SHELBY (Second Chance Novels Book 4) (2 page)

Tonight, however, the challenge has everything to do with distracting my heart. To an extent, that hope is realistic. Computers and my social life have never mixed, making this a perfect attempt at distraction. Even at work, all of the other tech-team members are socially-inept men…well, boys. I don't fit the computer-nerd mold at all. Still, my job is simple and my personal projects are entertaining. Who needs a social life anyway, right? My computer is my best friend, and has been for a long time, with the exception of the few weeks I had Cam with me.
 

I shake my head again at Cam and all her decisions, returning my focus to the code in front of me. Three hours into the middle of the night, I finally break through! Unbelievable! Three months of research, coding, backdoor attempts, and analysis later and I'm in. I grin at myself as I carefully poke through their system, watching carefully for traps often integrated into secure systems. I defeat another firewall and scan appropriations into defense spending. I can't believe what I'm looking at.
 

I only bother to look around for a half hour. None of this information is interesting to me, really…not as much as the process of gaining access to it. The few things I found that might surprise the American people, however, I have no desire to expose. I don't want to be the center of a national spotlight. Honestly, I only want to be the center of Mason's attention, or maybe even Cam's or Callen's.
 

I shake my head at myself again for my new attitude.
Focus, Shelby
. In spite of the fact that my tiny digital clock is displaying two-thirty a.m., I close out my connection into the banking system, and erase my entire hack. I don't want that kind of access to fall into the wrong hands, and I certainly have no need to get in ever again. Now that I've conquered that challenge, I'm on to the next.
 

Two-thirty-two a.m. sees me begin a new string of code. Who should I crack next? What hot topic could I find the inside scoop on? Oh, the meat-packing industry is often under scrutiny.
 

Sadly, by three-forty I'm in and done. What a joke of a system. The conditions for both the animals and the workers are deplorable and I'm more depressed than I was before. I'm disgusted by the industry, of course, but also disappointed by the ease with which I got in. I close out my connection and wipe my basic program again. A deep sigh pushes from my chest as a gently snap my laptop shut and walk to my bedroom.
 

My quiet little house remains a cozy haven for myself, but seems quieter than ever.

Only three hours of sleep separate my illegal computer practices to my legal ones. I'm back at work serving tech-support tickets from the people at the random marketing firm I work for. The work is simple, I'm good at it, and the pay is decent. However, there is no challenge in it whatsoever. Still, it's a job and I don't want to lose my source of income. The company is downsizing, and the second round of cuts is coming soon. I'm lucky I squeezed through the first time.

Maybe losing one more thing won't break me. This job sucks, when I think about the mundane nature of the work. Often times my super-skills are put to use rescuing someone whose printer cable is loose.
 

By the end of the day I'm looking forward to another night of something interesting to distract me.
 

As I'm still avoiding Second Chance, I opt for another night of foraying into code. I had been thinking all day about my next target, one that would hopefully offer more of a challenge than last night's. A can of condensed soup and a Diet Coke later, I'm at my computer ready to digitally bust into The National Gallery.

The world of art is interesting to me, simply because I don't find the subject very interesting. I'm fascinated as to how people can want to stare at something. As for myself, I am a woman who appreciates the art of organization and the symmetry of logic in action. The only aesthetic I pay attention to is my personal appearance, which was taught to me by my beautiful mother.
Take pride in yourself
she would always say, and she would give me that lecture on every topic from my looks to my work ethic. I still live by those words, even though my mom is dead.

As I'm testing firewalls of The National Gallery and getting a general idea of the security protocols held within, the phone rings. I always hope it's Cam or Callen, so I reach for my phone immediately. The unknown number makes me sigh, but I answer it anyway. I haven't spoken to anyone nearly all day outside of:
Why won't my screen show anything but black? Because you didn't turn the monitor on.
 

I answer my current call with a basic hello.

"Hello, Miss Keene. My name is Drew and I'm with The Smithton University Alumni Fund. Since you are an esteemed graduate…
blah blah blah…
"

Sadly, Drew from Smithton is my company this evening.
 

"How are things at Smithton?" I ask.

"Thank you for asking," he says, obviously reading from a script. "We have plans to open a new student center to keep up with the technological needs of the students. Your donation could help…
blah blah blah…
"

"How about you? What school are you in? Business?"

"Engineering," he answers. "Several departments are looking to upgrade, including mine. We are asking alumni…
blah blah blah…
"

I suppose Drew won't go off-script at all. I suppress a sigh. So much for a conversation. "I'd be happy to donate."

We work out the details of my meager donation and silence occupies my house again.
 

When I return to my hack of the National Gallery, I'm surprised to find the set-up is nearly as intricate as the banking system I finally broke yesterday. Who would think a collection of paintings would warrant such security? I can only assume these firewalls are hiding control of alarm systems and on-site security details. I shake my head, crack my knuckles, and get ready to find out. Two nights of diligent work pass before I meet any success.

Another hour into scanning through my first minor break into their system, I offer myself a first-level congratulations on getting into their employee files. Nothing too exciting there, but the tiny victory does offer insight into the rest of their system. Now I have a starting point.
 

Over the next two evenings, I gain tiny bits of access, allowing me to scroll through page after page of computer code through all the boring parts of gallery's system. The only minorly interesting tidbit I run across in the early stages of my hack is an extended string of code within the personnel files that doesn't seem to match the rest. As with any security program, several people worked on building this system, and every coder has his own signature style…but this unique section is dropped into the middle of another. I've not seen that before, but I figure someone quit their job half way through these scripts. Someone obviously had to finish the work. Maybe my find isn't so interesting after all.
 

After stumbling onto that little mystery, I decide to turn in for the night. I doubt I'll find anything much more interesting than that, and I do have to work tomorrow.

I feel good about my last two hacks and my progress into the museum's mainframe, and making my way to work is lighter than it's been in weeks. I'm actually able to greet my supervisor, Chuck, with a smile.
 

"Hey Chuck," I say when I walk into the server room. "How's it hanging?"

"How's what hanging?" he asks, confused. I smirk.

"Never mind. What's up today?"

"I'm writing a vacation request script for HR, Josh is doing updates on Server Two, and you're on help tickets."

"Again?" So much for my good mood. "Wait, why are you writing a form for HR? Can't you just use Google Forms?"

He looks at me like I've killed his puppy. Jesus, is everyone grumpy?
 

"Google Forms," he huffs, "are rudimentary and too easily hacked."

"Just asking," I mutter as I open the help tickets on my tablet and prioritize them. If I have any hope of keeping my job I have to play nice. I hold out little hope either way. "I guess I'm off to the second floor then."

Chuck, the socially-awkward person he is, doesn't bother with a thank-you, a good-luck, or a goody-bye. As I make my way to the row of cubicles on the second floor, I realize how much more insane I'll become if Chuck becomes my biggest source of social interaction. With frustrated determination, I decide this evening will be my first attempt at a new bar.
 

I've heard Obie's is a nice place, a lot like Second Chance. I've heard Sofia talk about it, and now that she never goes there I don't mind checking it out. Eight hours later I'm there, trying to soak in the warm atmosphere, but all I see is another version of my old bar. People are making connections, and I have no desire to talk to any of them. They all have the 'Ledger/Cam' vibe, or that of my other friends. I'm equally bitter here, damn it.
 

The next night, I try again. Three blocks over and across the street from Obie's is a nice little bar called Maritime Law decorated with a nautical theme. I've heard about the place but I haven't been there yet. Singles bar or not, I'm ready for the change of scenery. Until I walk in.

Maritime Law is obviously a group hang out. I can't very well join a herd of existing friends, so I sit at the bar, maybe to strike up conversation with the moderately good looking bartender.
 

"What can I get you?" he asks with a pleasant demeanor. No smile, though. That's ok, maybe his mood can simply match mine.
 

"Margarita," I say with a small smile with only enough warmth to let him know I'm friendly. I certainly am not looking to this guy for boyfriend possibilities, simply for social contact and pleasantries. He nods and turns to prepare my drink, leaving me to scan the bar through the mirror across from me.
 

Almost no one approaches the bar, as waitresses schlep drinks for everyone. As I sit by myself, I blandly wonder why they bother having bar stools here. By the time my drink is in front of me, the bartender is already turned around again filling orders for a waitress…who is already off to another table. Everyone treats this place as more of a restaurant, which leaves me utterly alone at the bar. Wondering why I bothered, I pull a ten dollar bill from my purse and set it under my half-empty drink. Even the bartender doesn't notice me leaving.

Two evenings and two more 'friendly' pubs later, and I've got the same problem I had at Second Chance. There are smiling people enjoying their friendships, ready to relax and make connections. This exact moment serves up a realization as quickly as the bartender serves me another drink: I don't
want
a connection. Connections have done little other than break my heart. Cam left me as surely as Mason did. Hell, Cam left me twice, and Callen lost touch with me while focused on himself.
 

I realize, too, that half the reason I haven't had any success going out this week is because my attitude is repelling people. I don't blame them for staying away at this point.

For the third night straight I pay for my drink, and leave it sitting alone and untouched at the bar. How fitting. I drive away from tonight's sweet little pub and go on the prowl for something…darker, raw. I'm so goddamn sick of the perfect, smiling lot of Second Chance and every other bar like it.
 

As I drive up to a shady little dive with more than one motorcycle in the parking lot, I smile at the shards of broken glass scattered in the gravel. Also fitting. One thing I know is this: people don't want the whole Shelby, but I know one part men want. I've been chased as long as I can remember. I might as well enjoy a physical connection, even if the rest of me is left untouched. Strutting into the door like I own the place, I walk straight to the bar and order a shot. I toss it back quickly and ask for another before I turn and survey the bar with confidence. I know exactly what I want and emotional connection has nothing to do with my goals tonight. I ignore the tugging in my gut trying to drag me out the door. The concept of taking pride in myself is tossed out, making room for the numbing pleasure I'm looking for.

A few men are staring, some are leering, but as I'm searching out my best chance to feel wanted tonight, a
holy-shit-he's-gorgeous
man walks in, all handsome and brooding in his jeans and henley, sits a few seats down, and orders a beer from the tap. He instantly has my attention, and doesn't seem to belong here any better than I do.