Текст книги "Hard Beat"
Автор книги: K. Bromberg
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
Just as she’s about to say something else, I continue. “Then you miraculously know I’m on a possible story… how? By the way I walked out of the lobby? I mean how the fuck did you know to follow me up to my room and ask? And then of course being the good guy that I am… I bring you with me where you proceed to spook the fuck out of my contact when you bust out in Dari, and then…” I turn to face her, and she steps back so that her shoulders are against the wall. I can tell she’s rattled, but I’m glad because I’ve learned that when you’re rattled, your true colors show, and I’m waiting for hers to light up this room like a damn rainbow. “And then you take his fucking picture? A man who is giving me information about high-level meetings of terror officials and you take his picture?” My voice escalates with each word as I take another step forward to where I’m so close I can feel the heat of her body in the space between us even though we’re not touching. “One and one is adding up to a whole bucket full of bullshit that seems a little hinky to me.”
We stare at each other, eyes locked, jaws clenched, anger emanating off us in invisible sparks in the space between us that I can’t see but can sure as hell feel. I’m so fixated on my spite and anger that she catches me off guard when she shoves against my chest to push me away from her. My hands close around her wrists and she tugs, only serving to bring us closer together.
“Let me go!” She struggles, but I hold tight.
“I want answers.” I grunt out in amusement because even though she’s so damn petite, she’s also quite strong, and holding her still takes some concerted effort.
“Like I said, fuck off.”
“It seems to me your mouth needs to be washed out with soap. Not real classy for a lady to keep repeating words like that.”
“Oh, I’m a whole lot of classy. I just reserve all my fucks for assholes like you who deserve them.”
“I deserve them if I’m wrong, and yet you are doing absolutely nothing to prove that point.” She tries again to yank her hands away, and I just grip tighter. We keep brushing into each other, the physicality of it all setting off every one of my body’s damn nerve endings. Still, I just want to tell them to shut up. I don’t want her. No way in hell.
Not now. Not ever again.
But damn it is a hard thing to ignore when heart rates pick up speed, bodies are inching closer, and muscles are tense.
I know a perfect way to get her to stop. “Look, if you’re into the whole rough thing, it’s not really my cup of tea, but I’m sure I could bend my ways for you.”
Bingo! She stops struggling immediately with a shocked expression on her flushed cheeks. She blinks her eyes rapidly as she processes what I’ve just said. “Ever heard of sexual harassment?”
With her wrists still in my hands, I lean in close enough so that I can hear her quick intake of air at my unexpected response. “I’m pretty sure we threw the idea of harassment out the damn window the moment we slept together and you walked out without a word… but please, feel free to call Rafe and explain how you were trying to get in good with me.”
She holds her own in the glare department in our visual standoff. I can see so many emotions swim behind her eyes, but it’s the one I don’t expect, vulnerability, that throws me off. “I’ll answer your questions. All of them. Just let me go.” Her voice is so quiet and unexpected in the midst of her feistiness that I slowly release her and step backward.
“Well?” It’s all I say because something about the look on her face causes me to shut my mouth.
She takes in a deep breath, steadying herself as she steps back from me so that her shoulders are flat against the wall. “I told you, I knew who you were. I mean who doesn’t know of Tanner Thomas?” She starts to ramble and speed up her speech but stops when I hold my hand up.
“I don’t want you to kiss my ass. I want the truth.” She has another think coming if she believes I’m going to let her off the hook with flattery.
“I’m serious.” She holds her hands up to emphasize her point. “I was in the bar celebrating having gotten a call for a job. Rumors were running all over the place about you, most of them saying that you had hopped ship over to CNN… so when Rafe called me, he didn’t specify anything other than to expect a text the next morning about when and where I’d meet my counterpart. I should have asked who he was teaming me up with, but I was just so damn glad to not be here on my own anymore… to actually be working for a company, that I didn’t ask.”
I don’t want to believe her but once again find myself falling under her undeniable pull. I’ve been there before, when the draw to report was so damn strong, I grabbed my video recorder and my passport and took off to where the action was to try to make a name for myself. I can’t fault her for that if she did the same thing.
A small part of me admires her right now. Her determination to be here out of pure love to tell the story. A woman in this tough career and even rougher country.
“So are you a reporter or a photographer?” I cross my arms across my chest as if the motion will prevent me from letting my guard down too quickly with her.
“I’ve done both.” She looks into my eyes when she delivers the answer and doesn’t waver in her resolve. There are so many things I want to say to her, but I want her to finish her explanations first before I give her my two cents. “I went to Dartmouth and focused on Middle Eastern studies… learned Dari as something to make me more valuable in the job sector, but then in my final year I picked up a friend’s camera and fell in love with what life looked like through the lens. Shit started happening over here, and while my job with the local newspaper covering human interest stories was okay, it didn’t call to me like this did. I applied everywhere.” She shrugs as she sinks down and sits on the edge of my bed, eyes now concentrating on the nervous fidgeting of her fingers. “You know how it goes, though. Hundreds of applicants for a job that no one is giving up anytime soon. So I took matters into my own hands and started traveling and reporting freelance to try and build up a portfolio worthy enough to get me a job… and here I am.”
She looks up and her eyes find mine. I want to believe her and what I think I see in the emerald of them but am so damn leery of everyone that I can’t help but hold that close even now. Besides, for someone who wasn’t giving me any information before, her data dump of facts seems a little too convenient. Add to that she still hasn’t answered all of my questions.
I nod my head subtly as I digest her words, figuring out if I believe them wholeheartedly or not as her eyes flicker over my shoulder again, because certain things just don’t jive.
“I want to see your phone.” I hold my hand out as confusion flickers across her face, followed by her shaking her head from side to side as she tries to comprehend why I’m asking.
“Why?” She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin in obstinacy.
“Because I want to see who you’re sharing information with.” I make the comment knowing full well I’d tell someone to go to hell if they asked the same of me. “Prove to me right now that you weren’t in the back of the cab texting someone the information.”
“Over my dead body. Who I text is none of your damn business,” she says, her tone even with each word.
“I beg to differ.”
“Differ all you want. This is a job, not a strip search, so if you have a problem with how I do it, talk to my boss.”
“Strip search? And I thought we were leaving sexual harassment off the table.” I can’t help the sarcastic comment. I’ll push her buttons all goddamn day if it ends up getting me the truth. “If you’re not texting anyone, then it shouldn’t be a problem to show me, right?” I step toward her, and she moves to put her hand on her back pocket where her phone is resting.
Fuck yes, I’m having an asshole moment here, but I hate that gut instinct that tells me there is something more to her explanation. It’s the same instinct I’ve used to make a career out of getting the story no one else can get.
The worst part is, though, whereas I’d expect someone to shout at the top of their lungs how crazy I am at the accusation, she just keeps her voice soft, unbelieving. I want fiery denials and someone who fights against me to prove that they’re lying to keep their cover. But she’s doing nothing of the sort, and it’s what I expected.
And I might live my life by the unexpected, but this time, I’m not too happy about it.
Beaux falls silent and just shakes her head. “Obviously you have trust issues. I’m not the one who screwed you over, and I refuse to stand here and have the shit verbally beaten out of me for whoever it was. You want another photographer? Call Rafe. You want to know why I took a picture of Omid? See for yourself.” She reaches for her camera and opens a little door on the side of it. She messes with something momentarily as I try to figure out what she’s doing.
When Beaux finishes, she looks me in the eye as she extends the memory card out to me. I refuse to take it, even though I’m curious because now I suddenly have a feeling that I’m going to end up being the royal prick when all is said and done. When I just hold her gaze, she purses her lips and gives a resigned sigh before walking back to the nightstand. She sets the card down and heads to the door, but stops before stepping through it.
“I quit.” She announces the words in a quiet whisper, but they reach across the distance and hit me like a sucker punch as she leaves.
So I stare at the closed door for a few moments, completely at a loss for words over how the day turned us from partners to fighting to this, completely disassociated. All things considered, I should be happy; I just got what I wanted. The temptress who played me for the fool is now gone, and I can continue as a one-man jack-of-all-trades.
So why do I not feel victorious? Why do I keep glancing at the memory card, wondering what it is she wants me to see?
Don’t do it, Tanner. Don’t walk into another one of her mind games by doing what she intentionally left for you to look at.
Screw that. And yet curiosity killed the damn cat. Fucking cats and their nine lives.
Chapter 8
“She – she quit?” Rafe’s stuttering tells me he’s displeased with the sequence of events. And of course he has every right to be. “Is it that hard to keep your asshole tendencies to a minimum? Fix this, Tanner.”
When I hear the dial tone in my ear, I don’t even flinch at the fact that he didn’t give me a chance to explain myself. Instead I’m transfixed by the photos on my computer screen. I keep the slide show running over the thirty or so pictures, mesmerized by what Beaux has captured in such a short time frame.
After I successfully ignored the memory card for most of the day, it sat there taunting me when I came back from my rooftop haven where I escaped into the memories there to calm down. And of course curiosity got the best of me, the need to know rooting itself into my thoughts until I couldn’t resist any longer. When I inserted the memory card into the computer, I was shocked when my own image looked back. At first I was pissed that she took pictures of me. It took me a few seconds to realize she snapped them yesterday from across the lobby when I was looking out the window lost in thought.
And the anger and outrage that I’d usually hold on to with my type A personality dissipates when I look at the pictures again. I can’t stay angry. She captured something in my eyes – more than just the expression on my face – that reflects everything I’m feeling inside but thought I was hiding so well: loneliness, anger, bitterness, grief, and temerity. You can’t escape the truth in your own reflection – and everything she’s drawn out through the curve of the lens hits me like an inescapable ton of bricks.
I can’t stop staring at my image, for the first time really comprehending how other people see me, and when I’m finally able to tear my eyes from the lines and shadows of pain and loss written all over my face, I click the next set of pictures. The images depict the daily aspects of life here that we saw on the way to the meet but in a unique perspective. Objects are crisp but people are blurred; yet the images tell a story about each person with such a definitive clarity, I’m overwhelmed. It’s eerie and beautiful and haunting and poignant all at the same time.
Each image is more compelling than the last. Each one holds my interest and engages my imagination. And it scares me that she can see through things so well, because that means she’s probably seeing everything that I’m trying to hide.
I proceed through those images, and when I come to the picture of Omid, I’m staggered once again. Chills chase over my flesh as I stare at his face close up and see the exact same thing in his eyes and expression that she captured in mine. Identical.
We are two men with extremely different backgrounds and experiences in life, and yet it’s unmistakable how similar our stories are. I stare at his picture for quite some time, wondering what atrocities he has seen, what life-changing events he has experienced, and can’t help but feel ten times closer to this man whom I’ve only known from our limited forms of communication.
Clarity comes at me loud and clear: Beaux wasn’t trying to steal my damn story. She was trying to capture a moment in time that relays an entire encyclopedia’s worth of information in a single snap of her shutter.
For hours, I get lost in the images. Over and over I flip through them until I have to take a break, because you can only look at the truth staring you in the face so long before it becomes a sign of your own stupidity. Sighing, I lean back against the headboard and consider how I could possibly make this right. Because as hard as it is to admit, I was wrong. Beaux’s an incredible photographer.
No one will replace Stella, and I need to come to terms with that right now before I waste more time fighting something that’s not even in front of me. While Stella was an incredible photographer, she looked through her lens at the world in a different light than Beaux does. It feels silly to justify it this way, but it’s so true.
Now, I need to figure out how to eat some crow… served right alongside a dash of praise. Problem is the very notion sticks in my throat like a blob of peanut butter. No one likes to admit they misjudged someone.
Especially a man.
For a while I debate my options, but eventually I figure straightforward is the best way to go about this; the least painful of all routes. I suck it up, knowing I’ll need to go find her, but just as I close my laptop, my phone rings. The screen shows a random sequence of numbers that appears to be a satellite phone, which causes excitement to charge through me like a current, and I immediately pick up.
“Thomas here.”
“Tanner, it’s Sergeant Jones,” the rigid voice on the other end of the line says as my hopes rise higher.
“Sarge! Long time, no talk.” A smile spreads on my lips because it’s been too long and oddly I’ve missed his stiff demeanor and dry sense of humor. More important, I miss the favoritism he shows me.
“You chose to come back to this paradise? Shit, why don’t you just enlist if you want to put yourself through the punishment?”
“And steal your glory? Nah, I couldn’t do that to you.” I laugh at our long-running joke.
“Thanks for your humility.” He chuckles. “So, uh, you want to tell me your source’s name?”
And here we go, right back in the continual dance of him asking and me refusing.
“You know I can’t do that, but I did let you know what I’d heard,” I say as a means of an apology. I had to let Sarge know it’s known to locals that his guys are privy to an upcoming meet, because if locals know, then possibly the opposition does too, and that puts Sarge’s guys in danger.
“Thank you.”
“No thank-you needed. A story is a story, but our guys’ safety comes first.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to Stella.”
“Thanks.” The line falls quiet and I hate the silence, so the next step of our dance. “So I have a favor to ask you.”
“Ahhh.” He laughs. “No, you cannot go out on the next mission.”
“C’mon, Sarge. I’m bored to tears here. Help out your favorite journalist.”
His sigh comes through loud and clear, and I know he’s thinking about it. At a time when the military hates the post–Iraqi Freedom world where embedded journalists are allowed, the press are considered both a blessing and a curse. When things go well, our presence is a good thing for the men in office because they have an unbiased commercial to use to rally support for the millions of dollars they are spending to combat terrorism. On the other hand, when things go to hell in a handbasket, there’s a documented blow-by-blow of the botched mission that can either turn public tide against the military objective as a whole or find a single person or unit as a scapegoat to blame the error on.
It’s a fucked-up position to be in: to tell the truth and gain trust, all the while having the pressure from the public and the politicos to skew it to their liking. But I’m also aware I’ve earned a reputation with Sarge for not oversensationalizing situations and being fair to his men and their missions.
And I’ll use this unique status to my advantage every chance I can get. He’s required to have so many embedded reporters with him a month, and he prefers to use me over others. His silence tells me that he hasn’t had anyone ride with him in a while, and that means I’ll get my turn sooner rather than later.
“There’s nothing going on but knock and talks right now,” he says, referring to U.S. military knocking on neighborhood doors and talking to the residents to try and gain information on what the political undercurrent is in that specific area. “My guys are lying low.” I groan because this means I’m going to be stuck in this goddamn hotel. “But, how about you come out, hit the range?”
“Are you throwing me a bone here? Something to get me out in the sunshine for a bit?”
“As long as you don’t start humping my leg, we’re all good.”
I don’t hold back the laugh, excited that I get to leave the confines of the hotel and the overly paranoid eyes of my counterparts. “Deal. But I have a plus one. My new photog. She has clearance and everything, but —”
“She? How come you’re the only one who gets to score female photographers?”
“Because I’m just that good,” I tease.
“Is she hot?”
“Sarge…”
“Ah. So you’re humping her leg, then.” I snort because his comment is pretty funny. “Dude, I’m stuck here in what feels like Hades. Can you at least tell me you’re bringing me someone nice to look at to put in my spank bank? My stash of porn is getting old.”
As much as his comment irritates me when I shouldn’t care, it does, but I get it. I’m in the same boat most of the time when I’m abroad as well. Nothing but the same pool of women to look at.
“Yeah, she’s no hardship on the eyes, that’s for sure,” I answer reluctantly before we firm up where to meet.
Beaux’s shooting the shit with some other people in the lobby when I find her. And how in the hell does she manage to look hot in camouflage cargo pants and a tan tank top? I mean what female can wear masculine colors like that and have the word gorgeous come to mind when you see her? Obviously Beaux Croslyn.
Shut it down, Thomas. Just because you think she takes great photos doesn’t mean you have to like her. Or like anything else about her.
I wait behind her, expecting her to sense that I’m there, and watch her hair ripple down her back as she moves her head. It’s a bad idea, because that affords me the chance to take notice of every line of her body and how those ugly pants hug her as she talks to the group around her. The thoughts that flood my head are going to get me into nothing but trouble, so I decide to intervene.
“Hey, Chatty Cathy? Let’s head out.” I see her stiffen at my words before she slowly turns around to face me, one eyebrow lifted and lips pursed.
“You must have the wrong person. I quit. Remember?”
“Yeah well, Rafe refuses to accept your resignation and I was wrong, so let’s go.” I lift my chin over my shoulder toward the front doors. I figure it’s better to say it and get it over with. Then we can move on.
The problem is, she doesn’t move. Nope, she just crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me like I’m crazy. Even better, she’s got an audience around her to witness the emasculation that comes with admitting I was in the wrong regardless of whether they know about the circumstances.
“I think I’m hearing things because that sounded sort of like an apology, but in no way did I hear the actual words I’m sorry fall from your mouth,” she says, holding her hand to her ear in a childlike manner.
Shit. She’s going to make me work for it. Then again, why would I think she’d just roll over and let it go since we’ve butted heads since day one? Or I guess I should say since the first orgasm.
I shift uncomfortably, but then recall the pictures she took of me and her undeniable talent. I’ve been a prick to her, doubting her skill when she obviously can hold her own. Man up, Tanner.
“I’m sorry,” I offer at the same time I hold her memory card out to her as some kind of lame peace offering. She looks down at my hand and then back up to meet my gaze, her eyes asking me if I looked at the photos.
“You’ve got a good eye.” It’s not much, but I’m not big on compliments and fuck if I’m going to start pulling off my jacket to cover puddles for her just yet.
She stares, hands on her hips, head angled to the side while her eyes measure whether or not I’m sincere. I guess she decides that I am, because her eyes flicker to everyone around her as she gauges what she can ask with an audience. “Where are we going?”
“I thought it was time that I show you the lay of the land.” I nod my head toward the door.
“Okay…” She draws the word out, clearly unsure what I’m telling her. But it looks like she’s on board.
The security at the base can be daunting the first time you experience it, but Beaux handles it like a pro. What she’s not liking is how I’m not telling her why we are here.
As we’re escorted via Humvee through the maze of tilt-ups and plywood barracks, I glance over and watch her take in the enormity of this military city for the first time. She leans toward the window to see better, eyes hidden by sunglasses, and when she finally looks over and meets my assessing gaze, she smiles softly before immediately turning back to take in the nonstop hustle and bustle of the base.
I stare at her a bit longer while her focus is elsewhere, allowing myself to get lost in the lines of her posture and wonder what she’s hiding from, when she steps behind the camera herself. Stella used the device as a shield to protect her from the fucked-up reality of her life before she was adopted. I wonder what it is that Beaux hides from.
It’s none of my business. Not prying is a noble notion, but I’m curious nonetheless.
Once we reach the outskirts of the base where there’s a secured shooting range, Sarge is already standing there, stiff and dressed in desert camo head to toe. I ignore the inquisitive look that Beaux gives me as we climb out of the transport, and I extend my hand to him in greeting.
“Good to see you, man.”
“Likewise. Sarge, this is BJ Croslyn. BJ, this is Sergeant Jones… or Sarge for short.” I catch her inquisitive look over my introducing her as BJ, but I don’t plan on him knowing her well enough to use her full name.
Sarge extends his hand to Beaux.
“Nice to meet you,” she says with a wide smile, but her eyes are still taking stock of her surroundings.
“The pleasure is mine,” Sarge says with a nod before motioning to the empty range behind him. “Everyone must have found out you were coming today, because they cleared out.”
“Funny. Very funny.” While my tone is teasing, I hate that a part of me is pissed at the dig at my abilities in front of Beaux when I’m a damn good shot. It has to be my ego caring because I’m most definitely not here to try and impress Beaux. She’s a colleague. My partner. A royal pain in the ass.
“You ready to prove me wrong?” Sarge asks as he walks toward the staging area.
I start to follow him, but Beaux grabs my arm and tugs on it. “What are we doing?”
“Target shooting.” When her eyes widen at my matter-of-fact comment, I know my assumption was right, that the sight of my gun scared her yesterday. And if she plans on not flinching at the sights we will see on an embed mission, then she’d better get comfortable with guns. Hence the whole purpose of being here today.
“Have you ever shot a gun before?” Her lack of an immediate answer is answer enough. She just stares at me momentarily as she swallows, noticeably looking like a deer caught in the headlights. I continue before she can recover. “Look, you’ve got to get used to the sound of them if we’re going out on a mission, so it’s easier like this rather than by surprise outside the city’s walls. C’mon. It’s not as scary as you think. I’ll show you.”
She nods cautiously before following me over to where Sarge has a table set up with ear protection and a Glock resting there for our use. I’m not allowed to bring mine on base, so he’s let me use his gun the few times he has granted me access to the range. This special privilege seems to be his way of thanking me for giving him information in quid pro quo fashion.
Beaux’s nerves start to show as she stands there fidgeting while I check the weapon for safety measures. I know from experience with having a sister that if I feed into her fears, it will most likely only make them worse, so I don’t glance at Beaux when I hand her the electronic ear protection. “Put these on.”
The fact that she does as she’s told without arguing tells me she really is nervous about the whole setup. I remove the gun from the table, then glance over to where Sarge is gearing up to shoot some targets. When I look back to Beaux, I motion with my index finger for her to follow me. Despite the hesitant look on her face and the fact that her eyes keep flickering down to where I hold the weapon at my side, she obliges without any attempts at resistance.
“Put your feet here,” I instruct as I put my hands on her shoulders and turn them square with the target on the opposite end of the lane where we stand. So much for ignoring the desire to touch her. I guess I didn’t think through this part of my plan very well; although I don’t want to touch the woman, I’m going to have to do just that in order to teach her to shoot. Trying to put a bit of distance between us so that I can find my equilibrium again, I use my foot to kick hers a little farther apart into a wider stance. She turns to look at me, but I point to where the target is. “That’s where you’re aiming. I’m going to stand behind you and help you hold the gun the first few times so the recoil doesn’t surprise you.”
If she responds, I miss it, because I’ve stepped up against her, and the temptation of her body flanking mine, my front to her back, distracts me momentarily. I can feel the heat of her body, feel that electric jolt of chemistry between us ten times stronger than when it was just my hands, but I shove the thought away as quickly as possible.
“Put your arms in front of you like you’re firing,” I instruct, and she complies, lifting her arms in front of her at chest height with her palms together. I lift my own to mimic her, but I have the Glock in my left hand.
My chest is pressed against her back, my chin brushing just over the crown of her head so that the scent of her shampoo fills my head, and my arms frame hers so that we are literally touching in every possible way. And sure, my mind is focused on the task at hand, but in the silence from the headphones, everything my senses capture is magnified: her perfume, the warm breeze blowing so that her hair tickles my cheek, the feeling of her back expanding as she takes in a fortifying breath for the first time since we’ve been touching. And there’s something about my touch causing her to hold her breath that takes hold of me and doesn’t let go.
I lower my mouth to her ear so that the electronics can pick up my voice. “I want you to replace my hands on the gun.” She hesitates momentarily. “C’mon, rook. Take it from me,” I encourage her.
Beaux cautiously repositions her hands one by one, her arms dipping a bit when she first feels the weight of the weapon for herself, but I help reposition her hands before I close mine over hers. “See the little ridge right here? That’s the guide, and you aim that where you want to hit the target.” She nods her head ever so slightly. “Okay, so you’re good. When you’re ready, pull the trigger. There’s going to be a recoil, but I’ll help you so that it’s not too wicked.”
She nods again as I start to relax my muscles so that she can adjust the sight to her eye level. We stand like this for a few moments as I wait her out. I know she’s about to shoot when I feel her spine straighten and arms stiffen. She takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger.
When the recoil hits, I hold her hands as steady as possible, but her body shunts backward into mine from the force before the sound even echoes around the range. My feet are planted so that I absorb the impact for her, but goddamn, it doesn’t do shit to protect me from the feeling of her ass pressed against my dick.
Normally I’d give myself a second to enjoy the feel of her even though I’m trying to tell myself I don’t like it because… well because it’s her and I’m not supposed to like Beaux on principle, but damn. I’m supposed to be showing her how to shoot a weapon. The thought of sex with her should not cross my mind at all…
Her laugh vibrates through her chest and into mine, pulling me from the physical thoughts that have no place on a shooting range. I focus on deciphering what she finds so funny and notice she didn’t make a mark on the target at all.
“You’ve got to keep your eyes open, Beaux,” I say in her ear, earning myself a laugh and confirmation that my hunch was correct. “It doesn’t do you any good at all if you can’t see where you’re aiming.” She reins in her amusement and nods her head in silent understanding. “You want to try again?”
