The Hero and the Hacktivist Read online

  What?

  I don’t like letting people too close.

  It doesn’t end well.

  But tonight is going to end awesome. I can feel it.

  Especially since Glory Ass Brother Elliott—heh, maybe I should call him Gabe, I’m hilarious—is looking down my dress now.

  “Do you bang drunk?” I ask. Even I have some boundaries. Kind of.

  “I don’t get drunk.”

  “Good enough.” I slip under his arm and yank him by the collar to pull him into the room.

  It’s the hospitality suite that all the grandparents and other elderly relations were sent to for booze and naps between the ceremony and the reception. The booze is gone, but the springy couches, empty brandy snifters, and flowery wallpaper are still here.

  So’s the eau de old lady.

  Smells like somebody sprinkled baby powder over gardenia concentrate.

  The Ass of Glory shuts the door, and I reach for the zipper on this ridiculous shiny dress. I must love Parker, since I basically let her turn me into one glittered color of the rainbow on a unicorn’s tail for her wedding. “Are you a couch banger or a rug banger or a wall banger?” I ask.

  He doesn’t flinch at the question, or answer it, but instead watches me while I contort my body, because I can’t get a hold of the damn pull on the zipper. I’m twisting like a monkey who can’t reach that last bug to eat out of its own fur.

  And there’s definite bulgeage happening in his pants.

  If the dude’s turned on by a monkey-strip, then I am so all over this.

  It’s not that I don’t have taste.

  It’s more that I don’t have any illusions that I’m the sexiest catch in the ocean, nor do I try to be. Even if a dude’s super weird, he’s not after me because I have the best face or the best tits. He’s after me because I’m the cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving dinner.

  Some people aren’t going to like me whether I’m jelly in a can or made fresh from hard red ball berries. And the people who are inclined to look past some of my idiosyncrasies still won’t like me if they want Grandma Helen’s recipe because I really am the lame can-jelly stuff most of the time.

  And when I find a guy who’s into cranberry jelly in a can, then I own all my jellyness.

  Like right now.

  “Oh, fuck it,” I say after I get dizzy from not being able to reach my zipper. I catch myself with a hand to the wall, and use the other to hitch my skirt up. “Let’s do this the way most bridesmaids bang at a wedding.”

  “Are you drunk?” he asks.

  “Nope. I’m like this all the time.”

  “Dizzy and uncoordinated?” A hint of a grin lifts one corner of his mouth.

  “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

  “Do I look like I have a problem with that?”

  I look at his crotch again, and yeah, that baby elephant trunk trying to trumpet doesn’t look turned off at all.

  And the way he’s backing me against the buffet table beside the door is either his way of bailing—you know, get me out of the way of the door so he can run screaming—or he’s a table fucker.

  His eyes are intense, his jaw solid, and his hair is really short. I’m not going to be able to grab him by it, but he still has ears if I need something to hang on to.

  Wait.

  Is this one the SEAL?

  Shit.

  I try not to do military guys. They get a little stuffy when they find out what I do for fun.

  But it’s not like I’ll ever see him again. One ride on the Eloise Wagon is all they ever get. Plus, he lives at some backwoods military secret location that only goats and the occasional errant robin can find, which is even better.

  If Baseball Brother had accepted my proposition, I’d have to watch him on TV occasionally. Or even in person, because every now and again all my friends insist we go to a game, either when Minnesota’s in town, or when Baseball Brother’s team is home.

  The Ass of Glory plants his hands behind me on the table, trapping me between two tree trunks that suddenly make me understand the phrase arm porn.

  Huh.

  There really is something about a guy with good forearms in a rolled-up white shirt. Especially when they’re inked.

  I’m not even picturing my pirate lover’s O-face, and I’m getting wet in the noodle hamper.

  Fuck.

  Noodle hamper?

  That’s bad, even for me. This guy must have some macho-sized pheromones. I wonder if he’s doing some kind of military sexual experiment on me.

  I hitch my skirt higher now that I’m not dizzy and have use of both hands again. “No kissing,” I inform him as he dips his head like he’s going in for the tongue action.

  His hazel eyes snap to mine, and I don’t know if that’s intrigue or offense making them narrow.

  “Foreplay’s overrated.” Foreplay’s intimate. I only ask guys if they want to do tongue stuff to keep my reputation intact, not because I actually want any. I get my skirt high enough to give him a glimpse of my bare snatch and reach for the button on his pants. “Just bang me like a drum, okay? Some uh-uh-uh action, right?” I thrust my hips.

  When he doesn’t run away, I start to think this is actually happening.

  And I kinda wonder what sort of weird freaky shit Parker’s brother is into. She’d drop an egg if she knew.

  His gaze dips lower, and his eyes go smoky hot. “You’re not wearing panties.”

  “They melted off when I saw you.”

  He snorts.

  I rock my hips on the table again. Something squishes under my dress, but I don’t really care, because he’s helping me fumble his button loose on his tux pants.

  He yanks down his zipper, and his dick springs free, because I’m not the only one going commando.

  Also, holy shit.

  “Are you juicing your dick?” I blurt. “Holy fuck, it’s like three dicks in one. Did you leave any dick for your brothers, or did you take all the dick genes?”

  It’s growing the more I praise it, which wasn’t actually my intention.

  It really is a big dick.

  “Are you sure you’re not drunk?” he asks.

  Note that he doesn’t appear in the least offended by my questions about his dick.

  “Not yet, but if you stick that in me, I might get drunk on dick.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  “Just shove it in me, would you?”

  “Tell me how big it is again.”

  “Like a fucking blimp in your pants. An overinflated blimp with a head.”

  I’m starting to worry about him, because he’s still not running.

  Nope, he’s rolling on a condom. And the sight of his hands stroking the rubber down his cock is making my clit throb in unexpected ways.

  It’s like I got to the end of the rainbow and found the mythical cock instead of a pot of gold, and I’m totally okay with this.

  I still haven’t gotten to the part of my normal pre-sex routine where I’m picturing the pirate strapping me spread-eagle to the ship’s steering wheel so he can spin it and lick me every which way to Tortuga, but I’m already slick and hot and ready in the vag.

  This never happens.

  Like, ever.

  “You’re really weird,” he mutters.

  “Can’t get this every day, can you?”

  He looks like he’s fighting a grin while he lines himself up with my entrance, and bang me with a spoon and call me easy, just the pressure of his monster schlong knocking at my door is making my nipples ache and my pussy soaked and goosebumps race from my arms to my ass.

  I close my eyes, throw my head back, and pump my hips while I grab the Ass of Glory and pull him deeper into me. “Oh, fuck, yeah, faster.”

  I’m an expert at faking it, but when he slams into me and the buffet bangs into the wall and he hits that magic spot deep inside me, pounding over and over and over again right where I need it most to actually have a man-made orgasm, there’s nothing pretend ab
out the hot wet coil tightening and priming around his pot of gold dick.

  “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts.

  “You would be too if someone was shoving an elephant’s trunk up your cooter. Oh, fuck, yeah, right there. Right there.”

  My legs are sticking straight out, and there are sparkles dancing behind my eyelids. I sort of want to watch him banging me, but I have a rule.

  No eye contact during sex.

  The guys who bang girls like me aren’t guys I want knowing where I live, so I don’t ever give them an opportunity to get in anything more than the dick.

  His hands grip my legs, he slams into me again, and my body shatters from the inside out. My love glove clamps around his dick so tight it gets a cramp, and I come so hard the explosion shoots into my ovaries. I moan out a Tarzan wail that’s apparently too loud, because he covers my mouth with his hand and hisses a moany sort of “Ssshh!” in my ear while he freezes.

  And I don’t think it’s because he’s coming too.

  Suddenly, he’s dragging me off the buffet and dashing across the room.

  Next thing I know, I’m being shoved behind some curtains that smell like 1970 called and wants its love musk back.

  Something squeaks and bounces a couple times, and then the voices arrive.

  “Oh, hey, Rhett. What are you—oh my god, what happened to my bouquet?”

  Oh, shit.

  Parker.

  And that squishy thing under my ass while her brother was banging the fuck out of me.

  If Parker’s half as good in bed as her brother is on a buffet table, Knox is one lucky dude. And I probably have flower bits on my ass. Going back to the reception might be dicey, even for me.

  “Brooks did it,” the Ass of Glory says to Parker. Pretty sure he’s camped out on the couch, acting like he was taking a nap.

  I stay hidden behind the curtain while the regrets go to war with the sex afterglow.

  Parker’s one of very few friends I have who’s stuck around for more than just a week or two for entertainment. And I just banged her brother and ruined her bouquet.

  Probably I should send some fancy champagne and a singing telegram and a fuck-ton of chocolate to her and Knox on their honeymoon.

  And never, ever bang her brother again.

  3

  Rhett

  I used to love this city.

  The noise. The people. The excitement.

  Visiting after I enlisted meant razzing my brothers and beating up anyone who was bothering Parker and being reminded that the Navy was good for me, because so many of my high school friends were floundering and getting their asses in trouble, while I was making a fucking difference in the world.

  Living here again means I’m a failure, and the old discontentment and itch for excitement is creeping in again.

  I ignore the cold drizzle while I walk the three blocks from the subway to Parker’s apartment two weeks after her wedding. Working at the recruiting station was shit today. All those kids coming in thinking they can tell me they want to go into the Navy, they want to be SEALs, like it’s just a given that anyone can do it and that it’s a fast path to getting laid a lot.

  Fucking horny teenagers.

  Fucking inability to seal the deal with a single woman since Parker’s wedding.

  Fucking bridesmaid who yodels when she comes.

  Fucking everything.

  Especially fucking idiot me who didn’t see that Pigpen was spiraling. If I’d noticed, I wouldn’t be on recruitment duty, Rascal wouldn’t be out of the service and licking his wounds in some backwoods Southern town—sounds like hell if you ask me—and The Dooz wouldn’t be laid up in the hospital with a torn-up leg.

  We’d still be a team.

  Except for Ogre.

  He gets a pass, with everything going on with his daughter.

  I shoulder into Parker’s apartment building and take the stairs to her floor. She invited me over for dinner, and since she’s a bigwig at Crunchy, the organic grocery store, she usually has pretty good food.

  And she told me I don’t get to eat if I don’t use the door.

  She doesn’t like it when I climb in the window. Says it’s not normal.

  Like any of us are normal.

  Whatever. This is her fairy tale, not mine.

  I bang twice and let myself in, because if I catch Knox feeling her up on the couch, it’ll be a good excuse to throw him against the wall. Not because I don’t like the dude—fucker introduced me to romance novels, which are like crack, and he also worships the ground Parker walks on—but because it’d feel good to throw someone against the wall and I know he could take it.

  There’s no wall-throwing tonight though.

  Because the apartment is packed.

  “Fucking hell, Parker,” I mutter to myself.

  She’s on her couch, and she looks up from the tablet that she’s showing her friends—including the bridesmaid with the tats and the blue eyes behind her glasses and the throaty voice and the piercings, and there goes Mr. Dingle in my pants asking if we can do it in the shower this time.

  I can’t recall a time Parker’s jungle-themed apartment has ever made me think of fucking a woman on a bearskin rug, but there you have it.

  I want to paint zebra stripes around Eloise’s tattoos and fuck her hard again.

  It’s a good night for hard fucking.

  “You came!” Parker squeals.

  “Not yet,” I mutter.

  Someone coughs behind me, and I turn to take a beer from Knox, who’s wearing a dopey honeymooner grin. “I highly recommend marriage if you’re having trouble with that,” my new brother-in-law says.

  Just like any one of my blood brothers would’ve if any of them were married.

  “Ever seen the inside of your own asshole?” I ask him.

  “I saw the inside of mine,” his granny pipes up. “Got pictures last time I had my colonoscopy. We play polyp bingo at the center every Thursday.”

  “Quit threatening Knox,” Parker orders. She leaves her band friends oohing and aahing over her honeymoon pictures and strides across the room, wearing the same dopey grin as her new husband while she wraps her arms around his waist. “And don’t even try to tell me you didn’t read the book for book club, because I know you did, and I also know you wouldn’t have come if I told you it was book club night.”

  I’m never coming over on a Tuesday again.

  “We rotate book club nights,” she informs me like she’s reading my mind. “Sometimes it’s even on Saturdays. Just depends on the week.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Don’t be such a whiny ass.” Brooks stops next to me, plate loaded with tacos, because it’s Parker, so of course we’re having tacos. “Nana, Rhett wants to see those pictures of your last mammogram.”

  Knox’s granny drops her plate, which is overflowing with what I unfortunately know is unicorn poop—also a staple at any event Parker hosts these days—and dashes over to us, pulling out her phone. “I got some pictures of my spleen too,” she says.

  I pull out my phone. “I got pictures of shrapnel in my left leg.”

  She pushes her white hair back, showing off a paper-thin scar slicing through her wrinkles. “I got this in a bar fight.”

  I toss my jacket on the floor and yank up my T-shirt sleeve, pointing to one of my tattoos. “Her eye’s a bullet scar.”

  She turns, bends over, and moons us all. “Bet you don’t have one of those.”

  I eyeball the heart on her scrawny, saggy cheek. “Who’s Eugene?”

  “Mistake from Reno.”

  “Everyone needs one.”

  She fist-bumps me. “Damn skippy.”

  “Nana, put your pants back on,” Knox says.

  “He’s such a spoilsport,” Granny Ass Tat says in her outside voice.

  I do a casual glance around the room—totally normal to look around, as I always like to know my surroundings, where the threats are, and the nearest ingress and egress routes—and re
alize Eloise doesn’t even know I’m here.

  She’s pointing to the tablet and saying something that makes Willow’s eyes go wide and her jaw drop. Willow’s their band’s lead singer, the one who looks like Snow White, and I’d think she was entirely innocent if she wasn’t dating a rock star.

  I watch a minute longer, but Eloise doesn’t look up at me.

  I stare harder.

  Still nothing.

  Either she’s completely unaware of me, or she has no instincts at all for when she’s being watched.

  She could have a stalker and wouldn’t even know it.

  My muscles tense.

  She’s not exactly inconspicuous in a crowd, even in New York. And there are bad dudes out there who’d notice.

  And try shit with her.

  And she’d never see it coming.

  Pain radiates out of my forearm, and I realize Parker’s pinched me. “Ow! What the hell?”

  “I know what you did with Eloise at my reception,” she hisses, “and if you think you’re going to do it again, I’m telling Mom where Great-grandma Lois’s depression glass collection went.”

  “Tell me you didn’t tap that,” Brooks mutters. “That’s like asking for your dick to fall—fuck, Parker, knock it off!” He rubs his arm too.

  “Do you gentlemen need to leave?” Knox asks.

  He’s smirking, probably because he knows we could both bench press him and toss him out a window, but won’t, because Parker could kick both our asses.

  But only because she knows our weak spots. Like that spot on my forearm that hurts like a bitch when she pinches it. And my ticklish spot, but we don’t talk about that.

  Ever.

  Also, Knox isn’t exactly a little dude. He might be a book nerd, but he can pick up more than a can of beans without spraining a pinky.

  He could possibly bench press my left leg.

  Fine, fine. He’s in good shape, and I’d pick him to be on my team in dodgeball.

  “You didn’t,” Brooks repeats, shaking his head as he glances between me and the blue-eyed bridesmaid.

  “Jealous?”