Writing a small, malicious program took Tristan and Colleen maybe an hour of chuckling over a computer and debugging. Because the malware didn’t have to infiltrate any security software, they didn’t have to hide what it was, which was half the battle.
A lot of coders are hackers at heart, and letting their repressed inner hackers play was too damn much fun.
Inserting the malware into GameShack’s servers was even easier.
Colleen logged onto her help desk account, established her administrator access, and then uploaded their little program.
The countdown began, and at ten o’clock Eastern Daylight Time that night, GameShack’s servers went dark.
Anyone watching the streaming service and everyone playing games on the service got a 404 message that the page or the site was not available.
But for the creators who were using the site to produce and stream video to their followers, a message with that coming Friday’s date appeared on their screen:
The GameShack streaming service has ceased operation.
Due to mounting operational costs and recent financial losses, GameShack is discontinuing the streaming service as of today at this time.
No data downloads will be available.
Thank you for being a valuable contributor to the GameShack streaming service.
Even though they were on a private jet somewhere over the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, which meant they were over international waters, Tristan could practically hear the anguished screams of thousands of creators who’d lost years’ worth of work creating videos and their data, plus their access to the platforms they’d built and all the people who’d followed them.
Not to mention the furious roars of gamers who’d invested thousands of hours in their videogames and had just lost all their progress.
Colleen was repressing giggles. “So this is what real hackers feel like.”
Tristan was watching the chat channels on the Division social media site aimed at gamers, and the chats blew up with people freaking out about GameShack and screenshots of the message that the creators were seeing.
He chuckled with Colleen. “Drinking the tears of our victims, yes.”
“Should we stay online and make sure the program turns itself off?”
“Yeah, probably, but I’m going to get some turkey and crackers from that charcuterie board.”
After exactly ten minutes, their malware curled up and died as if it had never existed, and GameShack’s streaming platform sprang to life, unharmed.
The following day, after sleeping on the airplane seats that folded down into flat beds but provided no damn privacy, Tristan looked over the message Jian had posted in his private group for the personal assistants to the billionaires of the world.
It was just a quick note, practically something that could have been a direct message, but instead, Jian supposedly, accidentally posted on the off-topic chat area of the board.
Jian’s post read:
Hey Hisham!
I know you stream your videogame side hustle through GameShack. I heard there were some problems with their streaming?
Did they really go off-line with a notice that GS was ending the streaming service at the end of the week?
Do you think they got hacked, or do you think they’re really going to pull the plug on their streaming service and somebody goofed and released the notice prematurely?
Best,
Jian Laio
And then Hisham, who was totally in for anything that would cause chaos in the greater world, though not his household, and certainly would participate in a caper that would lead to an interesting stock opportunity, replied to Jian’s post in full view of the entire board:
GameShack’s servers went down like a new twink in the back room. The service collapsed with a death rattle, and this message came up on the screen. Note the frickin’ date, man. That’s this Friday, five days from now. I’m downloading all my content and data right now in case GameShack folds like an anxious bunny playing Texas Hold ‘em.
Hisham posted a screenshot of Tristan’s message to the creators on the chat board.
And hundreds of savvy personal assistants had a hot stock tip for their billionaires at breakfast: Sell GameShack. That stock will be worthless by Friday.
Tristan’s private jet touched down at eight o’clock local time on Tuesday at the airport in Nice, France, which was two in the morning back in New York.
As Tristan had arranged, a French customs official met the plane, collected and cursorily examined their passports, and glanced at the rear of the jet where Colleen had squeezed into a new extra-large roller bag they’d bought in Newark.
There was something a bit fun about sneaking his little around in luggage, like a real-live sex toy for the taking. Tristan reminded himself not to get used to it. If everything worked out, he would get Colleen a damn passport at the first opportunity.
The customs official left, and Colleen walked down the stairs to the tarmac with the rest of them.
A helicopter was waiting, which ferried them to the heliport in Monaco, and then Tristan had a town car shuttle them over to the yacht club and his boat.
Tristan put Jian in the front seat because he didn’t want him to get elbowed in the ribs as they were driving, and then Colleen sat in the middle of the back seat between Tristan and Anjali.
She kept climbing over Tristan and Anjali as she peered out the windows, craning her head to look at the bustling city that had been crammed into eight-tenths of a square mile. White skyscrapers soared, but most of the houses and older buildings were Italian red-and-pink earth tones, a relic of the noblemen and their armies from Genoa, Italy, who’d conquered Monaco a millennium before.
The streets curved and twisted, and the driver of the staid Mercedes sedan must have been under the mistaken impression that he was driving a Lamborghini. He skidded around turns, and Colleen tumbled over the two of them as she gawked out the car windows.
Watching her become wiggly with excitement was the best part of Tristan’s day, and the wonder shining in her dark eyes was entrancing.
She fell on his lap again as the chauffeur took a corner like a Formula One race car driver.
One time when he caught her, he managed to slide a pinch over her nipple, which earned him a secret smile from Colleen.
The next time, when he made sure that Anjali had her face pressed against the other window, he slid a finger up the leg of her shorts and skimmed his fingertip just once over her clit.
That startled her, and she whipped her head around and looked at Anjali, who had both hands plastered to the glass and was staring somewhere up above the car. Her glance back at him threaded a little fright in her smile.
He raised one eyebrow at her, though he kept a smile on his face. He turned her face back to the window, letting his lips and breath brush the pink shell of her ear as he whispered, “Mine.”
She blinked a few times and glanced behind herself at Anjali, who was still stuck to the window, and then resumed looking out her window with her hands braced on his thigh, the one closest to the door.
Nice.
He rested his hand on the back of Colleen’s knee, which could have looked like it was to steady her, and occasionally stroked just an inch up the delicate inside of her thigh but no farther as she stared at Monaco rushing by outside the window.
The car dodged sideways and then dove down a ramp, rocking all of them. Anjali fell backward from the window, bumping Colleen’s butt and driving her breast into Tristan’s hand, where he ran his thumb over her nipple that he could feel beaded through her shirt and bra.
The girls were laughing and apologizing, but Colleen’s cheeks were pink when she turned back to him. She settled herself over his thighs again, ostensibly to look out the window.
Tristan said, “We’re here.”
The Monaco Yacht Club was a long, rectangular building of glass and steel, constructed just a few years before. The architectural lines vaguely resembled a superyacht, with an elongated deck and pool area on the fifth-floor roof pointing toward the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea where the prow would have been.
Tristan led them down the sidewalk of the quay, their smaller suitcases bumping over the seams and down the long pier lined with yachts toward his boat. He carried Jian’s bag and his own. He would’ve preferred to carry Colleen’s and Anjali’s bags, too, but couldn’t.
The yacht club’s marina was situated in a deep-water harbor at the foot of the towering gray headlands called Le Rocher in French, which translated as The Rock. The Prince’s Palace occupied the seaward side of Le Rocher, as it was the fort that defended Monaco from invasions from Genoa to the south and the French in the north.
Brilliant Mediterranean sunshine showered the sea and the flotilla of yachts between the cliff face and the quays built around the marina, and the fresh sea wind blew from the water, flapping the flags flying off the ends and along the rigging lines of the yachts.
Seagulls screamed overhead, begging for French fries from the tourists strolling on the sidewalks outside the barrier and up the roads on the cliff above, whilst the waters of the Mediterranean lapped at the wooden piles supporting the pier.
Colleen hopped up the pier and walked beside him. “Wow. I mean, wow.”
Tristan nodded, feeling his Iowan roots as he noticed the yachts around him for the first time in years. The smaller ones were worth tens of millions, but the big ones and the superyachts moored offshore were worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
“Which one’s yours?” she asked.
The urge to explain that he wasn’t a snob and he wasn’t too wealthy, that he was just a regular guy, washed over Tristan. “My boat is just a few berths farther down.”
“Okay.” She trotted beside him.
Having the smallest boat in the marina would’ve been less nerve-racking. “Here we are.”
Tristan’s yacht was a gleaming navy-blue colossus with the words Ark Nemesis emblazoned across the stern. “Here we are. It had the name when I bought it.”
The two ladies stopped short as Tristan was opening the gate on the back of the boat. Jian stopped because he’d been bringing up the rear, and the two girls were blocking the narrow pier.
“No way.” Anjali gaped at his boat and then shut her mouth with a snap. She turned to Colleen. “I would like to apologize for suggesting that Tristan King was catfishing you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Colleen said, not turning to look at her. She asked Tristan, “Seriously?”
Seeing their reaction, Tristan glanced back at his boat out of the corner of his eye and saw it for the ostentatious monstrosity that it was.
With the prow poking out beyond the ends of the other ships, his yacht appeared to be the mutant love child of a cruise ship and a spacecraft. The long, sleek hull extended nearly three-quarters of a football field, disguising the spacious cabins and enclosed entertaining spaces inside. The berth had four large cabins, including his. The three exterior decks with chairs and tables, one on each floor above the waterline, became more party space.
The yacht even had a jacuzzi.
Colleen looked up at him, her jaw softer because it was about to hang open. “Do you vacuum that whole thing?”
Tristan mumbled, “It requires a crew of four. Come on. We can have an early lunch before the markets open in the US, shall we?” He shrugged. “Welcome aboard.”
Jian went ahead to liaise with the yacht’s staff, whom Tristan had alerted that they would be arriving. The crew had prepared a warm buffet of Italian and Monegasque dishes in the dining room.
Tristan showed them to their cabins first. Jian would take his usual room, so he put Anjali in the one next to Jian.
Colleen was leaning over the boat's gunwale, looking at the dark seawater lapping at the hull far below. The Mediterranean breeze plucked at her hair, swirling the oaken strands around her pretty face.
He rested his elbow on the side and asked her, “Do you want a separate room to preserve your modesty and reputation?”
She laughed. “No.”
“Excellent.”
Tristan grabbed her bag and her hand and pulled her inside his cabin. She stumbled to a stop and looked around at the bright mahogany and the four-poster bed, because of course, he had a four-poster bed. Tristan dropped their luggage on the floor, smashed her up against the wall, and slanted his mouth across hers.
The last few days had been chaotic with trying to rescue Anjali and Jian and then the mad dash across the Atlantic Ocean in a plane that did not have a separate bedroom for privacy. Colleen had been right next to him the whole time. The perfume of her skin and softness of her curves had been within reach and yet off-limits. He’d been at half-staff and bitterly regretting his choice of rental jet for nearly a full day.
But now, his door was locked.
Colleen was kissing him back, and the warmth and softness of her mouth under his was honey and nourishment.
He broke off and dragged his lips down her neck, nipping at her fragile skin and wanting to squeeze his jaw over her shoulder and mark that skin so she’d feel his mouth on her every time her shirt rubbed.
Colleen whispered in his ear, “You told them to meet us for lunch.”
If she was thinking that clearly, Tristan wasn’t doing his job.
He redoubled his efforts, stroking his hand over her curves and up her side to cup her breast. Her body tensed in his arms as she arched against his hand and his mouth.
He growled in her ear, “You want this?”
“Well, yeah, of course. But those guys might be waiting for us to eat lunch.”
Tristan picked her up from under her armpits, and she gave a little whoop but wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, just as he’d intended. He walked over to his bed and tossed her on it.
She bounced on the mattress, giggling, and he grabbed her ankle and pulled her back so that her legs were hanging off the side.
From that vantage point, looking down at her back, the view of her round ass was spectacular.
Tristan grabbed the waistband of her shorts and tugged, but it didn’t give. They were not the stretchy kind. With an arm slipped under her waist, he pulled her up to her hands and knees and reached around her waist to unfasten her shorts.
Colleen rose up and backward so she was standing on her knees, her fingers sliding through his hair and her arms wrapping around his neck as she bowed.
As he looked down her shirt from behind her head, her cleavage formed a cleft, and Tristan wanted to have her there, too. Her entire body was soft and yielding, attracting his hands and his skin and his tongue and his cock.
He fumbled unbuttoning her shorts but managed to slip the tiny disk through the hole.
Colleen stage-whispered, “What if they’re waiting down there for us?”
He growled against her shoulder, “Use your safewords if you want me to stop.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep them waiting,” Colleen said, grinding her butt against his cock through his pants.
Ah, his little was enjoying protesting today. This could be fun.
Tristan shoved her shorts and panties down to her knees and slid one hand down her stomach to press one finger between the lips of her pussy, and he squeezed her breast with his other hand. “They’ll wonder where we are,” he growled. “Maybe they’ll know. Maybe they’ll guess what I’m about to do to you. Maybe they’ll be horrified, thinking about how I’m going to take you with your face in the bed and your ass in the air, and you’ll scream when you come, and maybe they’ll hear you.”
She gasped with real horror, not kidding around anymore.
He took the occasion to slip one finger inside of her and run his thumb around her clit. She was already so slippery, so wet that his fingers and palm were drenched with her.
Excellent.
He ran his teeth over her trapezius muscle next to her neck, just hard enough to sting but not hard enough to bruise. “Maybe I’ll leave marks on you so they’ll know.”
When she stiffened at that thought, Tristan pulled his hands away and shoved her forward on the bed, grabbing her shorts and panties and dragging them off her feet. He stepped forward and used his knees to pry her legs apart whilst he unfastened his pants. “They’re probably waiting down there right now, wondering where we are, and they won’t know that you’re up here with me and I’m railing you from behind, watching your luscious ass.”
He grabbed a condom out of his nightstand drawer because they were in his house now, slapped it on, and leaned over her, running his cock through her folds and getting close to her ear as he whispered, “Tell me your safe words.”
“Red and yellow,” she whispered. “But I’m not saying them.”
He pushed her knees off the bed so that her feet were hanging over the side, and she essentially had no traction to be able to move away from him. “Good girl. I’m going to have you now. I’m going to bury my cock in you, and you’re going to take it like a good girl.”
He found her center and pressed himself in with slow, insistent pressure that he knew would make her feel small and helpless as he invaded her.
Colleen stretched under him, and his cock sank into her. Ripples of pleasure ran up the conduits in his body. “That’s it. That’s a good girl. Take it. Ah, that’s good.”
He closed his eyes as her wet softness surrounded his dick, pushing in farther until his hips were pressed against her ass.
She was panting, her ribs heaving, and he was all the way inside her.
He withdrew and pressed in again, working her. “Yeah, that’s it. Take it all. You’re my good girl, and I’ll take you any way I want.”
Her fingers curled on the bedspread.
“Say it,” he said, keeping the pace slow. “Tell me you’re my good girl.”