Just One of the Guys(53)

“So is Angela,” I mutter. “But yes, it seems a little coincidental, doesn’t it? Honestly, Pen, is there someone who might do this? Someone who wants the paper to have a black eye? Or just me in particular?”

We look at each other, both of us worried. After a minute, she looks away. “I know Lucia was really pissed when she didn’t get your job,” she begins, “but I don’t think she’d ever do anything to damage the paper’s image. She loves the Gazette.”

I nod. “And honestly, if she knows how to hack into a Web site, she’s hidden it well. She can’t even forward me attachments, even though I’ve shown her four times.”

“Yeah, she’s a bit slow when it comes to computers,” Penelope acknowledges.

“I know, Pen. I can’t imagine…” My voice trails off.

“What about someone you know, Chastity? Does someone have a vendetta against you or something?”

I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”

The rest of the day is grim and quiet. We do what damage control we can. The local news station sends a camera crew over, ensuring that every computer geek teenager in town will try his or her hand at hacking in tonight. I spend another hour on the phone with a Web site consultant and download more security. And I constantly check the Web site, all its pages, dreading what I might find. But it’s clean.

I’ve never been in trouble at work before. This feeling of sheepishness, of letting down the team, is new and not at all welcome. I stay late, check the new firewalls and passwords, then head for the river. Though I rowed this morning, I need to burn off the bad karma that’s been floating around me all day. Besides, this morning had been Ernesto’s lesson, and I didn’t get my usual workout.

I keep a change of clothes at Old Man McCluskey’s shed. Pulling them on, I lift Rosebud out of her sling and carry her out to the water. A few pulls on the oars and I’m out on the Hudson. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the river is clear of any traffic, and I dig in. Feather…and square. Feather…and square. I don’t bother warming up today. I need the punishment. The image of Aragorn and Legolas refuses to be deposed, though. Damn it. Was it personal? Who hates me that much? Could it be a brotherly joke? I dismiss the idea as I pull on the oars, leaning back with all my strength. No, the boys wouldn’t—and probably couldn’t—hack into our system. Lucky might have the technical knowledge, but my brothers would never jeopardize my work. And there’s no way this can be seen as anything but sabotage.

Feather…and square. Feather…and square. Catch and drive…catch and drive. I bury the blade of the oar in the water and pull back, but my stroke is off tonight. My movements are jerky, the run of my boat not nearly as long as it usually is. First I’m rushing, then I’m slow, my seat threatens to jump the track. A shitty row, all in all.

Just then, I commit what is referred to as a crab. Because I’m distracted and off tempo, I don’t pull my portside blade out of the water in time. It drags, acting as a brake, and my oar jolts back at me. I struggle for a minute, trying to keep the boat from tipping, then wrestle the oar back into position. I pause, catching my breath. Even if this has been a crap outing, I’m panting like a Labrador in August. Glancing at the shore, I can see that I’ve drifted to about twenty feet from the riverbank, right by the park that runs along the river. Anyone watching me would have seen my graceless gaffe, which doesn’t do any more for my self-esteem.

I pause for a minutes, letting the current pull Rosebud. The park is lovely, one of the town’s finest graces. There are benches scattered about, and lots of people are enjoying this beautiful May evening. Couples hold hands, kids run around shrieking. Someone’s flying a kite.

I wonder if anyone there saw Legolas and Aragorn this morning.

Someone’s waving to me from a bench right alongside the river, a little upstream of where I am. I wave back before I can discern who it is, then pull on my oars and pull a stroke or two, drawing closer. There are two people, actually. Oh, great. Trevor.

He’s with Perfect Hayden.

“Hey, guys,” I call gamely.

“Looking good, Chastity,” Trevor calls back.

“Shows what you know, dummy,” I answer.

“Hi, Chastity,” Hayden says mellifluously. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” And then, yes, she scootches a little closer to Trevor. Not seeing each other, my ass. I’ll have to have a little talk with him. Wasn’t he out with Angela the other night, after all? And didn’t Perfect Hayden walk all over his heart with her tiny high-heeled shoes once already? Here they are, cuddled up on a bench on a gorgeous spring evening, but hey, they’re not seeing each other, are they? Of course not.

Without further thought, I turn Rosebud around and row back to the shed. If I’m stomping a little, who can blame me? It’s been a piss-poor day. I pat my boat apologetically as I put her back. “Sorry, pal,” I say. “I’ll do better next time.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR THE NEXT night, I find Trevor, Jake and Lucky standing before me.

“Oh, my dear God in heaven!” I cry. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Chas,” Lucky says, shoving his way in. “Hey, Matt.”

“Hi, Chastity,” Trevor says as he passes me. Without further ado, they fling themselves on various pieces of furniture.