Unknown - Driven_589066

scanned the page, anger burned in the pit of her belly, causing her jaw to set and her eyes to blaze.

It was a mock-up of the front page of the Weekly World Ledger, a national gossip rag that hung out with the others of its smutty genre in the checkout

aisles of most grocery chains, drugstores, and airport lounges. In lurid block letters, its headline screamed out “TEMPTATION IN THE TROPICS! BIKINICLAD BASKETBALL BEAUTIES IN LESBIAN LIP LOCK!!!”

Beneath the headline was a grainy, fuzzy picture of two figures—unfortunately all too recognizable despite the poor quality of the photography. The shorter

of the two had her hands familiarly on the hips of the taller, and was standing on her toes in the sand, head tilted up for a kiss.

“So,” she remarked as casually as she could manage, “is this what I have to look forward to when I go to pick up my groceries tomorrow?”

Johnson’s smirk broadened. “Well, I’d say that was entirely up to you.”

“Oh?”

Chuckling, Horace clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, lifting his legs and placing his feet on his expansive desk. “Either way,

the dyke is fired. You, however….”

“Fire her, and I walk, Horace.”

“Do that, and I can assure you that you and the little skank you’re screwing won’t even be able to get a job coaching preschoolers, much less—.”

The rest of his words were cut off as Dylan came over the desk at him. Pushing his legs off the desk, she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and

yanked forward so that they were nose to nose. “She’s not ‘bitch’, she’s not ‘whore’, she’s not ‘skank’. Her name is Catherine. Use it!”

“That’s it. I hope you like bulldagger givin’ it to you up the ass, Lambert, because that’s all you’re gonna be getting once I have that ass thrown in jail.”

“Go ahead, you bigoted little bastard. Try it. And maybe while the cops are here, we can chat about how you set Cat up to be beaten bloody in the parking

lot of your arena, hmm?”

It was only a suspicion, never spoken aloud, but the guess was more than confirmed by the sudden paleness of Johnson’s jowly face. “I don’t know what

you’re talking about,” he replied in a voice that suggested exactly the opposite.

The realization caused her hands to tighten on his jacket but she resisted, by the very slimmest of margins, lifting him bodily out of the chair and slamming

him through the expensive paneling of his office wall. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, you maggot! Exactly!”

“Prove it!”

With great effort, she forced herself to relax her hold on him. Once she was sure her legs would hold her, she moved back across the desk, stood,

straightened her clothing, and walked to the door. “I don’t have to,” she replied, pinning him with a gaze that made him swallow hard. “You just proved it

for me.”

She had gotten the door open and was just starting to step through it when his voice floated over her shoulder. “You will pay for this. You realize that, don’t

you?”

“You do what you have to do, Horace,” she replied, not bothering to look at him. “You just do what you have to.”

And then she left.

The shakes hit her when she was halfway home, and she had to pull off to the side of the busy road before her jumped-up reflexes got her into an accident.

The little voice that had taken up residence inside her head was screaming for her to turn the car around, go back to Johnson’s office, rip his spine out

through his throat, and beat him to death with it. The more sensible, more rational part of her mind diffidently reminded her that she wouldn’t be much

good to either herself or Cat from Death Row. The team’s need for her wasn’t even mentioned.

That part was hard to hear for the blood of anger driving through her veins and pounding at her eardrums, giving her a headache that would drop Shaquille

O’Neal at a hundred paces. Clenching her fists and jaw only increased the adrenaline-fueled tremors, so, with great strength of will, she forced herself to

completely relax, allowing her head to drop back against the padded headrest and closing her eyes.

Digging into her pocket, she brought out her small cellphone. One button pressed, and she held it up to her ear, waiting for the annoying ringing to be

replaced by a human voice. “Mac, it’s Dylan.”

“Yo, D! Long time, no talk!” His voice was staticy and crackly on the line. “Where are—wait, aren’t you supposed to be at the big bull meeting?”

“Yeah.”

“What, did it end early or something?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She drew the pads of her thumb and index finger over the tight band of muscle between and above her eyes, seeking to work

out the headache before it consumed her.

“Define that, please.” Mac’s voice went deep and somber. “Did something happen?”

“I need you to do me a favor, Mac.”

“Wait. Hold up, here, big D. What the hell happened?”

“I suspect you’ll be hearing all about it soon enough, Mac. Let’s just say I almost popped the little prick’s head off and leave it at that, hmm?”

Absolute silence at the other end. Not even the static pulses dared to intrude.

Then, “Jesus Christ,” blown out on a breath of air. “Please tell me you’re speaking metaphorically, Dylan.”

“Look, I really don’t have time for this, Mac.”

“Make time, Dylan. Tell me what’s going on! Please!”

“Not now, Mac. I can’t. Like I said, you’ll probably hear about it soon anyway.”

“But—.”

“I need your help. Please.”

Another silence on the line, this one so long that Dylan came within a hairsbreadth of simply hanging up and dealing with things on her own.

“What do you need.” Mac’s voice was resigned, but steady.

Taking in a deep breath, she began to tell him.

The scent of home struck her as she walked through the door that Cat held open for her. Stopping in the entryway, she closed her eyes and breathed deep,

letting the cherished smells calm her from the inside where she needed it most.

A hand on her arm caused her to open her eyes, and, reaching out, she gathered Cat in and held her closely, tightly, against her, resting her cheek atop the

fair hair. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Cat murmured, listening to her lover’s racing heart beneath the thin cotton shirt she wore. She slowly pulled back enough to

stare into the pale face and haunted eyes of her lover. “What’s wrong, Dylan?”

“It’s…alright.”

“Hon, you’re as pale as a ghost and your heart is racing a mile a minute.” Her expression sobered as a scowl drew down her brows. “It’s Johnson, isn’t it.”

With a sigh, Dylan released Cat and nodded. “Yeah.”

“That bastard. What the hell is it this time?! Is he blackmailing you again??”

“He tried to,” Dylan admitted, walked over to the couch and slumped gracelessly down into it, hands splayed out limply between her thighs. “I refused.” I

almost tore his fucking head off too, she thought wryly, deciding not to mention that little tidbit to her bristling partner. That, and a few other things, I

think. For now, at least. Until I’m sure, one way or the other.

Cat stared at her, hands on hips, green eyes angry and blazing, and one eyebrow cocked in silent query.

Dylan sighed again. “Some jackass photographer from one of those weekly gossip rags caught us on the beach sometime last week. They sent him a mockup of the front page. He showed it to me.”

“Jesus Christ!” Cat exploded, dropping her arms and beginning to pace. “Why can’t that fucking asshole just leave us alone?? Are we bothering anyone?