House Arrest Countdown: 10 Days
“MR. RENZA?”
Marcus looks up from his desk to see a man, tall and lanky, a thin tie knotted around his neck, rolled-up sleeves revealing tattoo-covered forearms. He frowns. “What?”
“I’m Nick. John said you wanted to see me? I’m the tech guy.”
He eyes him for a long minute, the man’s image not consistent with the pocket-protector nerd he’d been expecting. Another minute passes before he pushes on his desk and rolls away, gesturing forward with a hand. “Come here.”
The large room grows smaller with the new presence, the man’s stench invading Marcus’s personal space, his seat before the desk barely containing the constant movement of his body, finger taps, hums, bouncing legs. The man has not one bit of control, an infuriating condition. Marcus glares at him, pulling a notepad from his center drawer and ripping off the top sheet, his pen pushing it across the table at the man, the camgirl’s website scribbled across its surface.
“This website? This is what you want info on?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…” the man drawls out. He drops his messenger bag on the closest chair and digs into its depths, pulling out a tablet. “Let me pull it up. You said on the phone you were blocked from it?”
“Yes.”
“Your IP address is probably toast. But my iPad won’t use your Wi-Fi, so it should let me in… yes.” He sets down the tablet on the desk, at a place where they can both see the screen. “Damn, she’s hot.”
Marcus’s hands grip at the arm of his chair. His control is slipping, another indication of prison rotting his composure. Two years ago he wouldn’t have blinked at that statement. Two years ago he wouldn’t have felt ownership of a girl he met on the Internet. Fuck, two years ago he wouldn’t have been wasting precious time on the damn Internet. The man runs his fingers over the surface of the device, pressing on links at a speed that sickens Marcus, the linger of his eyes over Jessica’s body angering him even more. “So… I’m sorry—what info did you need?”
“Can you unblock me?” Marcus asks, his fists clenching against the top of his dress pants.
The man laughs, sitting back in Marcus’s chair, his eyes staying on the intro video, one that shows a naked Jessica giggling into the camera, her small bare breasts heaving in erotic slow motion. “Nope. Ain’t happening, man. Power to the geeks, that’s the beauty of the Internet!” He makes some ridiculous hand pump gesture that pokes at a part of Marcus he had intended to leave in prison. The man continues, oblivious to his foul. “Your IP address is your social security number, man. And every time you visit a website, you’re shoving that shit into their face. A website can block your IP, or… say… every IP within a certain zip code or state, or country. And then you’re done. Nothing. Nada. No access for you. And I can’t do anything about it.” He laughs as if the idea pleases him, stopping when a low growl is emitted from Marcus’s throat.
The man has the sense to quiet down. “What were you doing when you were blocked?”
“I clicked on the ‘Contact Me’ link.” Marcus says tightly.
The idiot reaches forward and taps the link, the familiar “BLOCKED” status twisting Marcus’s stomach. “Well that’s new,” the man says, surprised, a hint of admiration in his tone. “Looks like it’s got you on limited access that triggers a block if you do certain actions on the site. Chances are whoever set this up tied in the area’s IP addresses. So you’ve got two options.” He looks up, the words giving Marcus a glimmer of hope.
“Go ahead,” Marcus spits out, ready to strangle the information out of the man.
“You can get a tablet and use the cellular provider’s IP address. Or I can mask the IP address or set it up to use your cell phone’s hot spot. But it’ll only give you limited access. You click on that link, or any other triggering link, and you’ll be blacklisted again. And eventually you’re gonna run out of connection spots unless you get in your car and drive. Which…” The smirk on his face tells Marcus that he is aware of his house arrest. Forget reestablishing his manhood via Jess Reilly; maybe he’ll just work this guy over. Teach him some damn respect.
The asshole keys a few more entries and then looks up. “Anything else, man?”
Man? I am not your man. I am your fucking employer. Treat me with some goddamn respect before I shove six inches of it up your ass. “I want to know who owns this website and how to find her.”
“Find her?” The man looks intimidated for the first time, his tattooed Adam’s apple moving up and down with his swallow, and he glances back at the “BLOCKED ACCESS” title on the screen. “I thought you were stuck here, couldn’t…”
“Get me the fucking information,” Marcus growls. “And get the fuck outta my chair.”
The tattooed man takes his time, the slow shuffle as he stores his tablet and moves away from the desk, lighting a new flare of anger in Marcus as he returns to his seat, glares at the man, and thinks of prison. This kid would have been his bitch within the hour, respectful eight ways to Sunday.
He watches the man’s slow exit and calls out to him as he pulls at the heavy doorknob. “Tonight. I want the information tonight.”
No response, not a “yes, sir” or a “right away.” The lack of response burns, and the numbers in front of him blur, his focus pulling, his desire to explore her site competing with the disrespect of the kid. Who hired that piece of shit?
He controls himself, taking a moment before reaching over and yanking up the phone. He calls the redheaded servant, who jumps on the line before the second ring. Finally. Someone with some respect. The kid was growing on him, despite the red hair. “I’m expecting some information from that asswipe who just left here. As soon as he delivers it, fire his ass.”