Текст книги "Hard Beat"

Автор книги: K. Bromberg

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Author K. Bromberg is that reserved woman sitting in the corner, who has you all fooled about the wild child inside of her – the one she lets out every time her fingertips touch the computer keyboard. She lives in Southern California with her husband and three small children. Her motto is ‘have lap-top, will travel’ because she writes around school drop offs, homework battles and endless soccer practices. When she needs a break from the daily chaos of her life, you can most likely find her with her Kindle in hand, devouring the pages of a good, saucy book.

Visit K. Bromberg online:

www.kbromberg.com

www.twitter.com/KBrombergDriven

www.facebook.com/AuthorKBromberg

ALSO BY K. BROMBERG

Slow Burn

Sweet Ache

COPYRIGHT

Published by Piatkus

978-0-3494-0978-8

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © K. Bromberg, 2015

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Extract from Sweet Ache © K. Bromberg, 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

PIATKUS

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DZ

www.littlebrown.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

Hard Beat

Table of Contents About the Author

Also by K. Bromberg

COPYRIGHT

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Excusive Bonus Scene

Sweet Ache

Acknowledgments

The acknowledgments are the hardest part to write in every book. Thanking people never gets old but the fear that I will forget someone who should be thanked does. So this time around, I’ll try to be short and sweet.

To my readers, thank you for continually taking a chance on me. Your unending support and unwavering faith has made all the difference in my success. I may write the books, but you are the ones who tell your friends about them. Not a day goes by that I take your support for granted. To the VP Pit Crew and the ladies who help run it, thank you for keeping my Driven world alive while I’m off writing.

To my author friends, thank you for making this wild ride a little more bearable. To be able to do what we love to do for a living and at the same time build a community that supports one another is a pretty incredible thing to be a part of.

To my friends and family, thank you for understanding that my computer is an extra appendage, that social media is a necessary evil, and that when I’m quiet, it’s not you – it’s those damn people in my head again.

To Amy and Kerry, thank you for believing in Beaux and Tanner’s story when it was so very different from the other Driven books.

Kristy

Prologue

“Are you on a suicide mission, now?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I shift in my seat to face Rafe, catching a glimpse of the world outside the windows of the Manhattan headquarters of Worldwide News. But what I really see in my mind’s eye are the memories I wish I could wipe away.

Flashes of light against the stark black night. Piercing sirens drowning out my pleas for her to breathe. Her lifeless body, pale and clammy. Unresponsive.

Her eyes. Those blue eyes of hers, always so goddamn vibrant and mischievous, blank and fixed.

The smell of gunpowder mixed with the metallic scent of unexpected death lingering around us like a fog.

The ache. In my heart from what I knew to be true, and in my shoulders and arms from the force of the compressions on her chest as I tried to force life back into her.

Her lips. So cold. So blue.

The sound of my own voice pleading and begging for her to be strong. To stay with me.

Chaos. The feel of hands pulling me back because the medics needed space to do their job. The one I knew was useless.

The chill that settled in as they loaded her in the transport, and I shivered uncontrollably from the trauma. But I held on to the cold, wrapped it around me like a blanket, because it was so much easier to focus on that than the guilt already weaving itself around my psyche and soul.

I couldn’t save her. I tried. But I failed.

“Tanner!” Rafe’s voice pulls me from the nightmare on a constant repeat in my mind. It takes me a moment to pull myself from the painful recollections.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I run my hand over my upper lip and wipe away the beads of sweat forming there. “I —”

“Got distracted? Like I said, you want a suicide mission.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. It’s always about the story. Always.” I’m pissed at having to explain myself when usually the only question I get asked is if my bag is packed.

“I’m afraid you’re going to become the story, given your mind-set.” The sarcasm in his voice pisses me off further, and I know he’s purposefully pushing my buttons. “You want the danger, the hard beat, somewhere where you can risk your safety as punishment for not being able to save Stella?” He squares his shoulders and braces his hands on his desk, staring down at me from the other side of it. A silent reprimand in a sense. I hold his glare because as right as he is, he’s also so very wrong.

“Am I not your best reporter?” It’s an arrogant question but one I know is damn well true. I glance out the window for a moment before scooting forward in my seat and bracing my hands on my knees. When I look back up to him, I make sure he sees the temerity in my eyes.

“That’s not the issue. The —”

“Bullshit!” I shove my chair back as I stand up, letting the sound emphasize my point. “Shit’s about to go down over there. You don’t need some fresh-faced kid getting killed because he doesn’t know the lay of the land. I can do the job better than any of them.”

“You’re gonna burn out, man. You’ve been going hard for years… and now with this, I mean it’s only been two and a half months…”

“And I’m going out of my fucking mind with boredom,” I shout, throwing my hands up before I get hold of myself and rein it in. I have to show him I can do this. That I can go out in the field and be an asset instead of the loose cannon he thinks I am. And fuck yes, mentally I’m just that, but he doesn’t need to know. “Put me in, coach. I’m begging you, Rafe. I need this, need to get the fuck out of Dodge and back to where I’m comfortable and feel at home…” My begging is pathetic, but at this point I’m a desperate man.

“If home to you is a hotel full of journalists in bum-fuck Egypt, then I feel sorry for you, man…” His voice fades off as his eyes search mine. His gaze holds compassion, understanding, and pity, and I hate fucking pity.

“It’s not my home, but it’s what I need right now. It’ll help me process everything… make me focus on the job and not on her.” Or her funeral and meeting her parents at the service instead of in Ibiza where we had all planned to vacation a week later.

“I get it, Tanner. All of it… shit.” He steps away from the desk and shoves his hands in his pockets as he looks out the window, a sigh falling from his lips. He turns back around to face me. “Let me see what I can do. I don’t even have a new…” His voice trails off, although both of us know what he’s going to say next.

One of her cameras sits on my dresser at home where the memory card is still loaded with pictures from the last night we spent together. I can’t stand the thought of looking at them. I wish I could. Then maybe the horrible images in my mind would be erased.

“Rafe, it is what it is. You can say it because I need to get used to it. A new photographer.”

I know he’s upset too. The three of us started out in this business as fresh-faced kids thrown into the fire together. Now one of us is a suit, one of us needs to escape back into those flames to forget, and one of us is dead. “I still think you should stay stateside for a bit. Go spend time with your sister and her family for a while. Get some perspective.”

“I’ve got all the perspective I need. Thanks.” I’m being a sarcastic asshole, but if anyone can understand my need to get back into the field, it should be him. “Look, I’m not taking no for an answer. Do what you gotta do, man, but get me the fuck back there or I’ll head over to CNN. I hear they’re looking for someone.”

I go in for the kill with that line since he knows the perks their executives have tried to entice me with in the past. And by the widening of his eyes and the set of his jaw, it seems to have worked.

“I’d have to get it cleared with the brass.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling, referring to the executives upstairs. “They think that you…” His voice fades off, the incomplete thought making my mind whirl.

“You’re telling me that they blame Stella’s death on me?” I walk to the opposite end of the room, needing to move to abate my anger, and shove a hand through my hair. It’s shaggy and an inch too long, but fuck if I’ve cared enough to look after myself these last few months.

“I never said that.” His exasperation over how to handle me is obvious in his voice.

“You don’t have to. I live with it every goddamn day… Like I said, the most trusted name in news,” I taunt, dropping CNN’s slogan on him before I raise my eyebrows, making my intention clear as day. Then I walk toward the door, tossing, “Try me,” over my shoulder as I step over the threshold.

After that I just have to hope my threat works.

Chapter 1

  One month later

A hand slaps me firmly on the back. It’s one of many in an impromptu celebration in the bar of the hotel to greet me.

“Welcome back, you crazy fucker!”

Burn out, my ass.

I turn to see Pauly’s familiar face: broad grin, hair falling over his thick glasses, and belly leading the way. “Man, it’s good to see you!” As I turn to shake his hand, I’m instantly pulled into his arms for a rough embrace.

He pulls back and cuffs the side of my cheek. “You okay?” It’s the same look that everyone has been giving me, and it’s driving me fucking insane. Pity mixed with sadness. But Pauly is allowed to look at me like that since he was there before all the shit hit the fan; he loved her like a sister too. And coming back here, I feared this moment – meeting him face-to-face – as if he’d judge me, think it was my fault… but all I feel right now is relief.

It feels so damn good to be back here, with people who get me, who understand why I’d return to work when so many others think I should have given it up to stay home for good. They don’t get that once you’re a nomad, you’re always a nomad. Or that home isn’t where your house is necessarily; it’s where you feel comfortable. And yes, that comfort can alter over time – as your needs shift and wants change – but in the end, I feel more like myself right now than I have since Stella’s death.

I pull my thoughts back to the here and now, to Pauly, the stale cigarette smoke that hangs in the air around me, and the pungent scent of spices coming in through the open windows of the bar.

“I’m better now that I’m back here.” I motion to the barstool next to me for him to sit down.

“Thank God for that. Took Rafe long enough.”

“Almost four months.”

“Shit,” he says in sympathy, knowing what a big deal that is to someone like me.

“Yeah. Tell me about it. The first two months were a mandatory leave of absence. Then once I threatened to go to CNN, he said he was speeding things up… but then, fuck, they made me take another Centurian course.” It’s a course for foreign correspondents about what to do in a hostile environment and how to handle the multitude of things that can go wrong at any given time. “And then I was told they couldn’t find a photographer who wanted to travel to this paradise… It was one damn thing after another.”

“So in other words, he was dragging his feet so he could get you back here on his time frame.”

“Exactly.” I nod and tip my bottle up to my lips. “He thought I needed a break, said I was going to burn out.” I motion to the bartender to bring us another couple of beers.

“We’re all going to at some point. In the meantime…” He taps the neck of his beer bottle against mine. “Might as well get our fix.”

“Amen, brother. So, tell me what the hell has been happening while I’ve been gone.” The need to change the subject is paramount for me right now. I know Stella is going to be everywhere here, but I need a way to make her not so present in my mind so that I can focus on doing my job.

At least it’s a good theory.

“I’m hearing that some new players have moved into the game and that there’s a high-official meet in the works, but we can talk shop later. Right now, we need to welcome you back properly.” Pauly raises his voice to shout the last few words. In agreement, the crowd of people around us, mostly men, raise up a glass and call out a few aye, ayes.

The excitement around me feels palpable. It doesn’t take much in this place to give people a reason to celebrate. We all live on that razor-thin edge of unpredictability, so we take the chances we get to party because who knows when we’ll get another one? For all we know, tomorrow we could be on air-raid-siren lockdown in the hotel or out in the field in an embedded mission with a military unit.

When I turn back around, the bartender is busily filling the row of shot glasses on the bar top in front of me with Fireball whiskey. History tells me that this row is the first of many in tonight’s welcome-back celebration. My inclination is to chug back the first shot and then slowly work my way out of the bar and to my room.

It’s been a long ass few days. Between flights through multiple time zones and then a transport into the heart of the city, plus trying to reconnect with my sources to let them know I’m back in town, and grease their palms some, I’m exhausted, exhilarated, and feeling a little more like myself back in the thick of things, doing exactly what I love.

“C’mon, T-squared,” Carson yells with a slap of his hand on the counter. Hearing the nickname referring to the initials of my first and last names is like a welcome mat laid before me, and right then I know there is no way in hell I’m skipping out on this party.

“I’m game if you’re game!” I raise a glass up to him and wait for everyone close to us to grab a shot. The jostling of more people patting my shoulders accompanied by welcome-back comments causes the amber liquid to slosh over the sides of the shot glass.

“Shh. Shh. Shh,” Pauly instructs our friends as he stands on the seat of his chair, holding up his own glass. “Tanner Thomas… We are so glad to see your ugly ass back in this shithole. I’m sure once you hand our asses to us time and again by getting the story first, we’ll want you to leave, but for now we’re glad you’re here. Slainte!” As soon as he finishes the toast, the room around us erupts into cheers before we all toss back the whiskey.

I welcome the burn and before the sting even abates, my glass is already being refilled. When I look up from the pour, my eyes lock on a woman I hadn’t noticed on the other side of the bar. The momentary connection affords me a glimpse of dark hair and vibrant eyes as she lifts her drink in a silent nod to me, but as soon as I register she’s doing it on purpose, someone moves and blocks my view of her.

But I keep my eyes fixed in that direction, wanting another glance of the mysterious woman. She doesn’t look familiar, but at the same time something more than curiosity pulls at me. It’s been four long months – she could be anybody – but for a guy like me always in the know around here, it bothers me that I don’t have a clue who she is.

“Ready, Tan?” Pauly’s glass taps against mine, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Bottoms up, baby.” God, it feels good to be back. Listening to the guys’ war stories, getting up to speed on the shit that’s happened at the grassroots level that no one back at home has any clue about.

The whiskey goes down a little smoother the second and third times while our crowd gets bigger from people coming in after fulfilling their assignments. And each wave of people joining us ushers in another round of shots.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the familiar atmosphere, but soon I feel like I can breathe easier than I have in months. I think of Stella intermittently through the night, mostly how much she’d have loved this show of unity amongst all these people competing for the next big story, and for the first time in forever I can smile at her memory.

“So how long you here for this time?” Pauly asks.

“I don’t know.” I blow out a long breath and lean back in my chair, tracing the lines of condensation down the glass of water in front of me that’s still full. Whiskey tastes so much better tonight. “This might be my last time…” My own words surprise me. A confession from the combination of the nostalgia and my own mortality examined through the alcoholic buzz.

“Quit talking like that. This shit is in your blood. You can’t live without it.”

“True.” I glance across the room while I nod my head slowly in agreement. “But dude, a dog only has so many lives.”

“I guess that’s why I prefer pussies. They’ve got nine of ’em.”

“Christ, Pauly.” I choke on the words. “I prefer to eat it rather than live it.”

His arm goes around my shoulder as his laugh fills my ears. “I missed the fuck out of you, Thomas. Speaking of…” His hand grips me tighter before he lifts his chin to direct my line of sight. “The hottie at two o’clock has been eyeing you all night.”

I shrug the comment away, even though a small part of me – one that I’m not too happy with right now – hopes that he’s referring to the woman I’d glimpsed earlier. I’d told myself that she’d left. But secretly I want to be wrong. “I’m sure as hell hoping when you say ‘hottie,’ you’re referring to a woman and not an IED.”

“Cheers to that truth. Scary shit,” he says, tapping the neck of his bottle against the rim of my empty glass, “and no, I’m referring to dark hair, great rack, killer body —”

“No, thanks.” I cut him off, but my eyes dart to where I saw her sitting earlier, and immediately I chastise myself.

“You still seeing what’s-her-name?” he asks with the same indifference as I felt toward her.

“Nah…” I let my voice drift off as my thoughts veer to our last fight when she accused me of cheating on her with Stella. “She took an assignment monitoring North Korea.”

“She thought you and Stella were messing around?” he infers.

The thought brings a bittersweet smile to my face. Memories of Stella and me, young and in love, flash through my mind. It feels like forever ago. Probably because it was. Two young twenty-somethings on their first assignment with no one else to help occupy their time. Lust turned to sweet love and then the slow realization that we weren’t any good as a couple. Then came an awkward phase when we had to get over the bitterness associated with lust gone wrong. The passage of time allowed us to realize we were really good at the best-friend thing which in turn made us a great team, reporter and photographer. Inseparable for almost ten years, except for the odd assignment that took us to other places of the world and despite the introduction of significant others.

“Yeah. I get it. I’d probably think the same thing, but…” I shrug. “You’ve seen us together. Know how Stell and I were —”

“Mutt and Jeff,” he mumbles as we both fall into a short silence thinking of her. “I liked what’s-her-name.”

“No, you didn’t.” I laugh loudly because his comment was the farthest thing from the truth. He nods his head in agreement – everyone knew they didn’t get along. “But thanks. I think it had run its course before she changed assignments. You know what relationships are like with what we do.”

“Man, do I know it. What am I on here? Wife number three? Four? You’ve got the right idea with the let’s-have-fun versus the let’s-get-hitched mentality… but uh, she just looked over here again and fuck me, I’d make her wife number five for the night if she’d let me.”

The deep belly chuckle he emits pulls a reluctant laugh out of me, and it takes everything I have not to glance in the woman’s direction. Resistance is futile. Eventually I give in to curiosity and glance up, planning to avert my eyes before she looks our way again.

Intriguing eyes meet mine. Her dark hair is pulled back into a messy knot that should look unkempt but somehow makes her sexier. When our eyes connect, her lips fall open in surprise in an O shape before they correct themselves into a slow, soft smile. I nod my head at her and then casually look away, both hating and loving that pang in my gut that stirs to life.

Something about her – yet nothing I can put my finger on – tells me I should steer clear. So why the fuck do I glance back up to see if she’s still looking? And why do I care?

“I’m sure you would,” I finally answer Pauly, a little slow in my response.

“She’s hot. I mean how often do we get someone that fine in this neck of the woods? Damn, dude, her eyes are back on you now. She’s seriously checking you out.” He snickers.

“Yeah, and she’s probably some sheikh’s wife. No, thanks… I’ll keep the hand they’d cut off just for looking at her.” I toss my napkin on the bar at the same time the barkeep slides another round in front of us.

“Better your hand than something else,” Pauly deadpans.

“Got that right.” I laugh.

“I might take the risk for her.” I glance over and look him up and down. He can’t be serious. “Okay. Maybe not.”

“Maybe not.” I scrub my hand over my clean-shaven face, knowing the smooth skin will soon be replaced by the scruff that just kind of happens when you live here. “She one of us?”

“She’s been here about two weeks. Freelance, I think. Don’t know much about her – heard she’s a loose cannon of sorts. Always off on her own, taking unnecessary risks and getting into people’s business. I’ve steered clear other than a nod in the lobby.”

That’s what I intend to do: steer clear of her. Too many newbies come in gung-ho, trying to get the next big story, and end up getting someone hurt. Just like what happened to Stella.

“Well, for what it matters, loose cannon or not, I think you should go for it. She’ll probably be gone sooner rather than later, which is always a good thing… Prevents attachment, and shit, you never know when your next chance to taste those nine lives will be.” He winks and I can’t help but snort.

“Thanks but I’ve got enough to worry about with my new photog coming in tomorrow.” I roll my eyes and bring the shot glass up to my partially numb lips as my mind veers back to the fact that it’s been ten years since I’ve had to break in anybody new. I’m not looking forward to this.

“Well tough shit, man,” he says, patting me on the back, “because she’s making a move for you.”

The resigned sigh falls from my mouth at the same time she slides into the chair next to me. Gone is the distinct smell of this crowded bar when the clean and flowery scent of her perfume surrounds me. I keep my head down, eyes focused on the scratches in the wood counter, acknowledging that I don’t want the small zing I feel to flourish. At all.

But of course the longer we sit there, with me looking down and the full weight of her stare on me, I know I’m in a losing battle. I’ve got plenty of fight in me, just not for her right now. I need to head this off at the pass.

“Whoever you’re looking for, I’m not him.” I try not to sound too hostile, but my voice lacks any kind of warmth. I’ve been here, done this before. The newbies try to butter me up to get the scoop on everything in town – and coming off the heels of the mess with Stella, I’m not giving anything to anybody.

“I don’t believe I’m looking for anything.” Her voice sounds smooth as silk with a hint of a rasp. How did I know she was going to have a sexy voice?

“Good.”

“Whiskey sour,” she says to the bartender, and I have to admit the order kind of surprises me. “And put it on his tab.”

I immediately look up to catch the smirk on her face and the taunting glimmer in her green eyes. Intrigue has me keeping my gaze on hers because I admire that she came back at me with her own line instead of scurrying away to lick her wounds. Can’t say the freelancer doesn’t have some chops.

“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” And the truth of the matter is I don’t give a flying fuck about the drink. I would’ve bought it anyway out of plain manners, but something tells me I just walked right into her well-maneuvered game, and fuck me if I’m going to stay there.

“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” She raises her eyebrows as she brings the cocktail to her lips. And of course my eyes veer down to watch her run the tip of her tongue over the rim of her glass to the drop of liquid that falls there.

My mind drifts to the pleasure she could bring with her mouth and her tongue… purely out of male fascination.

“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” I grunt out the words, unsure why I’m pushing her away so hard when she’s done nothing wrong.

“So you’re the one, huh?”

Her comment stops me with my drink midway to my mouth, and my thought process falters as I slowly look over to her, trying to figure out what she means. “The one?”

“Yep, the one that every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time.”

I take in the glossy black hair pulled back so that little pieces fall down to frame her face and soften her strong cheekbones as I mull over her comment. When our eyes meet, there’s defiance laced with amusement in hers, and as much as I want to face her challenge head-on, I won’t. Not here, not now – and definitely not with a room packed with other journalists who are watching my every move to see if I’m going to fall apart in some way or another.

I motion to the bottle of Fireball sitting across from me and look at the bartender as I slide my money across the counter. He picks up the bottle and sets it in front of me at the same time as I scoot my chair back. When I grab the neck of the bottle, I look back and give her a half-cocked smile. “Yep, I’m the one.”

And without so much as another word, I head out of the bar. The guys give me shit as I walk past about being a pansy-ass until I hold up the whiskey bottle to show them I’m not really turning in early. Pauly catches my eye and nods, knowing where I’m headed and that I need the solitude I can find there.

The fucking problem, though, is even as I ascend the stairs up the dank stairwell, the only thing I can think about is her.