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You fuck with them? You end up with a bullet between the eyes.
Not that I’d ever been threatened with that. I’ve kept my head down and out of trouble.
The problem is, that the people I usually work for don’t want to pay what a hacker with my experience and skill set is worth, but since I don’t have a lot of options in the employment department, and I need a lot of money, like now, that means I’ve had to go outside of my usual field of small-time CEO who needs me to help cook the digital books before an audit.
"It’s a good plan," she says.
"It’s a bad plan. You’ve already donated once this month, and you can’t again for six weeks. The nurse said your veins looked..." Not great. Bad. And Sam had nearly fainted twice on the way home. I wasn’t letting her give plasma again, if I could help it, ever.
"I hate rich people," she mutters, and looks forlornly around our little apartment. Our home, for the last few years, we’ve made it our own. It’s in a crappy part of town, but it’s our postage stamp of privacy, and a few months ago, all of that was threatened. The pretty Christmas lights that Sam put up two years ago that we’ve never taken down twinkle in the window, with its metal crossbars that frame the city, cutting it up into pieces. There’s no balcony, but Sam leans out when she wants to smoke a joint since I hate the smell. The couch is old, the bathroom toilet doesn’t flush properly unless you threaten the lever for a good ten seconds. The carpets should’ve been replaced two tenants ago, but we know all our neighbors.
I mean all of them. Up and down, across and around, we know everyone. Who’s on food stamps and needs a few cartons of milk a week, who’s got a shitty ex we’re all on the lookout for if he comes around, who’s ducking the landlord, who smokes up on the fire-escape... we know them all. The building, made up of eight units, looks out for each other.
We’re lucky to have that, but we’re also about to lose it, if I can’t get the money to buy the place out from under the developers that are eyeing it.
I only know about that because I was doing a little wee job that involved hacking into City Hall’s planning division and... nevermind. It doesn’t matter.
"Hey, I’ll be okay," I give her my bravest smile as I tuck my deodorant into the bag, and my insurance policy, a slim personal Tazer I’ve never used, but I’m trusting to keep me out of trouble.
"You’re going to go dance at the place where they have the most gang violence." She stares at me, and I wince.
"Look, it’s a high paying, under-the-table job. I dance, I distract, I disarm their computer security system and put my key-logger in place," I say with a bright smile. "And then we get paid. A cool two mill. More money than I’ve seen in my life. More money than I’ll ever see in my life."
"And then you need to figure out how to launder it," she points out to me. "This little scheme is a bigger than a side hustle, and it’s going to attract a lot of attention."
"We’ll handle it."
"I’m serious, Ashley, if you get caught, you could be locked up for years. I know you think with your record that you’re invincible, that you’ve been to prison?—"
"Jail. And it wasn’t long, and I’m here now," I remind her, flicking my braid over my shoulder. I’ve got my curling iron in my bag, ready for when I park my ass down where the house mother tells me I can get ready for my dance shift. It took me three months to get this gig. Three whole months of taking ‘free’ dance classes at the Cascade, until I was dubbed ‘in shape’ enough to warrant a shift.
"I still hate it."
"You can hate it from a penthouse, with a pool, and a view," I remind her, and she glares at me. We’re getting enough money out of this deal to buy the apartment building, all eight units, the land underneath it, for around a million. There’ll be money left over to get us out of here, into something with white marble for days, and if we’re smart, it’ll be enough cash to last us a lifetime.
We’ve come a long way from best friends sleeping in Sam’s beat up old van she bought for five hundred dollars, but still everything is hand-to-mouth. Our lives are thread bare, and the cold comes in whenever it likes. A life like this ages you, and I don’t want to die at fifty from the stress and pain of it. I want to enjoy life.
"If you get murdered, I’m going to murder the murderer," she threatens, and I smile, walking over and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She grabs my wrist and tugs me down, hugging me tight, and I let her.
"I’m just dancing," I promise her. "It’ll be fine. I’m just going to put in my key-logger, and I’ll be home by three AM."
"Liar," she accuses, and I wince. So there’d been a guy, a little while back, and I’d stayed out late, far later than I’d intended.
And Sam, reclusive shut-in that she is who won’t go out unless I’m with her, hadn’t had food in the apartment and had gone hungry, wearing herself out with worry for me. I wasn’t doing that anymore.
"Three AM," I promise, crossing my heart and holding out my hand to her. She kisses my palm, making the promise sacred and complete, like a little magic spell binding me to my word. With that, I grab my bag, tuck my heels into the top of it, and leave the apartment, trusting Sam to lock up after me.
I make my way to the top of the building, slipping out through the sky-light after climbing a short wooden ladder. The night air and the roar of the local freeway cutting through the city, fills my ears. It’s a warm spring night, the breeze blowing a little, and I’m grateful, cause the alleys around here often smell like hot piss and beer. I slip across the roof, taking a detour across a few precariously placed board-and-lumber bridges to the next building, and then the one after that. The wind tugs at my clothes, and I hate that I have the bulk of my backpack on, but I have to assume my client is watching my appearances and disappearances.
Nobody hires an off-the-grid hacker without an insurance policy.
My Docs clang quietly on the fire escape of a building four over from mine, and I emerge from the alley, dusting rust from my jeans, and needing to re-secure my hair in its messy bun. It’s late, but people in this area work two, three, and sometimes four jobs, so there’s not a lot of people out on the street as I start walking toward the bus-stop that’ll take me to Cascade. I’m halfway there when a sleek black town car pulls up beside me, and the back window rolls down. My heart skips three beats, and I have to take a deep breath when I see a semi-familiar face in the shadow and darkness inside the car.
"Get in," that smooth voice says, and I swallow.
"Is this a great idea? I mean. I should get there on my own steam. Seems like a weird thing for a dancer to show up being driven in a half-a-mil-"
"Get in," he snaps, not requesting this time. I open the door and slide inside, my stomach doing a good job of trying to eat itself. The leather is smooth-rubbed and soft under me as the seat gives from my weight. I close the door and try not to look at the man to my right, although I can feel the pressure of his gaze. "You have better attire in your bag, I’m assuming?" He asks, the light accent in the back of his throat making his words purr.
