"Well?" she prompts, gnawing at her bottom lip. Her lips are my Achilles heel, and the smooth way her voice slips from between them might as well be a hand wrapping around…
For fuck's sake.
I cut off my thoughts, but they spill out of my mouth when I respond with words rooted more in the desire to see her again than anything else.
"I'll show you more. Soon. As my schedule allows."
The corners of her lips turn up slightly in silent thanks, but her eyes convey reservation. Question whether I can really be trusted, if anyone can. She moves up the steps and through the front door of the house. I wait until she is inside and even then, I don't move. I take in the surrounding area through my windshield. It's quiet. And dark. Orange glows of curtained windows the only indication of inhabitants in the nearby houses. It appears safe here. Ideal, even. There's no one in the cars parked nearby. No one outside.
Strange.
There's a very distinct prickle on the back of my neck, one that makes me get out of my car just to check around more clearly.
Nothing.
Raindrops begin to fall, creating a soft tapping sound against the car's windshield. I get back into my car and fight the urge to ring Amelia's doorbell, just to make sure she's all right. But just as I consider this, a light turns on in the second floor of the house and her silhouette becomes visible from behind the curtains. She moves closer to the window and parts the curtains. Seeing me still parked up front, she lifts a hand in signal.
I lift my own hand in goodbye and she disappears behind blinds that drop over the window. There's no reason to remain on this dark, empty street. Other than the vague impression of a pair of eyes on me, somewhere.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Amelia
NO MATTER HOW MUCH I want it to, my brain won't shut off. I toss and turn, squeeze my eyes shut. But I can't sleep. My thoughts race and the world grows light around me, and Friday is just a blur before night falls again. Emily texts me Saturday night, hinting at wanting to come over, but I don't want her to walk into the scene in my bedroom.
I sit on top of the papers scattered across the floor. My hair's a mess, a cup of coffee glued to my hand. My eyes scan pages upon pages of information. I couldn't stop thinking about what Reed said the other night. About Chief Sterling trying to ruin him. I dug up everything I could on the retiring chief of police, my printer churning non-stop until it runs out of ink. Even after I replace the cartridge, the machine refuses to work for thirty more minutes.
My curiosity led me to pull on one loose thread and so much information fell into my lap, I'm forced to spend all weekend making sense of it. That's how it happens. Every story, every new piece of information is a rabbit hole. I follow the trail all the way to a mention of Lieutenant Sebastian Reed being the subject of an ongoing investigation for misconduct.
I stare at the word misconduct for several long seconds, then rub my tired eyes, take another swig of coffee and look for more threads to pull on. I tug a little harder and find a few local papers had picked up the story last summer, including my own, but it all flew past my peripheral. It was nothing I took interest in, but I hadn't known Reed then.
Criminal charges were filed against him. Charges of assault. This word I stare at the longest. Worry coating the walls of my chest.
He was dragged through the mud in the press after using excessive force when intervening in a domestic dispute. The story died out quickly enough once the charges were dropped, and no one seemed at all concerned about the victim, who witnesses claim had been in the process of assaulting a woman before Reed interceded.
Still, the man's injuries seemed excessive enough to spark the demand for an internal probe, especially after the incident became a lawsuit against the city. More digging gives me hints of what Reed meant when he said Chief Sterling is trying to ruin him. The chief of police wasn't exactly on the side of his officer. All of the public statements I read make it sound as if he threw Reed under the bus from the moment the allegations surfaced.
Reed was immediately suspended, without pay, and a public apology was issued on his behalf. But when the DA dropped the criminal charges, Reed was allowed to return to active duty, pay docked pending an internal investigation.
It's been going on for over a year.
I go to bed Sunday night, unable to think of anything but Reed. He is, by all appearances, the most deliberate and controlled man I've ever come across. What would bring him to mishandle a situation with excessive force?
I spent hours alone with this man, in close proximity. Never once did I feel threatened by him.
Sleep eludes me. I'm certain I missed something. There's more to the story. I know better than anyone a story is only the tip of the iceberg.
Monday morning rolls in as ungracefully as a jagged boulder. I drag myself out of bed and almost forget I have to call a cab to take me to work.
Dale's reading the newspaper at his station. When I reach my desk, I'm so damn tired I dare a peek at the sinister cup of coffee sitting there. I don't drink it, of course, tossing it into the trash along with the other items.
The notes have been empty ever since the last one about my bruises being beautiful.
No. It said bruised roses were beautiful.
Am I supposed to be the rose?
My stomach turns at the thought.
The mayor has one of my coworkers leaving these. How else could someone come in and out, place these here, without raising suspicion? That person is here, right now possibly, watching for my reaction. My money is on Caleb. Whatever the original intention of the gifts, there's no doubt they've evolved into an intimidation tactic.
And the notes being blank? I don't know what it means, but it means something, and seeing the absence of a message scares me more than anything.
The fear seeps between the walls I've erected within myself. I'm trying to shut myself off to it all because I can't afford to have another meltdown the way I did last week. My best line of defense is to plow forward, to show I'm not afraid. To show I won't shrink away or allow anyone to manipulate me through fear.
I work on my stories and keep my head down. Not trusting anyone around me any more than I ever did, but certainly less than ever. I force down lunch because the ache in the pit of my belly warns of hunger that otherwise I'm only vaguely aware of.
On my way out of the break room, I nearly collide with Duncan, who's turning the corner toward his office.
"You're done with lunch? Good," he says, "I need to see you in my office."
He continues on down the hall, back into the newsroom and toward his office. I follow behind, aware of eyes snapping up in my direction all around, though they seem to immediately look away the moment I take notice.
Nerves turn my stomach over and I regret the lunch I didn't even enjoy to begin with.
Duncan settles behind his desk, and I don't presume to need to take a seat because he never takes long.
"Do you know what this is?" he asks, pushing a small stack of papers toward me.
"My piece on the transportation strike."
A glance down at the text brings me face-to-face with black text riddled with hand scribbled notes. Duncan insists on leaving his notes by hand but I've never seen a page with so many on it. There's more red than black on the page. And that's just the first two paragraphs.
"This is shit," he says plainly.
I admit, I couldn't bring myself to truly care about the impending transportation strike, but I tried to write an engaging story. And though I knew it wasn't my best work, I certainly didn't think it was shit.
"I'll fix it."
I go to lift the pages, but Duncan's hands snatch them up again. He taps the papers against the desk to straighten them then sets them aside.
"No need. I have someone working on something to replace it. I want you to do a piece on the construction of the pedestrian walkway at Balboa Park."
"I—" The single syllable echoes from my lips, as I need a moment t
o recover from him handing me a fluff piece. "I can fix the strike story. I can—"
"Amelia," he says, in warning. "We missed our window to report this. We're moving on. The story is dead."
I press my lips together, and turn from him before he can see the cracks in my expression. It's not the story I'm worried about.
It's my career. My life. My sanity.
Everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Amelia
I CAN'T SEEM TO leave work before darkness claims the sky. The fact that I can stand in front of the security desk, under the brightly illuminated front of the building, and wait for my cab is the only consolation.
When I make it to Trident MMA studio, it's nearly seven. The front door is open, the gym well lit, but no one is inside. For a moment I think Reed forgot about our session, but just as I think this, a door toward the back of the gym opens and he emerges.
He's dressed so casually in a gray t-shirt and black sweatpants, neither of which hangs carelessly from his frame the way those types of clothes tend to do on anyone else. No. The t-shirt seems tailored to spread across his chest. Even from a distance, I can tell the seams run perfectly along his shoulders, the sleeves ending mid-bicep, hugging them.
"You're here," I say. "I thought you forgot."
"Forget you? I would never."
His eyes flash with amusement, but he doesn't allow himself to fully smile. He seems much more relaxed when he's out of his suit.
"I've never needed to hit something more than I do today."
My voice echoes in the empty space between us, bringing more awareness to the fact that we are alone again.
"Are you ready?" he asks. "For our first real lesson?"
"Did last time not count?"
"I'm going to test you," he says, "push your limits. The goal is to get your reactions to the point where they are instinct and no thought is involved."
He runs me through the moves. Each defensive move is immediately followed up by an offensive move. He teaches me how to wedge space between myself and an attacker, and how to turn that space into a tactical advantage to inflict damage in return.
I stand before him distracted, pulled in a dozen directions. Would he be upset if he knew the information I dug up about him? It's eating away at the back of my mind.
This man was accused of an assault. Yet, here I am, alone with him. Letting him simulate attacks so I can practice defending myself.
Me. Someone who jumps at shadows these days. And everything about Reed is large and imposing, and yet none of it makes me feel unsafe.
Am I being stupid?
There was a time I could trust my instincts. A time I could home in on the low hum of a warning and make my decisions accordingly.
But the attack broke my compass, broke my gut, and today, the one-week anniversary of the event, I'm not sure about anything.
Distracted, I lose my footing and stumble too close to Reed, one too many times. And when he grips my hips to steady me, my pulse beats solely in the places he touches. It's like my body craves contact with his.
"All right," he says, straightening and removing his hands from my waist. "You're distracted. What's going on?"
My skin is flushed and tingling in all of the places he's touched me.
It's clear what the distraction is. It's him. He's making it hard to breathe, hard to think. And now he's staring at me with his gorgeous eyes and I'm willing myself to not show signs of how much he affects me. I can't deny my attraction to him and I'm overcome with the desire for him to tug me even slightly across the line he's so clearly drawn on the ground.
I will myself to remember I'm here for a reason, and climbing on top of this insanely attractive man shouldn't be my top priority. It's not just about my story, either. What Reed and I are doing here isn't theoretical. I may very well come to need these moves one day.
I wipe at my forehead and think of where to start.
"I know about the charges, about the investigation. About how Chief Sterling threw you under the bus."
He lets this settle before he responds.
"I see."
I wait, but he doesn't seem to feel the need to continue.
"That's it?" I ask.
Turning from me, he heads to where two water bottles sit on the floor. He hands me one and says, "It's public record, Amelia. If you're asking me, I'm sure you've already got all the details."
"I've got the details, but I'm interested in the truth."
"You're a journalist, I'm a detective." He pauses to take a sip of water. "You and I are on different sides of the truth."
"That's not true. And anyway, the truth doesn't have just two sides."
"How many sides does it have, then?"
"Countless. You work in journalism long enough, you come to realize there's no limit to the angles you can write a story from while still technically telling the truth. The truth is a prism, reflecting back on itself. We can only handle one facet at a time."
He lifts the bottle back to his mouth, but lowers it before he can take another sip. "The short version? I got in the middle of a domestic dispute—"
"That's what I don't understand. Why were you responding to a domestic call?"
"The call didn't come through dispatch. She was a student of mine."
I press the water bottle closer to my chest, my mouth falling open. This detail wasn't in any of the articles I read. Might not have been leaked to the press, or it might have been intentionally omitted because it didn't fit the angle of the stories.
Reed goes on, tightening the lid of his bottle as he speaks. "She dropped out of the classes, seemed so twitchy and scared that day. I couldn't shake the feeling she was in trouble, so I dug up the address she provided to the gym and drove by to check on things. She and her husband were on the porch. He was drunk. They were having a heated argument, so I approached them to diffuse the situation. When he saw me—he recognized me, somehow—he thought she called me and went to drive his fist into her face, right in front of me. I only meant to grab his arm, but next thing I knew, he was sprawled out on their front deck. A lot can happen in a split second."
I don't doubt it. The man had broken bones and dislocated joints, according to the reports. But picturing the scene, I can imagine how much tension was woven into every millisecond of the encounter. There still seems to be something missing from the story, context to glue the pieces together of why he lost control.
"You said she was married. But, were you two…?"
"No. We weren't involved."
"I'm sorry, it's not my place to ask."
"No, I'm glad you did. But there you have it, one facet of the truth."
"You still haven't told me why. Why did Chief Sterling side with the other guy? Was it a political decision?"
"A political decision?"
"I read up on it. The Thatcher Organization has dozens of city contracts. This lawsuit seems like a huge conflict of interest. And it appears as though the city would have more to lose by standing beside you."
"Is that what your story is about?"
I hesitate, cringing internally at using this card to get what I want.
"Take me to the party, Reed."
"Why should I?"
"Because no one should get away with abusing their power."
Looking past me, he rubs his jaw for a long moment.
"Fine. Thursday night. I'll pick you up at seven. Now, can we get back to it?"
We restart our session, but the conversation lingers around us. As the tension of the topic melts away, I wonder what he's thinking. He gives me no hints. I suppose we're allies now, but in the weakest sense of the word. He doesn't trust me and I'm lying to him.
But we work so well together when we train. He's a patient instructor, detailing exactly what is going to happen before closing the space between our bodies. It's pathetic how starved I am that just a simple touch sparks a thirst in me to drown in more. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd test me, though it's
in ways he may not realize.
I'm caught off guard when he wraps an arm across my chest and prompts me to do as instructed. I'm grateful he can't see the way my skin flushes, the slow and shaky way I draw in a breath. It's hard to pretend to feel threatened or alarmed when warmth spreads through me and I'm wishing he wasn't so careful not to press his lower body to mine.
"Place your left foot behind my right leg," he reminds me. "It will turn your body just enough to wedge space."
I do as he says and forcibly turn against his hold. As soon as I do, I forget the next step and end up face to face with him. He stiffens, staring right at my mouth for several seconds before dropping his arms.
"Sorry," I blurt out.
We're slow to part, and I'm satisfied to find his eyes aren't as sharp as they typically are. There's a haziness to them tonight, matching the fog drifting over me.
I want him. And I think maybe he wants me, too.
Except, I'm almost certain he'd pull away if I reached out.
He's intent on staying just out of my reach.
Focus.
"The gifts," he says suddenly, clearing his throat. "Have they stopped?"
"Well, Detective," I let my sarcastic inflection shed light on my opinion he hasn't done his job where my case is concerned, "they haven't. The notes are blank now. I'm pretty sure someone at my job is messing with me."
"Messing with you how?" He continues his instruction without warning, executing a move we practiced earlier in the night, lunging toward me and taking hold of my shoulders. I have to think of what to do next, but that second before I react is too much for Reed. He releases me. "Stop thinking. Move."
"Someone's—" I start to say when he grabs my shoulders again.
I bring my arms around and push my elbows into the fold of his arms, breaking his hold, and imitate kneeing him in the stomach. When he keels over, I mimic elbowing him in the back and push his head down onto the ground. I know he's making it easy for me, because the goal right now is for me to memorize the movements, not necessarily to use strenuous force. Still, he's a big guy and this is a workout for me, beads of sweat are forming on my temple.
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