About That Night by Julie James Read Free Book Online Page B

found it to be an effective way to deal with his problems. But sooner or later, he had to get back to the real world.
    The bartender, Esteban, shot Kyle a sideways look as he cleaned some glasses. “You think they’re going to catch this guy?” he asked in a heavy Mexican accent.
    Kyle blinked in surprise. That was more words than Esteban had uttered to him in two days. He momentarily debated whether this query violated his no-questions policy, then ultimately found it to be acceptable. After all, it wasn’t like they were talking about
him.
    “What guy?” he asked.
    “This tweeder terrorist,” Esteban said.
    Kyle waved his glass in front of him. “No clue what a tweeder is, or how you terrorize one, but it sounds like a hell of a story, amigo.”
    “Oh, you’re a funny guy, eh?” Esteban pointed to a television mounted to the wall behind Kyle. “Twee-ter,
pendejo
.”
    Out of curiosity, Kyle looked over at the television and saw a Mexican news program. His four years of high school Spanish was little help; the female reporter was speaking too fast for him to understand what she was saying. But three words written in bold letters across the bottom of the television screen needed no translation.
    El Twitter Terrorista

    Kyle choked on his tequila.
    Oh
…shit.
    He stared at the television screen with growing frustration as he tried to understand what the reporter was saying. It was tough, particularly given the fact that he was about six sheets to the wind, but he did manage to catch the words
policia
and
FBI
.
    His stomach churned, and he barely made it out of the bar before he bent over and threw up seven shots of tequila, impaling his forehead on a heretofore unseen cactus in the process.
    That sobered him up right quick.
    In a panic, he made his way back to the cheap posada that had rented him a room on a cash, no-ID-required basis, and called the one person he could count on when shit-face drunk in Tijuana, bleeding from his forehead, and wanted by the FBI.
    “Jordo, I fucked up,” he said as soon as she answered the phone.
    Likely hearing the anxiety in his voice, she’d gotten right to the heart of the matter. “Can you fix it?”
    Kyle knew he had to—ASAP. So as soon as he hung up the phone, he fired up his laptop and stopped the botnet’s denial of service attack.
    There was only one problem: this time the FBI was waiting for him.
    And they had computer geeks, too.
    The next morning, sobered and chagrined, Kyle loaded up his backpack and took a taxi to the Tijuana airport. Therewas a moment before boarding, as he handed over his ticket to the Aeromexico flight attendant, when he thought,
I don’t have to go back.
But running wasn’t the answer. He figured a man needed to own up to those moments in life when he acted like a complete dickhead, come what may.
    When the plane landed at O’Hare Airport, the flight attendants asked the passengers to remain in their seats. Sitting eight rows back, Kyle watched as two men wearing standard-issue government suits—clearly FBI agents—boarded the plane and handed over a document to the pilot.
    “Yep, that would be me,” Kyle said, grabbing his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him.
    The elderly Hispanic man sitting next to him lowered his voice to a whisper. “Drugs?”
    “Twitter,” Kyle whispered back.
    He stood up, backpack in hand, and nodded at the FBI agents that had stopped at his row. “Morning, gentlemen.”
    The younger agent held out his hand, all business. “Hand over the computer, Rhodes.”
    “I guess we’re skipping the pleasantries,” Kyle said, handing over his backpack.
    The older agent yanked Kyle’s arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on him. As they read him his rights, Kyle caught a glimpse of what had to be fifty passengers taking photos of him with their camera phones, photos that would later be blasted all over the Internet.
    And from that moment on, he ceased being Kyle Rhodes, the billionaire’s