The Hacker (The Bro Series Book 2) Read online

  The Hacker

  The Bro Series #2

  By Xavier Neal

  ©Xavier Neal 2017

  Cover by Dana Leah with Design by Dana

  All Rights Reserved

  License Note

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization from the author. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in a court of law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication:

  To the Universe...thank you for giving me all the life hacks you have.

  Playlist Selects

  Here are seven songs from “The Hacker” playlist!

  Feel free to follow the playlist on Spotify to find more songs I felt related to the book.

  1. Acquainted- The Weekend (R&B/Rap)

  2. Tell It To My Heart- Taylor Dayne (Rock)

  3. She’s Freaky- Pitbull (Rap)

  4. Straight Up- Paula Abdul (Pop)

  5. Run This Town- Jay Z ft Kayne West & Rihanna (Rap)

  6. Mercy- JC Chasez (Pop)

  7. Beautiful- Enrique Inglesias, Kylie Minogue (Spanish Pop)

  More songs: http://spoti.fi/2eMKPrK

  This isn’t me.

  This isn’t how I act.

  This isn’t who I am.

  I’m not the type of man who lacks self-control. Not when I’m out from behind the keys. Not on the sidewalk outside my home. Not with one of my children asleep in the bedroom that looks down over me.

  She arches back, ass pressing against me even tighter. Her pussy clamps down unforgivingly around me. A voice I can’t claim is my own growls, “Not stopping until you come on my fucking finger.”

  And it’s just one finger. To call her tight would be borderline negligent. My hand that strayed from the car door, my hand that should’ve never landed on her thick, deep caramel thighs, my hand that allowed my finger to steal one stroke of her clit before shoving itself into her lacy thong, is suffocating.

  Her head bows back and bumps against my shoulder. I latch my teeth onto her neck like a predator waiting for their prey to submit.

  None of this is staged. Rehearsed. None of this is some sting operation with me waiting in the wings to expose the filth that plagues the world. This isn’t a moment waiting to be presented to a judge and jury.

  I am the judge.

  I am the jury.

  Consuming her is my crime.

  I’m guilty. Two fucking words that continuously change my life.

  I’m guilty of protecting the innocent.

  Now I’m guilty of wanting to destroy it.

  Her body buzzes, my drenched finger now gliding back and forth between its claim on her clit and its ceaseless averring that all of her orgasms belong to me now. She drops her jaw wider in desperation to accommodate the silent screams seeping from her parted, thin lips. On instinct, I readjust myself to lick the sounds straight off her tongue.

  Who am I?

  Who is this?

  What’s causing me to behave like a fucking barbarian? What poison is under her jean skirt, under her goddamn tongue, that’s turning me into an addict. Into a fucking animal.

  I’m not an animal.

  I hunt them. For work. For sport. And as soon as she comes on my fingertip, I will use the same fingertip to hunt her. Hunt the history she thinks she’s kept hidden. Hunt those lies people always deny exist. Hunt every little detail until I no longer feel like the beast defiling the powerless. She will be another trophy in more than one way.

  Her breath hitches. Her long neck quivers. The butterfly tattoo right under her jawbone flutters its wings from the rapid beating of her pulse. My cock strains itself from the wedged position between her pleasantly round ass cheeks. Ass cheeks that belong constantly filling my hands. Ass cheeks that need to be reddened repeatedly. She winds her arm backwards and rocks me against the increasingly frantic movement. I push. She pulls. I groan. She whimpers. Her eyes squeeze shut and her pussy pleads for mercy I refuse to deliver.

  I’m not this raw.

  I’m not this fucking savage.

  “Come,” my voice rattles against her ear.

  The feeling of her wetness leaks through the gym shorts I’m wearing. Being so close yet not close enough riles a new madness I can’t control. One I never even fucking knew existed.

  The heat and harshness of my tone clash with the sweet, slick sound of her pussy seconds from submitting.

  “You come when I say.” My unequivocal declaration is from behind gritted teeth. “You belong to me now.”

  She darts her bottom lip between her teeth to imprison the whimpers as she fulfills my demand. Her pussy sucks the digit in deeper and deeper while her ass continuously rocks backward, commanding I cave. Commanding my orgasm’s release. She trembles endlessly against me with such force my soul shakes. The unusual feeling wobbles my knees. Knocks out the remaining air in my lungs.

  In the faintest voice, she whispers, “Come…”

  Without consent, my cock crumbles, hot spurt after spurt staining my shorts, streaming down my swaying legs.

  There’s an unmistakable hum from the seemingly sweet woman who stole from me what it is I was stealing from her. She angles her head at me to flash me a deceptively innocent expression.

  Did I just become her prey?

  Our eyes stay locked as she slowly removes my hand. Once her jean skirt is back where it belongs, she opens her car door, causing me to take a step back, something I should’ve done the minute we got into this position. Something I should’ve done before I switched on a primal part of my brain I’ve never had the balls to. Something I should’ve done the minute I didn’t bother to calculate the possible consequences of pursuing something with passion instead of purpose.

  She sticks the keys in the ignition, smile instantly sending my head reeling. “Buenas noches, Holden. Look forward to working with you.”

  The door shuts but my conscience doesn’t.

  This isn’t me.

  This isn’t the man I am.

  This isn’t the man I spent over a decade becoming.

  This isn’t how things are supposed to unfold.

  My children deserve better, even if I don’t.

  The street lamp closest to my two story suburban home flickers like that of an interrogation room. It mocks. Questions. Challenges for the truth.

  This was nothing more than a onetime mistake. I will bury this dirty, little secret like all the others. Erase it. Delete it. Continue on the campaign of chastity it appears I took after their mother died.

  I won’t fuck the nanny no matter how loud the monster inside of me is screaming to. I won’t give into temptation like I have in the past.

  I won’t ruin their lives.

  Not again.

  Selfish.

  That’s what last night was. Completely, unabashed, selfishness. The complete opposite of how I was raised, of how I helped raise my siblings. But fuck me…because I would do it again, without hesitation.

  It’s been almost a decade since I initially met the one and only Holden Reiss. The ‘nerd’ who would eventually turn into a whispered legend. The ‘nerd’ who reminded an entire college campus just how powerful the so-called computer geek sitting beside you could be. I’ll never forget the unmistakable feeling of having my heart beat in my throat when he first offered me a smile. We were both freshman at Clover Rose. Both clearly out of place. Both with high hopes of being more than where we came from.
The connection I felt, the connection I swore he felt too, unfortunately didn’t take much time to sever. He looked to his left and just like that, it was gone. He was hers. She was his. And me? I was nothing more than a friendly face until their first child was born.

  I zip up my red suitcase and roll it out of the so-called guest room of my parent’s one story home.

  The only ‘guests’ they ever get are their children who always have a million excuses for needing a place to stay, all of which are never their fault. Being the oldest of seven has given me and my bank account more grief than gratitude over the years.

  Leaning the suitcase against the old, comfortable beige couch, I give my father a sweet smile. “Buenos dias, papi.”

  He looks up from the pile of bills he’s obviously been mulling over. “Buenos dias, hija.” His hand attempts to push away the stress while his face strains to offer me a grin. “You sleep well?”

  Incredible, actually. It was the first solid night sleep I’ve had since I set foot back in this country. And if I have it my way, which I intend to, last night was not only the first of many peaceful slumbers, but the first of many post orgasmic ones from the hands of the world’s sexiest computer nerd.

  “Can’t complain,” I coyly reply as I sit in the seat across from him.

  My father’s hand clutches his chest overdramatically. “Paz a mis oídos. At least I have one child who doesn’t.”

  “Is this in reference to the only one still currently in the house?

  “Si.”

  I nod slowly. “And what’s Mia upset about now?”

  He rolls his eyes and begins to pour us each a glass of orange juice. “Todo y Nada.”

  “Sounds like Mia.”

  At sixteen I had no such luxury. There wasn’t time. There wasn’t energy. Helping make sure everyone had their backpacks and lunches, making sure everyone had clean clothes and breakfast, making sure no one missed the bus because there was no alternative way to school was exhausting. I barely had the brain capacity to remember the answers to a history test. Who was dating who? Who asked who to prom? Who called who fat in the courtyard? Not even blips on my radar.

  Before I can question more about the cause of the comment, it comes stomping into the living room larger than life.

  “Eres el peor de los padres!” Mia screams at our mother who lately looks less and less like the woman I remember from growing up.

  Raising seven children definitely takes its toll. Once upon a time both of my parents seemed filled with so much life. So much love. My father looked like something that should’ve been in movies. He had a powerful presence, striking smile, and a large, muscular frame from years of working outdoors. Women found him irresistible wherever he went, which included my mother who was quite beautiful with her dark brown skin, dark brown eyes and petite, perky figure. They used to go on and on about how they knew it was love the minute their eyes locked. How it was this feeling you couldn’t deny, this feeling if you ever felt it you wouldn’t want to deny. They’d read us fairy tales about princes and princesses before telling us they had found their happily ever after with each other. It’s how I knew what the feeling was when I first met Holden. However, they never bothered to mention that sometimes the feeling doesn’t have a choice in being ignored. They never mentioned how the feeling doesn’t have to be a two-way street. They left out the little footnote that not everyone gets a happily ever after or that their happiness with someone else might just be temporary. After watching them deal with drowning in debt for years, struggling with keeping this house, and feeding my siblings along with their grandchildren, I came to the conclusion, love, like money, like health, like joy, like the happily ever after bullshit in those books is transitory. Love has no problem moving on, abandoning you and leaving heartache in its wake, so why try to hold onto something so ornery and temperamental?

  Our mother lets out a heavy sigh, “Mia-”

  “No!” She shrieks, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder. “This could be my big break, mom!”

  “But-”

  “This could be my moment!”

  “Sweetie-”

  “This could be my ticket to Hollywood or New York or Paris!”

  As someone who has been to each of the places she just listed, I want to intrude in the conversation just to inform her, she’s not ready for any of those places or the criticism they have no problem raining down on young women trying to make it in the entertainment business.

  “Imagine how much help this could be for us if I get paid to model or act!”

  “You’re not letting some stranger film you, Mia.”

  Her tiny foot stomps the dingy carpet.

  Tiniest of us all and definitely the most defiant. Strangely enough, out of all my siblings we are the two who look alike the most, despite being furthest apart. We’ve both got thick black curls we typically keep straightened, lighter colored skin, and strikingly bright brown eyes, but where I’m thick, she’s thin. While I choose to keep things tight with yoga, Zumba, or salsa classes, she chooses the fad diets and pills she doesn’t think my parents will find. Our parents have reiterated numerous times we’re both dangerously beautiful. Unlike her I actually understand what that means and the consequences of carelessly flaunting it.

  “Let it go, Mia,” I try to encourage kindly, catching a glimpse at our father’s blatant, building rage.

  “Don’t do this, Meena!”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t take their side! Necesitas ser una buena hermana!”

  “I am being a good sister.” My face tilts to the side sympathetically. “Trust me.”

  She continues to plead with her eyes for me to defend her.

  This is the problem with being the parent yet not being one. Being wedged in the middle of battles you don’t want any part of. It’s hard wanting to protect my baby sister and wanting her to grow into a person at the same time. I want her to chase her dreams. I want her to be better than my other sisters who can’t stop sucking at the parental teat. I want her to be confident in her own skin, show the world there is beauty in diversity, but I don’t want her to become a victim of stupidity. Another young actress or model who sucks dick to get her big break. I don’t want to reveal to her how cruel the real world can be, but I don’t want her to think I’m callous either. This Shakespearian battle to parent, or not parent is the foundation of both my personal and professional life.

  In a low, displeased tone, our father states, “Dije que no. Hoy no. Mañana no. Fin de la discusión.”

  And the infamous ‘no speech’ makes the predictable appearance.

  Mia squeaks her outrage. “Estás arruinando mi vida!”

  “Eh, get in line,” my father grumbles between sips of his orange juice.

  She throws her hands into the air and storms off the way she came.

  After her door slams shut, mom turns to him and snaps, “Really, Carlos? The dictator approach?”

  He lifts his blue eyes up and over her direction. “Mi casa. Mis reglas.”

  “No,” she argues, approaching the table with increasing frustration. “Our house. Our rules.”

  “Tamara-”

  “I understand not wanting our daughter filmed, but photographed? By a professional? Remind me again why that is unacceptable? Why do we have to kill her dream? Why can’t we refrain from discouraging when it is clear she needs encouragement? Why can’t we let her be hopeful and passionate?”

  “About viejos y pervertidos?!” His large arms fold firmly across his chest. “I don’t want pictures of mi niñita with her tetas coming out of her shirt and culo hanging out of her jeans. She needs to value her body, not place a value on her body.”

  Mom’s hands curl around the back of the empty wooden chair. “Carlos-”

  “Fin de la discusión!”

  Ah. My father’s signature. Those words have reverberated more times in this house than any other. The problem is, it’s one thing to announce them to your children
, but another to your wife. I wasn’t raised with one alpha parent, but two. Growing up, I remember when those were spoken to my mom, it lit her fuse, which then lit his, and the fireworks that would occur afterward would leave remnants in the form of broken glass or furniture, along with scratches or hickeys. Their fighting taught me one valuable lesson I swear by. Passion is the only thing permanent in life. You fight with passion. You fuck with passion. You live with passion. If there’s no passion then there is no purpose and it does nothing but waste your time.

  “You know if you have the name or card of this photographer, I could have my new employer check it out,” I casually suggest hoping to the cut the tension. “He does investigative activities for a living.”