K. Bromberg - Hard Beat

The longer I lie here, the more I think about everything. I blame jet lag for my inability to sleep, but the problem is that no matter how much I try to pull my thoughts from BJ, they keep going back to her. It has to be her damn perfume clinging to my skin and the sheets, but I don’t get up to take a shower.

Even though I need sleep to get a leg up on the wicked time difference that’s going to hit me with a sledgehammer in the coming days, it doesn’t come no matter how hard I try. So I divert my thoughts and make a mental list of sources I want to contact by week’s end, military and locals, to try and get some information on what Pauly was talking about earlier, the rumored meeting of high-level opposition. But the moment I close my eyes to will sleep to come, I see BJ and her sexy-as-hell body laid out before me on the bed. I hear that little moan she made right before she came that was a plea to both move faster and to prolong things all at the same time.

And then my mind veers to the thought that we came at the same time like in some goddamn cheesy romance novel. Why does that bug me? Why does our bodies being so in sync with each other throw me off, make me wonder if there is something more to it than incredible timing?

Shut it down, Tanner. It’s been a long ass day.

Scratch that. Try a long ass few months.

Close your eyes.

Go to sleep.

Chapter 4

“Yes, I’m here and I’m doing fine, Ry,” I tell her for the tenth time over the course of our conversation.

“I guess I have no choice but to believe you. And don’t sound so condescending. I’m your sister – I’m allowed to worry about you. It’s just…” Her voice fades off. “With everything that happened with Stella, I’m…”

“I’m fine. I promise. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks, but I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon.” I know never to give her a date or time because if I don’t call by then, she’ll get even more worried.

“’Kay. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I end the call and look at the time on the screen. It’s ten fifteen. So first day on the job and I can’t say I’m too impressed with the new photographer they’ve assigned me, considering he’s already late.

Add to that this room makes me antsy as fuck. The last time I was in here was with Stella. We’d fought. She stormed out. Goddamn ghosts.

So I pace back and forth for a few minutes, constantly checking my watch, with my irritation growing each time I change directions. Ten more minutes pass and I’m pissed. I don’t have time for an unprofessional person without courtesy. The world outside the window passes me by as I wait for Rafe to pick up the damn phone.

“So you’ve met?” There’s amusement in his tone when he answers the phone, and my chafed nerves get even more ruffled.

“Nope. Didn’t show. Glad to know you hired a real professional.” Sarcasm is thick in my voice as I lean a shoulder against the window and watch a woman struggle to carry her wares from the market on the dirt-covered street below.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. That’s what you get for hiring a goddamn rookie, Rafe. This is —”

“I told you Bo’s not a rookie. She has a great portfolio, security clearance for the base too. Just because she hasn’t been —”

“Wait, what?” There’s not a goddamn chance in hell I just heard him right. I close my eyes and shake my head. “You meant he , right? Just because he …?” Silence passes through the line. I can picture Rafe leaning his hip against his desk, lips pursed, and the furrow in his brow that he gets when he’s put on the spot. “Last night you referred to Bo as a he , so why today are you using the pronoun she ?”

“No.” He clears his throat. “Last night you referred to Beaux as he. Not me.”

“What kind of name is Bo, anyway?”

“The kind that’s spelled B-E-A-U-X,” he says, amusement thick in his tone, and I’m not too thrilled about being mocked. Images of a rough-and-tumble tomboy come to mind, and I hate her out of reflex.

“Isn’t that a guy’s name?”

“I assure you, she’s all woman, all right,” he murmurs, shattering the image I’ve created in my head of her and concurrently pissing me off because he acts as if the fact she has tits and ass will ease the sting of what I feel is his deception. “And it’s on you that you assumed Beaux was a male.” His chuckle grates on my nerves.

“And what? You didn’t correct me because you knew I was going to flip my shit and tell you to go to hell?” My pulse thunders and my hands shake with anger. “What the fuck, man?”

Snapshots of Stella flip through my mind. My promise to never let anything happen to her. Her body covered in blood while chaos swirled all around us. White flowers on her black casket. Having to look her parents in the eye and explain the circumstances and that ultimately it was my fault.

“What’s your problem, Thomas? Male or female… The sex of your photographer shouldn’t affect how you do your job.”

Shouldn’t affect me? He’s crazy.

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” I shout, fist pounding once against the windowsill.

“I beg to differ.” His calm, even tone spurs my anger even further.

“A chick? I have enough of a problem keeping my own ass safe here. I mean after everything that happened with Stella… you’re going to put me back in the same goddamn boat?” My voice hitches, and I hate that it fucking does, hate that after five months I’m still affected. I take a calming breath even though it does nothing for me. At least Stella knew the ground rules, the mistakes not to make – and yet she still ended up dead.

“You wanted to return and get back in the saddle. I told you I didn’t think you were ready.”

“So that’s what this is? Some fucking proving ground?” Fire is in my veins and ice in my voice.

“Having a tough time there, are you? Been back less than forty-eight hours, and you’re just starting to realize that whether you’re there or here in your house, Stella’s still everywhere. Not as easy as you thought, right?”

Is he fucking serious? I wasn’t aware that he ever got a doctorate in psychology. I run a hand through my hair and then lean my forehead to the glass as I recognize that Rafe’s trying to prove a point on which I really don’t feel like being the test subject.

And yes, he’s absolutely right, but hell if I’m going to admit it.

“I’m perfectly fine.” I mutter the words with more conviction than I feel. Fuck if I haven’t gotten good at repeating them over the past few months. I’m so damn sick of people asking how I’m doing. I’m alive. She’s not. End of goddamn story. How do they think I feel?

He laughs loudly into the line, and the sound grates on every frayed nerve that I have. “Keep telling yourself that and maybe one day you will be. But the fact of the matter is that you’re one of my oldest colleagues and friends, and I want to make sure you’re okay. What better way to get you on your feet again than by throwing you right back in the fire you were burned by?” He pauses momentarily to let his comments sink in and burrow tiny little grappling hooks into my nerves, forcing me to see his truth through the pain.

“This is such a crock,” I grit out between my clenched teeth, trying to figure out what’s really going on here. “Since when do I have to prove shit to you, Rafe?”

“You don’t.” He sighs in exasperation. “I don’t make the decisions, Tan. I just make sure they’re carried out.”

“How do those strings feel tied to your hands and feet?” I ask, followed by a circus tune to reinforce my puppet reference.