . . . he looks like some sort of surfer boy: dark hair, dark eyes, worn black T-shirt stretched across a gym-sculpted chest, and tribal tats curling up his forearms.

“You didn't tell me she was going to be in danger if I brought her here,” Griff says.

“And
you
didn't tell me who she really was. You said you were bringing me Red Queen, not . . .” Milo's attention never swerves from me. Slowly, the side of his mouth quirks up. “So what should I call you? Wick? Or Red Queen?”

I try to smile. Can't. My face has gone tight. Red Queen is one of the aliases I use online and, generally, my best known. “Wick's fine.”

“You got it . . . but how do I know you're
the
Red Queen? How do I know you're the one who came up with the Pandora code?”

“Well, if I could just borrow a computer . . .”

“No way you're touching my gear.” Milo's tongue taps the corner of his mouth. “Tell me about how you nailed Walker Internet Securities.”

I flinch. It was probably some of the best work I ever did for Joe. I meet Milo's gaze and refuse to think about what Griff must be thinking . . . or about the shame heating my face. “So their CEO was way paranoid; getting into the company's systems was impossible. They'd thought of everything . . . except for their cable boxes. They were running this old version of BSD, which meant I had my pick of vulnerabilities. After a few directory traversal attacks, I was able to access every internet and wireless device in the office.” I force myself to breathe. “By using an XSS vulnerability in the HTML firewall log I was able to install a malicious JavaScript packet that would look for various password and configuration files and, if found, send them back to me. When the CEO viewed the firewall log the next morning, the XSS had launched, and we ended up with the company's enterprise-wide root password.” I shrug. “Pretty much full access to passwords, source codes, credit card numbers . . . I also set every channel in his cable box to Disney.”

Milo's eyes flicker. “Say it again, but this time, do it in a breathy voice.”

“Pervert.”

He grins, his teeth werewolf white against his darker skin. “I've been following you for years. Never thought we'd meet. Or that you'd be . . .” Milo's gaze climbs down me. It should feel dirty, only, somehow, it's more like he's assessing me in terms of my jobs. And he's impressed.

It's kind of flattering.

Maybe more than kind of.

“I worked for Group Eight,” Milo adds. “We were all big fans.”

G8? Huh. That was a tightly run outfit. They did good work until the Feds brought them down. I remember really liking how they . . . crap. No way am I admitting I've been admiring Milo as well.

“Are we going to talk computers or not?” I ask.

“I thought we were,” Milo says, motioning for us to follow him through the restaurant. The main dining room is filled with dusty tables pushed up against each other, the chairs long gone. Milo pops behind the counter and through the kitchen—unused as the dining areas—and into what must have once been a storage room.

Long stainless steel counters line the walls, snake nests of Ethernet and power cords spilling from their tops. I'm picking my way through the tangle, trying not to trip, when the wires pinned to the wall catch my eye. I stop dead.

“Are those
explosives
?”

Milo looks over his shoulder, gaze following mine to the small red boxes attached to the wall. “Yeah. It's a hobby of mine. I rigged the whole place. Supernova in, like, fifteen seconds. Eighteen, tops.”

“Jesus!”

Milo smiles. “I'm even better.”

Next to me, Griff clears his throat, his hand finding the small of my back. “How do we know your dad won't return for a second shot?”

“We don't. . . . I don't think he will though.” Milo pulls out a couple of chairs shoved into the corner and offers me one. “He's not dangerous. It's just, like, an episode. He gets them sometimes—especially when he's off his meds.

“Look, your little girlfriend is fine.” Milo smiles again. This time though it's forced, lips pulled up with strings. He glances in my direction, catches me staring at him. “See something you like?”

“You wish,” I say, turning a small circle to take in the room. There's dead takeaway piled in the trash can and the floor doesn't look like it's been vacuumed in weeks. Typical. Computer geeks are such slobs. If his mom shows up, the cliché will be complete.

Well. Almost complete. Milo's computers are pristine. The desk is wiped clean, no food within spilling distance, the cords are neatly tied together—even the screens are dust free. It shouldn't matter, but I like him a little more because of it.

“So.” Milo drops into a roller chair and spins it to face me. “Talk. What kind of system do you need?”

Eyes on Griff, I give Milo the quick run-down on what I need and who I'm up against, and when I finish, the builder lets out a low whistle.

“So to get to your guy, you have to go through Barton and Moore? That's a high-end target.”

I glance at Milo. “Too high-end for you?”

He smirks. “Not at all. I'll do it.”

And there's something about the way Milo says it that makes the whole thing sound like fun. I grin because, for this really weird second, it feels like I get Milo—really get him—and it's so strange and funny I turn to Griff, expecting him to laugh like I want to laugh.

But when our eyes meet, I can tell he also sees the thing between Milo and me and he doesn't find it funny at all.

“Eight grand,” Milo says, waiting for my response.

I blink. That's a lot of money. I have it—I've been stockpiling cash for a couple years now in case Lily and I had to run. I just . . . “Fine.”

“Good.” Milo scribbles something down on a notepad and, ripping the page off, hands it to me. “Wire it to this info. You don't show up when I call, I part the machine out, understand?”

“Yeah.” I start to go and Milo jumps up.

“I'll walk you out.”

“Think we can find the way,” Griff says, and there's something threaded underneath his tone that makes me pause.

It makes Milo laugh. He follows us and we're almost to the door when I notice the low-slung table near the wall. It looks like computers come there to die. There's a soldering gun in one corner and parts are strewn everywhere, some of them snapped into pieces . . . except for a black box smaller than my fingertip.

“What's this?”

“Sniffer.” Milo passes it to me and, even though I don't want to be, I'm impressed.

I fit the sniffer against my palm, testing the weight. “Did you make it?”

“Like duh.” Milo rolls his eyes and plucks the transmitter from my hand. “It's specifically designed for BlackBerrys. You pop off the bottom of the handset's charging station, attach this baby, and away you go. It copies me on emails, internet usage, texts.”

My heart bumps into my throat. It's perfect. This could get me close to Bay without actually
getting
close to Bay.

Only it's not perfect because I'd have to get my hands on Bay's BlackBerry charger.

“Does it work?” I ask.

“Of course it works.” Milo turns over the transmitter, pokes it with one finger. “Well, it should work. I haven't had a chance to test it. Everyone I know has either iPhones or Androids. I need to get close to a BlackBerry user.”

Again, the proximity problem. I look at Griff, feel the familiar squeeze deep in my chest.

“How much?” I ask.

Milo's face wrinkles in confusion. “For this? It's not for sale. I'm trying to figure out how to scare BlackBerry so they buy the patent from me.”

“What better way to do that than by showing them it actually works?”

Milo goes still. “A thousand.”

“You're high.”

“If only.” Milo shrugs. “Six hundred.”

“I'm already buying an entire system from you.”

He smiles. “Five.”

I stare at him, waiting, and Milo smiles wider. “Fine.” He drops it in a plastic baggie and tosses it to me. “It's free—only because I like you and I want details of how well it works.”

“
If
it works.”

“
When
it works.”

Outside there's a crack of thunder and the lights flicker once, kick-starting the low hum of generators in some other room. We must have lost power.

“Storm's getting worse,” Griff says. He's watching us without meeting my eyes. “Let's go before the Mini ends up floating.”