Going Under
Going Under
By Jeffe Kennedy
Knowing all too well the damage online trolls can inflict, game designer Emily Bartwell takes privacy seriously. Living in solitude and working remotely under a male alias gives her a sense of security. The sexy writer renting the house next door ignites desires she’d forgotten she had, and when he invites her to play games of a very different sort, Em is ready and willing. Even if it means breaking all her own rules to abide by his.
Undercover tech reporter Fox Mullins is so close to the biggest scoop of his career: finding the elusive programmer Phoenix. An increasingly erotic adventure with his reserved but passionate new neighbor is the ideal way to heat up the chilly Pacific Northwest nights as he tracks the brilliant gamer.
At first Fox is happy to help Em explore her newly awakened kinky side, no holds barred, no strings attached. But as they push the limits of intimacy, both physical and emotional, Fox discovers he’s not the only one keeping secrets. And revealing hers may mean betraying the one woman who embodies everything he desires.
87,000 words
Dear Reader,
When I looked at what month I was writing this letter for, the song “Kokomo” immediately popped into my head. And now, though it’s still a little cold and blustery outside my windows, in my mind, we’re all sunning ourselves on the beaches of some tropical island, reading something incredible. Since you’ll be reading this letter in July, it’s entirely possible you will be on a beach somewhere, so let me help you with the incredible reads part...
Looking for something to add even more steam to your hot summer nights? Check out Going Under by Jeffe Kennedy, the first in her contemporary erotic romance trilogy. She’s a genius computer game designer who changed her identity to escape online trolls. He’s the crack undercover reporter who’s tracking an elusive and enigmatic hacker—her. They’re a combustible combination both in and out of bed.
Jeffe isn’t the only author with a new beginning this month. We’re pleased to welcome debut author Caroline Kimberly to Carina Press with her unique historical romance trilogy. Set in the wilds of British India, and pitched as Romancing the Stone meets Regency, she’s no demure young miss and he’s no proper soldier. And what they experience is more than An Inconvenient Kiss. If you’ve been longing for something different in the historical romance genre, don’t miss this one!
Ann DeFee and Inez Kelley join us in the contemporary romance genre with their respective books, A Hot Time in Texas and Should’ve Been Home Yesterday. This wraps up Inez’s Country Roads trilogy, so be sure to pick up the first two books if you haven’t already!
Problems in Paradise by Kelsey Browning is also in our contemporary lineup this month. A small-town Texas café owner wants to bury her sordid Los Angeles past and become a part of the community, but the sexy chief deputy must uncover her secrets even if it destroys his campaign for sheriff and their chances for love.
Fans of Julie Moffett’s Lexi Carmichael series are going to fall in love all over again with No Biz Like Showbiz, in which our favorite geek girl is off to Hollywood to bring down a hacker who’s manipulating the online voting for one of America’s favorite reality television dating shows. This is a series with something for everyone: geek references, a new adult feel, mystery themes and enough romance elements to keep any romance reader happy. If you haven’t started the series yet, you can start here or pick up No One Lives Twice at any etailer.
Shirley Wells also has a mystery release for fans of detective novels, and is back with Dead End, A Dylan Scott Mystery.
Two fantastic authors bring us two incredible urban fantasy novels this month. In Steve Vera’s Blood Sworn, the enemies of two worlds reluctantly join forces to fight the armies of the Underworld. And in Summoned Chaos by Joshua Roots, if there’s one thing Warlock Marcus Shifter hates it’s the Delwinn Council. They’re not pleased that he once turned his back on his kind, and he’s convinced someone on the Council is working to undermine the twenty-year peace with the non-magical Normals.
John Tristan also shares a journey in the world of fantasy with The Sheltered City. In a land devastated by dragonfire, a man with a curse in his blood must help an elf find his missing brother in this male/male fantasy romance.
And to round out the diverse selection of novels we have for your beach-reading pleasure, in A.M. Arthur’s Maybe This Time, when serial singleton Ezra Kelley meets his match in sexy bartender Donner Davis, both men will need to let go of past hurts before they can have a future together.
Of course, if you’re spending a lot of time on the beach and need more, don’t forget to go diving into our backlist, which offers a variety of page-turning books in all genres of romance, mystery and science fiction from authors like Lauren Dane, Josh Lanyon, Marie Force and more.
Coming in August 2014: Shannon Stacey is back with the final (for now) installment in the Kowalski series, we welcome Lisa Marie Rice and her cracktastic contemporary romantic suspense to Carina Press, and I’m off to Mexico for my own lie-in on the beach!
Here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Editorial Director, Carina Press
Dedication
To Allison Pang and Marcella Burnard
My favorite gamer girls
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to a number of people who helped me understand the world of role-playing games.
Carolyn Crane always provides amazing story insight and terrific ideas for making the story even better. More, she bailed me out with a particularly difficult-to-write scene. I owe her big time.
Allison Pang keeps me up to date on female politics and gaming. She also suggested the basic structure for how Labyrinth might work.
Marcella Burnard fact-checked all my Pacific Northwest details—any deviations are me being willful—and suggested Lopez Island as the basis for my fictional Lyra.
C.J. Lemire graciously answered my ignorant tech questions. Again, anything I got wrong is because my fictional version just sounded more fun to me.
I’d like to acknowledge Anita Sarkeesian who, for better or worse, has become the poster girl for what happens when a woman awakens the trolls in the depths of the gaming world. She’s withstood horrific pressure and attacks with her head held high—an inspiration to anyone who bucks the system. I’m proud to have backed her Kickstarter and to follow her efforts.
As always, much appreciation goes out to the Carina Press team for their continued enthusiasm and support for my books—particularly Angela James, Kerri Buckley, Stephanie Doig, Carrie Holden, and Heather Goldberg. Very special thanks to editor Deb Nemeth, for all she does to make my books the best they can be.
Gratitude of the best kind goes out to my agent, Pam van Hylckama Vlieg, for late night DMs, being my champion and supporting my career in every way.
Much love always, of course, to David—for everything.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
GO RUN. THIS MEANS YOU!
The pop-up reminder shook Em out of her zone, as she’d designed it to do.
Otherwise she’d forget. That was both the blessing and curse of programming. Time flew by—a good thing, because it kept her from dwelling on unpleasant thoughts. But, if she didn’t have her reminders, entire days could vanish without a trace.
She glanced at her screen clock—4:03—then surveyed the mist outside the window. No actual rain, but definitely murky. Resisting the urge to snooze the reminder 15 minutes, she resolutely saved her code and changed the pop-up to 3:37 for tomorrow. She’d have to keep it earlier until after solstice, the afternoons got so soupy.
Her twice-daily runs, plus occasional walks to contemplate work-throughs, gave her pleasure she’d rarely indulged in before. She really shouldn’t run the same routes every day, but the simplicity and ritual of it tempted her too much. She made up for that repetition by changing the reminder time every day, sometimes later, sometimes earlier.
Complacency killed.
And really, with all the other steps she’d taken to disguise her identity and virtual footprint, this deviation from protocol shouldn’t be enough to out her. When she’d first moved to the island, she’d taken care to vary her routines, trying to never repeat the same pattern twice. But that kind of thing got amazingly exhausting over time. Vigilance required a level of alertness and interest. Even following a habit of variability grew boring and that led to dullness. After the first year, she’d allowed herself certain habits that she deemed low risk and saved the edge of paranoia for higher-risk events.
Like grocery shopping.
Reluctant to leave the work, she made herself stand. She wouldn’t find her way through the latest knot in the next hour—or even the next week. Any further delay and she wouldn’t be able to see. Her body creaking in protest demonstrated the other reason to get moving. Submerged in her online life, behind the various masks of her false faces, it was easy to forget to be a human being.
Living alone also did that.
Not that she minded so much. She’d never been tremendously social to begin with and she really loved that things stayed clean after she cleaned them, were never dirty unless she dirtied them, and everything remained in its place. But she did tend to lose track of time.
Dinah opened one baleful golden eye from her sprawl on the top tier of the cat condo with an excellent view of both the bird feeders and Lyra Sound, ignored all of it and went back to sleep. Em rubbed the Maine coon’s belly anyway. Moving with more purpose, she headed to the bedroom, shucked cuddly socks and sweats, and pulled on her leggings, jog bra and zippered jacket. Yanking her hair into a ponytail took a bit of wrestling. Amazing what three years of no haircuts produced.
Her personal calendar of hermitage.
She paused in the mudroom to tie on her running shoes, still muddy from the morning’s run, but it hardly seemed worth it to clean them when she’d only dirty them again, then abandoned the cloistered warmth of the house for the misty green outside.
Anansi stood with tail high at the garden gate. He made an excellent reminder, too—usually knowing the time far better than she did—but the Doberman preferred to spend his afternoons outside. Given his propensity for pacing and sighing, she preferred it too.
“Ready to go?” Her voice croaked a little, as she hadn’t spoken aloud for hours save muttering at her screen.
Though Anansi could easily clear the low gate, he waited, ever polite, for her to open it, bounding through and making a wide loping circle around her while she stretched out her kinks. At her hand signal, he trotted down the cedar-planked path to the beach.
She loved many things about her house on Lyra Island—the windows, the view, the quiet of the sheltering trees and her fairy-worthy garden—but easy access to the rocky beach had sold her on it, despite the breathtaking price she’d paid in cash.
In some ways, it might have been easier to hide in a major metro area, where efficient businesses delivered food and she might have varied her running trail via an algorithm that recalculated her route over city blocks. A remote island, geographically circumscribed and populated mainly by tourist traffic in the summer and a small group of taciturn and hardy year-rounders, lacked both efficiencies and variability.
She let Anansi choose the direction. Her nod to randomness, such as it was.
However, she reflected as she found her rhythm on Lyra Sound’s gravel shore, becoming part of the community had lent an unanticipated kind of disguise. People made assumptions about her—about where the money came from, her eccentric reclusiveness, even her appearance—that cloaked her better than anything she might have crafted. They figured her for a crazy trust-funder refugee from the East Coast and she, always up for a good story, played into that.
Her neighbors knew her patterns and told her things about herself that she used as they puzzled out her mystery. Kind of similar to building a game, right there. A series of clues created a story. The trick became keeping anyone from wanting to look for more, because what they thought they knew was so much prettier than the reality.
She sometimes envisioned her real self as the unsightly creature behind the curtain, working the levers. That self shouldn’t ever see the light of day, so twisted and emotionally crippled, every horrible thing the trolls had ever named her.
It deserved to be locked away.
She hit her stride, the soft mist breathing easily through her, blood and muscles gratefully expanding after the day’s inactivity. Anansi looped through the shallow water and out again in canine glee. Running under the draping emerald fronds, she counted the lights in the houses of her widely spaced neighbors, making a mental note that someone seemed to have moved into the Kapsucks’ rental on the point.
Odd time of year for it.
Her sense of vigilance pricked. A trip into town in the morning would be in order, to suss out this unusual arrival.
You could never be too careful.
* * *
Fox stood out on the deck, watching the woman jog past on the beach with a dog he’d first mistaken for a pony. No, just a very impressive Doberman.
She ran with a ground-eating, gliding stride that spoke of years of practice. Maybe even a youth as a long-distance runner. He added the observation to his mental checklist, second nature in his line of work, to what he’d taken in about her during the thirty seconds it had taken her to cross in and out of sight—lean, glossy dark-brown hair, top-of-the-line running clothes and shoes, obvious even in the dimness. Healthy dog, not professionally groomed or docked. Probably a permanent resident, eccentric and rich with it.
The way he had it figured, his quarry made very good money, which was part of what let him avoid detection. Could the elusive game designer be married or have a girlfriend?
Fox didn’t think so, but he needed to consider all possibilities. A knack for finding the unexpected clues was one of the skills that put him at the top of his profession. Noting the time and her description on one of the pocket pads he always carried, he waited for the woman’s return loop. Night had nearly taken the shoreline, despite the early hour, so she’d hardly be able to stay out much longer. In L.A., sunset would be over an hour away—and you’d
be able to see it, something prevented by the seemingly ever-present pea soup on Lyra. He’d only been on the island a day and already the dark was getting to him.
Not that it mattered. Sniffing out Phoenix’s hiding spot and real identity would be the brass ring. He could write his own ticket after that, have his pick of assignments and live in the sunniest spot he could find. The game designer was canny and had laid more false trails than Fox had expected. Grudging respect growing, he’d followed each set of manufactured clues to their blind endings, methodically debunking each one.
In many ways, the chase had become more fun than even playing Phoenix’s games—though both bore the distinctive flavor of the man’s personality. His voice, Fox thought of it, though that term was more often applied to writers than video game programmers. Still, the way Phoenix had built his layers of false identities and misdirections carried that same indelible stamp of the mind-boggling clues that formed the skeleton of the man’s games.
Most notably, Phoenix’s masterpiece, Labyrinth, an adventure game with new modules released regularly that had taken the market by storm two years ago, showed echoes of the various false trails that formed Phoenix’s obviously false identity.
Hell, the man hadn’t existed before three years ago, and Fox suspected some of that history had been created. Most people in the industry speculated that Phoenix must be the retirement identity of one of the gaming community’s veterans. Even among the network of anonymous hackers and basement dwellers, who lived and died by false identities, this guy eluded all efforts to decloak him. Something that spoke of long experience, the forums insisted.
In his gut, Fox knew better.
No, Phoenix had to be young. Middle-aged at most. Fox knew this, not from studying the data, but from playing the game, from knowing that voice. And he was here somewhere. Probably on Lyra, but maybe nearby. The inside tip from his NSA buddy pointed to this cluster of islands in the middle of nowhere as having the broadband signature a guy like Phoenix would need.
Intuition told him a guy who picked the name Phoenix wouldn’t be able to resist the parallel of “Lyra” Island. Instinct, some would call it. Fox didn’t care to name it. Call it superstitious, but he didn’t question intuition.