Hard Beat(2)

“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 *, 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*cker!”

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 f*cking 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, f*ck, 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.”