The job Logan’s got me on isn’t complicated. It’s just plodding, trying to track down women named Wilson that Logan’s creepy client has slept with. What an asshat. I don’t care if he’s paying my fees. I’d rather eat pot noodles for a month than help that fucker. Not that I’m hurting for money. Even with the wedge I stupidly gave Julie, I’ve got enough, between what I’ve banked away and the rents from the seven other apartments in the building, that I could play video games for a couple of years without having to resort to pot noodles again.
But this isn’t really a job for Rick fucking Errol, porn star and possessor of nine-inch dick. It’s a job for Logan. And I’d do pretty much anything for him, even help the world’s worst asshole slither out of the trouble he’s landed himself in.
I have a bunch of different searches running, feeding information into the database of Wilsons that I’m building. Most of the searches are combing through social media, but a few are creeping slowly and steadily into the big DMV databases.
With too much time on my hands while my programs are running, I flick on my third, fourth, and fifth screens.
The third screen is dedicated to the Dutiful campaign I’m running. Fourth screen is the DDoS attack I’m running against a website in Belarus that pirated a bunch of Emmy’s books. Fuckers. Fifth screen shows a security forum I contribute to under the name UncleM4xx. I tap in my daily personal security tip before switching it over to porn.
Pixie won’t be on for another few hours so right now it’s set on a subscription service. As soon as I switch it over, a girl in ponytails looks up a me. She smiles, croons “yes, Daddy,” and takes a huge dick so far down her throat her eyes bug like a frog’s. Not sexy.
I tap over to another service where I run a search for new DD/lg videos. Opening the first result, I watch a skinny white girl get bent over a spanking bench. It’s pretty good. I like the way her ass cheeks jiggle and her skin flushes as the guy slaps her ass. But why are almost all of the videos of skinny white girls? I don’t have anything against skinny white girls. Emily’s one. But I want to look into sloe-dark eyes. See that flush rise on skin that’s not pale as milk. Watch the bounce and jiggle of fuller flesh. Such a fucking turn-on. Maybe that’s why I’ve gotten kind of fixated on Pixie.
But I’m rationing her. An hour a night only. Julie sucked me in and turned me inside out. I’m not doing that a-fucking-gain. So, it’s an hour, a hundred dollars, whatever that buys me, usually looking into Pixie’s eyes as we masturbate together. Most nights, it’s enough.
I run a different search and pull up a video of a cute Japanese girl in a school uniform bent over as she’s hit with a cane. The marks that rise on her heart-shaped ass are long, thin, red lines. They make my gut clench. Don’t they hurt? I hate the videos where the girl looks like she’s being really hurt. I want to charge through the screen, wrap her up in my arms, and ride off into the sunset on my white horse. I’m not sure what it is about what Logan and Emily calllittlesthat ignites my need to be a hero, but the call is irresistible. I flick off the fifth screen.
The New Jersey DMV dbase pops open on my main screen. I create a shell account that’s just a typo away from a legitimate user account, scan through the real account searches to get a feel for their file naming protocol, set up a search for Wilsonsthat looks legit, download the results, and exit quietly using a SAFEXIT program which leaves almost no footprint. Passive hacks, where the hacker was just nabbing data, not trying to change records, used to be low priority for dbase admins. But since the various data protection acts, they’ve become potentially huge liability for big data holders, so it’s important I get out cleanly. I agreed with Logan and Manny long ago that I’d avoid drawing attention to myself on jobs for them; I always keep my word to my brothers.
I start my own database compiling; it will cross-reference the DMV data against Dickwad’s list and build me a database of matches. Then the fun, manual work begins. I settle in for hours of eliminating false positives.
I must fall asleep in my chair after dinner—not for the first time—because buzzing wakes me and I startle upright, wiping drool out of my beard. There are eight smart phones on the charger pad on the corner of my desk, but only two are set to make noise.
This time it’s the encrypted phone I use for off-the-books jobs. I open it up and let the scan run before the app opens.
“We need you.”
Ness uses a modulator so the voice that comes out of the phone is a sultry female’s.
“Not interested,” I tell him.
“It’s not just for me.” He says that because he knows he’s burned his last bridge with me. “Sasha and Jo are on this, too. We’ve hit a snag. We need you, buddy.”
You’re not my buddyis on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. Ness proved with the last job we did together that he’s a blackhat. I’ll never work with him again.
“You don’t need me. I gave you everything.” Giving him the program I wrote was the way I bought myself out. Knowing he’s probably using it to kill people gives me nightmares, but I didn’t see any other way out at the time. “Sasha can run it.”
“Sasha says he’s running into problems. They’ve patched some of the holes you exploited. C’mon, Jake, we need you.”
I grin at the name, which Ness can’t see because this app is voice-only.
Jake’s my cousin on my mother’s side, the only family I have left that I know of, and a prime asshole. I’ve put enough decoys in place that Ness shouldn’t be able to find my real name, but just in case he manages to trace my family, I figured I’d give Jake an early Christmas present. See if he still has time to be a cocksucker when his identity’s being sold all over the old Soviet bloc.
“Sorry, gotta go.” And I do. I can see from the notifications on my main phone that Pixie’s online. It’s after ten but I only got five hours of sleep yesterday while I was working on Dickweed’s case, so I’m legitimately done for the day. Jacking off with Pixie will help me get back to sleep; that’s the only place I’m going.
“Don’t, Jake, wait?—”
But I’m already ending the call and closing the app. I put the encrypted phone on silent while I pick up my main phone and pull up Pixie’s cam site. She’s in the open chat space, her cam set up in the bathroom while she takes a shower. I tap the app to pay for her “Kit Kat hour” and watch her sinuous movements through the steam while I set my night security, climb into bed, and wait for her to finish.
My eyelids are drooping by the time she’s conditioned her hair twice and toweled dry. She smooths moisturizer on her long, brown arms and legs before she peers into whatever she’s got set up recording—probably her smart phone by the resolution—and squeals.
“Daddy M!”
Yes, I’ve asked her to call me Daddy. No, it doesn’t feel quite right, but I’m not giving her my full name and having her call me by any other name when she’s coming makes me wilt.
Hi, Pixie. Private room, please, I type.
“You got it!”
