by Alex Lidell
Cullen didn’t know, and for the first time, that bothered him. Not your circus, not your monkeys, he told himself firmly and laid the folio back on his desk. “How’s the arm?”
“Fine. It would’ve been just as fine if you hadn’t stitched it up.”
Cullen grunted at him. Then paused, frowning at his friend. Eli had the best business instincts of anyone Cullen knew. “Tell me something. If Skylar Reynolds showed up at Mason Pharmaceuticals, would you offer her a position?”
He knew he’d fucked up the second the words left his mouth.
Eli waggled his eyebrows, grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
“Don’t tell me which positions you could think of for her, shithead. Would you hire her or not?”
Eli’s face straightened. “I would.”
For some godforsaken reason, the idea of Eli getting Sky made a jolt of red-hot jealousy flare through Cullen.
5
Cullen
Cullen told Eli to go to Kyan’s without him, especially once he heard that Adrianna Peterson—Bar Peterson’s widow—was going to stop by as well. Cullen loved Adrianna like a sister, but between her and Eli, Kyan was going to be overwhelmed by the amount of company as it was. Once a child model and actor, Kyan came back from the service with burns on a good part of his body and a big-ass gap in his soul for failing to save Bar. They’d been in the same mortar assault.
It was an absurd thing for Kyan to blame himself for, but some wounds didn’t follow logic.
Plus, Cullen needed to talk to Adrianna alone about all the problems her former brother-in-law, Frank Peterson, was causing in terms of collecting Bar’s benefits. Yes, that same Frank Peterson who now had Skylar Reynolds on his payroll. Cullen’s gaze touched Reynolds’s portfolio again. Closing the folder, he slipped it into the reject pile—neatly this time. He didn’t want to hire Sky. He didn’t, and though he could appreciate Eli’s and Catherine’s opinions, he didn’t agree with them. When Catherine came in on Monday, he’d have her set up more interviews. It’d be as simple as that.
Outside the window, the evening was sliding toward darkness, Cullen’s Rolex confirming that late hour. He’d be the last one out this Friday, which was how he liked it. A commander should be the last one out.
His mind on food, Cullen stepped into the parking lot. The earlier storm had passed, but it rained still, and the long lot was empty except for his own truck and a rusted-out Toyota Corolla that looked like it’d fallen off a tow truck on the way to a junkyard. Cullen had worked on a few vehicles in his twenty-eight years—including his current Ford F-450 Super Duty Platinum Crew Cab, which he tricked out like an overzealous teenager—but the Corolla in question wasn’t vintage, it was just crap. Crap that needed to get towed from his lot.
Pulling his phone out of his back pocket, Cullen searched for the tow number as he made his way to the intruding vehicle, only to realize it wasn’t empty.
Walking to the driver’s side window, which for some godforsaken reason was tinted, Cullen rapped hard on the glass.
“What?” The woman sounded familiar. The window lowered, and Cullen’s blood pressure jumped two dozen points.
Skylar Reynolds. On a fucking stakeout in his lot.
“Which part of get the hell out of my business are you having trouble with, Reynolds?” Cullen’s demand came out like a growl.
“The part where the key makes the car start,” she snapped, her eyes flashing with a fury to match his own. Her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. She started cranking the handle to raise the window back up.
Cullen stuck his fist in the opening.
She glowered up at him. “What do you want?”
“In general, you out of my life. At the moment, you out of my parking lot. What’s wrong with the car?”
Reynolds swallowed, the slight trembling of her hands betraying the effort it was taking to keep herself together. Either that, or she was a good actress. “I told you. It won’t start.”
“That a symptom, not a diagnosis, Skylar.” It was the first time Cullen used her first name, and he wasn’t sure why he did it. Didn’t want to think about it either. “Open the hood.”
After shaking her head and throwing up her hands, Skylar leaned over to comply. Pulling off his Armani jacket, Cullen rolled up his sleeves and scrutinized the inner workings of her car, the rain battering against his shirt. The engine compartment was filthy and appeared as if it hadn’t received the proper maintenance. Then he caught sight of the culprit—one of the clamps that attached to the battery had come completely loose. There was obvious corrosion there too.
Yanking out his pocket square, Cullen wiped down the terminal and reattached the cable to the battery, then did the same to the second terminal. Head still under the hood, Cullen yelled out, “Try her now.”
He heard Skylar turn her ignition, and the car sputtered to life. Craning his neck, Cullen checked the girl’s expression, the relief washing over her features too open and sincere to be faked. Something warm hit the region of his solar plexus, and disturbed by this, Cullen ducked back under the hood for a final look. Taking his time, he stood back, wiping his hands on the little bit of clean space remaining on his pocket square before lowering the hood.
“You aren’t maintaining your car,” Cullen said, more gruffly than he’d intended. “If you don’t want this happening again, you’ll need to take it back to where you bought it.” Or to the junkyard.
Skylar’s smile drained away. “Yeah. I’m on that.”
Cullen’s brows narrowed. “Where did you get this…relic of automotive history?”
“A farmer guy right outside New York.” Skylar’s nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of some horrible smell before her face closed again. “But I appreciate your help. How much do I owe you?”
Cullen studied her. Not only did she have a look of distaste wreathing her features, her posture had grown rigid, and her fingers clutched her steering wheel so fiercely that her knuckles were white. She had her pride, he’d give her that. Pride and no money, though Cullen believed she’d empty her wallet to try to fill whatever bill he came up with. Though the thought had never crossed his mind, the fact that Skylar expected nothing from him was a rather nice change of pace from how the rest of the world usually operated.
“I’m not a mechanic. And if I were, you couldn’t afford me.” Cullen jerked his chin toward the road. “Drive safe. And in a direction away from me, please.”
“Don’t.” The word escaped through Skylar’s clenched teeth, her nostrils flaring as she drew a slow breath before glaring at Cullen through the still-open window. Her bloodshot eyes bored into his like twin flames, her expression resentful. “I don’t want your handout, Cullen. And I want to owe you anything even less. You fixed my damn car. If you don’t know what to charge, have the Barbie doll at your front desk draw up a bill.”
“I’ll pass your compliments on to Rachel,” Cullen muttered, tilting his head as he regarded the little strawberry-blonde spitfire for a long moment. Cullen was no fool, and it didn’t take a genius to add up two and two and get four—even a marine could do it. Whatever else was going on with Skylar, she hadn’t been kidding about needing money. And Cullen knew Frank Peterson well enough to know the bastard would do everything to ensure Skylar was barely on life support—just enough to make leaving scary and not a penny more.
When Cullen thought about it that way, loosening Frank Peterson’s control over an overzealous reporter wasn’t that bad an idea.
“You can work it off.” Cullen raised his hand as he saw Skylar’s eyes open in indignation. “At Trident Rescue, Reynolds. Office manager and glorified dispatcher. Trial basis.”
“Seriously?” she asked. “You’re hiring me?”
Cullen ran his hand through his hair, sending droplets of rain down his shirt. “Why not? You’ll probably quit before the month is up anyway.” He didn’t know whether he added that last bit as a brazen challenge to the woman or a soothing prediction to himself.
6
Sky
“Fetch me some coffee before you leave, sweetheart,” Frank calls from his office as I’m already reaching for the door handle.
I open my mouth to tell him off, but the image of trading my basement apartment for a cardboard box halts my tongue. More to the point—I want to be a journalist. And right now, being blackballed everywhere thanks to Jaden and the assholes at the United States Navy press office, Frank is my only chance at that. Only an idiot gives up on her dreams over a cup of coffee.
Letting go of the door handle, I go into our stinky break room—for some reason, the place reeks of onions all the time—and try to start the coffeepot. Only, that pot is some sort of weird French press contraption that’s holding on to the liquid like a momma bear. By the time I work out how to coax coffee from it, I’m wearing a large stain and running late again.
Frank takes one sniff and pours it out into the trash, but at least he doesn’t shout obscenities into my face.
I shake my head. Being around military vets with anger issues has plainly warped my view of acceptable behavior.
After a quick hop to my apartment to change, I set my phone’s GPS to the address Catherine sent me this morning and hope Cullen Hunt himself isn’t planning on welcoming me to the office in person. My watch beeps at the late hour, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Bad start. Maybe I should just have come wearing coffee. It’s not like anyone sees a dispatcher.
Unless Cullen is there today.
It doesn’t help my jitters at all to remember that last night’s dreams all starred Cullen Hunt. It started out with him demeaning me, then altered to some bizarre episode where we hid together beneath the hood of my Corolla. Then he stared at me with those cool green eyes until my body started to ache. My palms had grazed the light stubble along his chin and traced the lines of his muscular body, even though his gaze never softened toward me.
I woke with my breasts feeling heavy and my panties soaked through with desire. I had to take a shower just to cool down. This isn’t how I really feel about him, so I don’t know why my body isn’t receiving that message. Cullen Hunt may be sex on a stick, but his shitty personality is more than enough to ward off any wayward cravings I might entertain about him. The bastard is antagonistic, short-tempered, and a bully.
His one moment of helpfulness notwithstanding.
Maybe that’s why Cullen’s image wove itself through my nighttime subconscious. When I gazed up at him, standing there with his ruined pocket handkerchief, grease all over those thick square fingers, and corded muscles filling out his once-white shirt, it’d done something to me.
It’s not called something, Sky. It’s called stupid.
I blow out a long breath. The Cullen I saw yesterday was a mirage version of him. Jaden and my father had these mirage moments too. I think it’s something the military trains into them, a way of showing one thing on the outside while being anything but that in reality.
Jaden could be nice too. Flowers, fancy dinners on the Hudson River, the lights of New York City’s many lit bridges right there within view. Getting me an interview—and then a job—at one of the top papers right after college. Showing me the ropes of journalism. I’d fallen for who I thought he was, hook, line, and sinker.
And then came Fleet Week, Jaden’s marine buddies, and his true colors. Now I am here working for Denton Uncovered and being grateful for the opportunity. Yeah.
Maybe I should be grateful that Cullen has shown me his true colors already, and more than once. A lone instance of decency does not a good man make. That’s not how it works.
Pulling into the parking lot of Trident Rescue’s single-story brick building that reminds me of a much smaller Urgent Care unit, I shut off my car and straighten my silky blouse—even if it’s made of polyester—and simple tan slacks.
Pushing through a pair of wide double doors, I find no obvious direction to go in. “Hello? Catherine? Is anybody here?”
Silence greets me.
Walking slowly through the building, I discover a collection of treatment rooms with all the customary medical paraphernalia, as well as an office with a landline, a police scanner, and a complicated-looking radio setup. The last third of the building houses a garage, with one wall dedicated to every piece of rescue gear imaginable. Being a climber myself, I only recognize the rock-climbing equipment, but given the bright orange colors over everything else, I get the general gist. Both the Suburban I saw Cullen using for fast response and a more traditional ambulance are parked inside, gleaming from a fresh wash.
For a moment, I imagine Cullen standing there with a hose, cleaning the car. The image is as delicious as it’s absurd.
So the vehicles are here, but without any employees? Odd.
I’m right in front of the main double doors, about to call out again, when they whoosh open, mowing me over. I tumble to the floor, landing hard on my right side.
“What are you doing down there?” demands a familiar baritone. Cullen Hunt, of course.
“You knocked me over,” I inform him.
Cullen grabs my wrist and pulls me up. I anticipate a jerk forceful enough to dislocate my shoulder—the man’s muscles seem not constructed for anything but excessive force—but Cullen’s surprisingly gentle as he brings me to my feet. An intangible sizzle races through me, pulsating from where our skin touches, Cullen’s features a mix of concern and heat.
Then Cullen lets go, and it all vanishes. His features return to that familiar stoniness so swiftly that I wonder if the rest of it happened at all.
“Where is everybody?” I ask.
“You are everybody,” Cullen informs me. He’s wearing another business suit, this time a charcoal gray that highlights his blond hair and green eyes. “Hence, everybody is bloody late.”
“I—”
“You’re an irresponsible twenty-two-year-old who can’t get herself on time to an interview, a job, or a car maintenance schedule,” says Cullen.
“I’m twenty-three—”
“I stand corrected on that point.”
I snap my mouth shut.
Not missing a beat, Cullen jerks his chin toward the end of the hall. “I need more coffee to deal with you. Make some. Break room’s the last door on the left.” Without waiting for a response, the man turns on his heel and walks in the opposite direction.
What in the ever-loving fuck is happening today?
I don’t make the bastard coffee, sitting down instead at what I presume is the main dispatch desk—though the stacks of inventory, bills, and patient records piled around the computer make it seem multipurpose. Picking up the top page of a very, very neat pile, I find myself holding an overdue bill. For $15.22, with another $35 in late payment penalty.
“You know, laying your bills parallel to each other doesn’t actually get them paid,” I yell into the void.
“So I’ve been told.” Cullen reappears from one of the exam rooms, this time in his Trident Rescue uniform.
I stare for a few seconds before I can stop myself, unable to make up my mind about which is better, the suit or blue Under Armour. Then I snap myself out of it. It doesn’t matter which is better. It doesn’t matter how hot the man is. He’s an asshole, and I hate him.
“Where’s the coffee?” he asks.
“I’ve been told it’s in the break room. Last door on the left.”
A corner of Cullen’s mouth quirks up.
Snatching my attention back, I pull the second sheet from a stack. A paid bill for once, except what idiot buys Band-Aids at a dollar apiece? Glancing down to the bottom of the sheet, I discover the thing’s been on autopayments, which is probably why no one notices. “Where is the common sense?”
“On back order.” Cullen snatches the bill from my hand, frowns as he takes in the information, and puts it neatly right back on the top of the file. “Like I said earlier, most of the Rescue’s ‘dispatcher’ duties are administrative. Denton EMS does the 911 intake. When one of the
Rescue medics is on duty, Denton passes us the remote call-outs and trauma. You are our lifeline to Denton, the hospital, and any other resources. Catherine will cover the admin with you.” Cullen tosses a three-ring binder onto the desk in front of me. “Procedures manual to read at your leisure. That means now. If the phone rings, answer it.”
I inhale Cullen’s clean, spicy scent, resenting how delicious he smells, and run my fingers over the front pages of the binder. Having expected to find a rag-tag collection of outdated internet printouts that make up most places’ onboarding manuals, I’m surprised to find custom pages with dated notes, some as recent as this week. A living document. “How do I know who’s on duty?”
“Email.”
All righty, then. I raise my hand, and Cullen, who has now condescended to face me, rolls his eyes.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in a fancy office running hospitals instead of playing medic here?” I ask.
Cullen’s face darkens. “Any questions that have anything at all to do with your job?”
I hold up the binder he gave me. “I’ll tell you once I’m done reading. I’m good, not telepathic.”
“I take it your car is running.” Cullen changes the subject, dropping into a free chair and taking out his phone.
This isn’t a question, but I answer it anyway. “Yes.”
“The only issue was a loose terminal cable,” Cullen says, his attention on whatever he’s doing on screen. “If you’d ever bothered to peek under the hood, you would’ve found it yourself.”
His tone is accusatory, and I feel, well…accused.
“It’s irresponsible to drive a car and not know how it works,” Cullen continues.
“It’s irresponsible to speak to humans and not know common courtesy,” I snap back. “Yet I don’t see that stopping you any.”
Cullen lowers his phone, his attention shifting fully back to me as he weighs me with his gaze. Instead of being offended, I get a strange sensation that the man is pleased with my reply. Or rather, that he’s pleased to have gotten under my skin. As if he’s trying to make up for that hint of a smile he gave me earlier, to make it really, really clear we aren’t friends and never will be.