Love Hacked

He also cussed—four-letter words, with feeling—when I recited Agent Bell’s assertion that she wasn’t threatening me.

The only part I skipped over was Agent Bell’s reference to my occupation during college. No reason to bring that lovely bit of information up unless it was absolutely necessary.

For better or for worse, Alex now knew the gist of the conversation.

I reflected, during the brief silence between us that followed, that I was very pleased we were discussing this now rather than the evening it happened. I had needed a bit of distance in order to see the interaction clearly.

“I have to do something,” he growled into my hair.

“No.” I shook my head. “I’m in favor of the opposite. Let’s do nothing.”

He lifted his head and regarded me with a visibly confused glare. “You want me to do nothing—after she threatened you?”

I nodded. “Yes. Because what can she do? Listen to us more? Turn up the volume on their surveillance equipment?”

“Sandra, the NSA is not….” He paused, licked his lips, and smiled in a way that made me feel naïve.

I ignored the implied slight against my grasp of the situation and took the opportunity to make my point. “Listen, they need you. They need you to contact the guy who developed the bitcoins. Ignoring them and their threats won’t change that. And if they come after me, you have no reason to help them.”

Alex, to anyone else, would have appeared calm in this moment.

To me, he appeared lethally calm and perhaps searching for something to punch.

I quickly added, “My plan also buys us some time…maybe an indefinite amount of time.”

He shook his head, visibly struggling with his words and thoughts. He said, “I’m not happy about this.”

“Well, I won’t be sending Agent Bell flowers for Valentine’s Day, but—based on her side of the story—I can understand her perspective.”

“Her side of the story? They want me to give them the equivalent of a skeleton key for unlimited access to all bitcoins. I would never do that.”

I shifted a bit closer and tightened my hold on his arms. “Can I ask why?”

Alex stared at me like I had seven heads and a tail.

I added quickly, “Let me say, I think I know why. But I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

Alex’s gaze swept the bar. There was a lull in the music, but the crowd pressed against us from all directions.

Not looking at me, he said, “I can’t tell you.”

“Then can I guess?” His eyes flickered to mine and I continued. “You can just stare at me and I’ll try to read your mind, whether or not you agree with my guess.”

Alex stared at me. It appeared that the mind-reading portion of our evening had begun.

“All right,” I said, “I’m assuming you don’t want to hand over the skeleton key because it would give them too much power, but I honestly don’t know whether you could give it to them even if you wanted to. Maybe they just think you have access to the key. Plus, once they have it, they could confiscate anyone’s bitcoins, any time they liked.”

Alex surprised me by saying, “That’s part of it. But it isn’t the biggest part of it, and I can’t tell you the rest.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay?” he echoed. He didn’t look convinced.

“Yes.” I said, trying to look convincing. “But I do have one more question, and it’s a shallow one.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll answer if I’m able to, but….”

I drew in a deep breath, picked an imaginary spot of lint from his black shirt, and—not meeting his eyes—said, “The girl.”

Let’s not forget about the girl, people! Of course I’m going to ask about the girl, because I’m a girl.

The music started up again; the song was slower song that sounded a bit like a ballad. We would be able to hear each other more clearly now.

It took him a moment to decipher my meaning. When he did, he rolled his eyes. “Ah, God, Sandra, I was….” He shook his head, rolled his eyes again, and added hastily, “I was eighteen, just out of prison, and very much wanted to be with a girl—any girl.”

“I see….” I said, because I did see. His explanation made sense. “What happened?”

“She came into the restaurant. She asked me out. I said yes. We…did some stuff a few times. Then she started pumping me for information, and I cut her out. Lesson learned.”

“And you never did stuff with anyone else—until me?”

A small, secretive smile claimed his lips. One of his hands cupped my bottom and the other gripped the small of my waist. “Yes, I’ve done stuff since; just not ever with the same person more than once, and not very often.”

“But you never….” I twirled my hand through the air and gave him a meaningful look.

“No. I never took it that far.”

“I see….” I said, even though I didn’t see. But this explained why he was such a good kisser. Nor was he a fumbler when making out. In fact, I’d call him proficient in that department. I wondered what his other areas of expertise were and whether they included going downtown.

Yes. That’s right. I went there. Because I’m an oddly prim pervert, and a girl needs some relief.

I cleared my throat, looked for another imaginary piece of lint on the canvas of his chest. “Did you like her? This girl.”

“Yeah,” he said simply, and I peeked at him. His eyes were far away, I presumed with memories. Then they cut back to me. “But not like I like you.”

I was about to say you say the nicest things, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment, so instead I smiled, pressed my cheek to my shoulder like I was shy, and fluttered my lashes.

“I like you too.”

“I know.”

“You do? Who told you?”

“You did. Right before you left me.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “You’re right. I did. But, I’m not leaving now.”

“That’s good.” He turned me around so that I was once again facing the stage, and said into my ear, “Maybe you should promise me you’ll never leave.”

“I can’t do that.” I shook my head in earnest. “I may have to pee…or knit.”

I felt Alex’s slow smile against my neck, but then it was abruptly gone and his arms held me tighter.

We stood like that for several minutes, enjoying the slower, quieter song and the feeling of being wrapped in each other’s arms.

However, the next song was no ballad. In fact, after I heard the first pass of the chorus, I was pretty sure it was an ode to the female body—specifically, doing things to the female body.

The bass and drums were heavily featured, giving the song a definite carnal, tribal quality. I was impressed that the tall, blonde, spikey-haired lead singer—the male equivalent of a Swedish underwear model—didn’t dislocate his hip as he gyrated and ground himself into the microphone stand.

As the music continued, Alex’s grip became firmer, friskier. He massaged my backside with his big palms then massaged the sides and centers of my br**sts with his fingers. Basically, he was feeling me up. Sweat beaded and pooled on my chest, and droplets rolled down my spine.

When I could take no more, I leaned back, turned my head, and encouraged him to bend toward me.

I lifted a hand behind me, wrapped my fingers around the back of his neck, and said into his ear, “You need to stop that, please.” Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I licked his ear.

Alex stiffened. His hands flexed on my body. I felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath. “I’m going to touch you how I like, whenever I like, and you’re going to let me,” he said, his lips searing my skin.

I frowned—in fact, it may have been a scowl, no way to be sure without a mirror—and shifted a step forward. He brought me back against him and wrapped one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist.

I turned slightly—as much as was possible—and hissed at him, “You’re not a hypnotist or a Jedi, and you’re not the boss of me.”

“I know you like it.” His chest rumbled as he spoke. “I know you want me.”

Shocking the heckaroni out of me, Alex slipped his hand under my dress to my maidenhood—and by maidenhood, I mean my neglected and angrily aching vagina. He cupped me though my leggings and underwear; I felt his afore-dubbed steel pipe against my backside.

I gasped because he was right, but he was also wrong. I did like it. I did want him. But I also didn’t like being toyed with. Best-case scenario was that he didn’t understand how his touches affected me. I craved him, and not just his body, every minute of every day.

The frisky fingers were fantastic, to a point, and then they just became tools of torture. The frenzy was reaching a crescendo, and something—or somebody—was going to have to surrender.

I bucked against him, pulled at his arms. “Stop, Alex. I’m serious.”

He stiffened, tightened his grip for a split second, then his arms slacked and I stepped away from him. The music, the gyrating and shirtless rock star on the stage, the tire-fire of a man-beast behind me, my angry girl parts—all of it combined, saturated, made me feel dizzy and suffocated.