It’s a date.

As soon as I said it, I wanted to throw myself out the window. I hadn’t planned any of it. When he suggested a group send off, I’d opened my mouth to agree. Instead, I cornered him into hanging out, just the two of us.

It’s a date.

I saw it on his face as soon as I said it. He was angry. Confused. I ended things. I’d been brutal. Mean. I didn’t deserve a second chance. I didn’t deserve him. Even if all I want is to hang out for a few hours and eat pizza.

It’s a date.

Jesus.

I’m on the verge of texting him and letting him off the hook, but then Miranda’s guy shows up, and I get busy directing him on which paintings to pack and which to leave.

“Not that one,” I say, my voice sharp.

The guy checks his list, his fuzzy caterpillar brows crumpling into his forehead. “The list Miz McIntyre gave me says—”

“I said not that one,” I repeat myself, pulling it out of his hands. “And not this one either.” I pick up the painting I did a few days ago of Patrick, sleeping in the sun.

He opens his mouth to argue with me.

“I’ll take care of Miranda,” I tell him, carrying them into the living room and stash them behind the couch before he can argue with me.

Before I can head back into the bedroom, someone knocks on the front door.

My first thought is that it's James and my gut clenches. Con shot me a text this morning, warning me that he’d been released from the hospital. Checking the peephole, I relax a little but not by much. It’s not James. In fact, I’ve never seen this guy before in my life. Tall. Swimmer’s body—powerful shoulders and torso that taper into narrow hips. Light-colored eyes framed by a pair of dark, thick-rimmed glasses. Hair so dark it looks almost black, sticking up and out in a way that could be considered styled but something about him says he’s not the type to bother.

Pulling the door open, I angle myself in the wedge, barring easy access. “Yes?”

“You Legs?” the guy says, reading the nickname off the envelope in his hand. Looking up, he gives me a quick once over before smiling. “Stupid question.” He thrusts the envelope into my hand. “I’m Logan.”

Flipping the envelope over, I rip it open.

––––––––

LEGS –

This is Logan. Let him in, he has something to show you.

Con

Next to his name is a rough sketch of a penis towering over a tiny stick-figure. Next, to it, it says:

p.s. Just in case you’re doubting the validity of this note and who it’s from, I drew you a picture of my dick. Enjoy!

In spite of everything, I laugh. I suspect that’s what he intended. Shoving the note back in its sleeve, I look at the guy standing in front of me. “Are those cats?”

He looks down at his T-shirt. “No, they’re cats, shooting laser beams out of their eyeballs—” He adjusts the backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Way cooler than regular cats,” he says, scratching the bridge of his nose behind his glasses. “Can I come in?”

I don’t move. “How long have you known Conner?” I say. I have no doubt that Con sent this guy but I’m trying to figure out why.

“A long time,” Logan says, submitting to my questioning like he’s used to being interrogated.

Vague. “Where’d you meet?”

He looks like he’s choosing his words carefully. “College.”

I keep forgetting that for Conner, college was a long time ago. “MIT?”

Now he smirks. “Sure.”

Vague and cryptic. “If you’re friends, why haven’t I ever met you before?”

“Because Con likes everyone to stay in their own lane.” Logan laughs. “He’s the only one who gets to weave in and out of traffic. Get me?”

I did.

He sighs. “Can I come in now?”

“Oh—” I look over my shoulder. Miranda’s guy is still in my bedroom, packing, probably glad I’m not hovering over his shoulder anymore. “Sure.” I move out of the doorway, and he passes through, making a beeline for the couch.

“Alright,” he says, reaching into his backpack to pull out a laptop. Sitting down, he set the laptop on the coffee table and opens it. “The program’s only been running for a few hours, but—”

“Program?”

“Right. Sorry,” he says, fingers clicking across the keyboard. “It’ll be easier to explain if you come take a look.”

Skirting the coffee table, I perch myself on the edge of the couch. In the top, right-hand corner of the computer, there’s a post-it note stuck to the screen, hiding whatever’s underneath. I reach out to lift it, but he stops me.

“Don’t do that,” he says, shaking his head, moving my hand away from the screen.

I drop my hand. It’s not what he said, it’s how he said it that stops me. Whatever’s under that post-it, I don’t want to see it, and neither does he.

“Okay.” Along the bottom is a constantly revolving set of images, moving so fast it’s hard to get a handle on what I’m seeing. The rest of the screen is eaten up by what I’m pretty sure is computer code. Long strings of it, scrolling across the screen. “What is this?”

“A scrubber program,” Logan says. “Basically, this—” He points at the strings of code, streaming across the screen. “Is scouring this—” His finger moves to the row of images flashing across the bottom of the screen. Thumb-nail icons for internet sites. “To find and eat this.” His finger moves again, touching the post-it. “The video. Once the code finds it posted on a site, it scrubs it, and the video disappears.”

The video. My video. My heart is hammering in my chest. “For good?”

Logan grins, shoving his glasses up onto the top of his head. “Yup. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

“You did this for me?” I’m on the verge of tears which is stupid. “You don’t even know me.”

“Well, not me,” he says, giving me a perplexed smile. “Con wrote the program. I just ran the install.”

“Con did this?” Last night was Ladies Night. Conner never misses a Ladies Night. “When?”

“Who knows?” Logan says with a wide-eyed shrug. “He could’ve done it this morning while he was waiting for his toaster strudel to pop.” He laughs. “You do know Con, right?”

Do I know Conner Gilroy? Apparently not. Matter of fact I’m beginning to wonder if anyone really does. “Where is he?”

“He was wearing a suit when he dropped off the code this morning so...” Logan shrugs, perplexed. “Wanna see the rest of it?”

There’s more?

Logan splits the screen to show me another program that looks almost identical to the first. “So, getting the video off the net is fairly straightforward,” he says, scrolling his finger across the mouse pad, clicking here and there. “The real issue is getting it off personal devices.”

I hadn’t thought about that. All the people who downloaded the video to watch and share privately. James and his friends. Nameless, faceless pervs. “Conner figured out a way to do that?”

“Fuck yeah, he did.” Logan grins. “Some of the sweetest code I’ve ever seen.” He taps his finger on the screen again. “It’s a virus... triggered by the video.” I can tell he’s struggling to explain it to me in terms I’ll understand. “As soon as the video is viewed or shared—and as long as the device is connected to the internet—it attacks. Wipes the video and kills the device.”

“That’s possible?” I say, looking at the guy sitting beside me. “You can do that?”

“Me?” Logan laughs, closing his laptop. “No. I can’t do that. But Con can.” He leans in and drops his voice. Suddenly, he looks worried. “You know you can’t tell anyone about this, right? Like, no one.”

Because what Con did for me is illegal. Because for all his lecturing Patrick and Tess about following the letter of the law, he broke it. Went total Blackhat. For me.

I sit for a second, trying to figure out why he would do this for me. The last few times we spoke, we argued about Patrick. The way I treated him. The games I played. Why would he go out of his way to help me? Me—not Patrick and by extension, me. Just me.

“No one fucks with my family.”

I look at the guy sitting next to me. “What did you say?”

“You’re trying to figure out why.” He clears his throat, lowering his glasses back into place. “That’s what Con said when he gave me the program.” He stuffs his laptop back into his bag before he stands. “No one fucks with my family.”