Hard Beat(28)

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 * 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.