Hard Beat(69)

“Be at the usual meeting place tomorrow. We move out at sixteen hundred hours.” His voice is clipped, all business.

“What’s going on? Yes, of course. We’ll be there,” I respond, my words trying to catch up when I’d felt like I’d lost this story and now here’s a chance to report it. “Was my source —”

“Wrong. Very wrong. No questions, Thomas. You and BJ are on the mission, but you will be removed from the action. We’re coming in for cleanup after air support moves out.”

“Can —”

“I said no questions,” he snaps, not letting me get a word out. “It’s this or nothing. I’m sure Pauly would kill for the ride if you have a problem with the terms.”

I’d say he’s under a bit of stress right now since I’ve never heard him like this.

“Ten-four. We’ll be there at sixteen hundred hours.”

As the line disconnects, I look up to meet Beaux’s widened eyes before dropping the phone on the mattress beside me. “We’re in, baby!” I exclaim, completely confused over the information that Omid gave me but reeling because that buzz is back with such a vengeance that when she raises her arms in the air and lets out a whoop, I tackle her playfully until she’s on her back and my body is flanking hers.

“I thought we were going to blow more bubbles?” She giggles, and it’s the best sound.

“Bubbles can wait. I’ve got more pressing things to do,” I tell her as I push my hips forward before smothering her laughter with my own mouth, to try and take advantage of the moment and the high of being with her tonight and what promises to be a kick-ass exclusive tomorrow. She responds without hesitation, hands hooking under my arms and over my shoulders, and actions speaking without words.

I lose myself to the moment under the cover of this desert night with the star-riddled sky above and a woman who loves me beneath me.





Chapter 19





I

replay Sarge’s phone call from last night in my mind and try to piece everything together. The crux of what I can’t figure out is why Omid would tell me the meet had happened when it hadn’t. Was he found out? Was he trying to protect me? Or more likely himself from a threat?

I remind myself I shouldn’t care because we’re getting to ride along and get the story and that’s what we are here to do. But it still bugs me to the point that I’m wasting time surfing the Internet.

But when I raise my eyes above the screen of my laptop, I stop worrying simply because it’s much more interesting to watch Beaux while she works. She’s methodical and precise and double-checks everything as she moves through her camera bag to make sure each compartment is properly filled, adding extra batteries, memory cards, lenses, and filters.

She’s in perfect silhouette against the sun’s rays behind her that are somewhat muted from the sheer panels on the window. And she’s not doing anything fascinating, yet I can’t keep my eyes off her.

Perhaps it’s the words she expressed last night that I can’t get out of my head nor stop thinking about. The ones that made me realize how very meaningless everyone else before her has been. I mean, yeah, I loved Stella, but not this way. Not the kind where I start to look at the future stretched out beyond the next assignment, the next country, or after the hard beat’s over.

I wonder if this is how she’d look on the deck in my backyard with the ocean behind her: wisps of hair dancing around her face, a drink in her hand, and the freedom to do as we please without the danger that hinders and plagues our every movement here. Could we survive as a couple in the everyday world? With real life and the problems it creates?

The thought makes me shake my head, because of course we could. We’ve spent every day together for weeks on end in the tight confines of the hotel. Sure our relationship – because yes, I can most definitely admit that this is a relationship now – is still in the proverbial butterflies-in-the-stomach stage, but we are under a constant pressure here that doesn’t normally occur in the real world. We’ve gotten annoyed with each other, figured out how to give each other space, and passed the ever-important phase of don’t-push-each-other’s-buttons-on-purpose.

Suddenly I scrub a hand through my hair, completely and utterly shocked at my train of thought. The no-go compartment of my mind opened without the crowbar I thought I might need someday to even begin this thought process.

Then my fingers run back and forth on my keyboard, lost in thought momentarily before I lift my phone without her knowing and frame her in the lens of the camera.

“Do you ever think you’ll quit this life someday?” The question comes out almost on a murmur, my thoughts spoken aloud as I click the shutter on my screen.

Beaux’s hands fall still, half-submerged in her camera bag, when she turns her head to look at me. Her eyes narrow as I click another photo.

“What are you doing?” She smiles shyly.

“Ah, the photographer doesn’t like to be the subject, now does she?” I tease as I click another one, a shot that turns out blurry since she’s walking toward the bed.

“Never.” She laughs softly, angling her head to the side as she takes a step toward me where I sit on the bed in my boxer briefs, one hand behind my head against the headboard, the other holding my phone. “Gimme.”