Reckless Touch

by Veronica Larsen

  Her description of the hallucinations induced by sleep debt is something I've seen in torture victims. It's hard to wrap my head around her doing this to herself for a story, sacrificing herself for journalism even before it was her job. Could she be in danger of putting herself in a similar situation this time around? She's clearly not sleeping enough.

  It doesn't matter if her fears are based on intangible things. It doesn't matter if she's afraid of her own shadow or elusive smoke. She's afraid. That much is real. She believes she's in danger, wholeheartedly. I want to do everything possible to bring her a sense of safety, if only because that keeps her close to me. If only because she came to me instead of going to the station. She trusts me. Or at least, she wants to trust me.

  When I return to the living room, Amelia's curled up in a ball on my couch, eyes closed and face relaxed, fast asleep. She looks so peaceful, all traces of hesitancy, suspicion, or fear gone. I'm left no other choice but to stare. The sight of her nearly knocks the breath out of me. She's at her absolute purest form, brand new, and unlike any time I've seen her before.

  I'm not waking her up. Especially not after what she told me. And there's no way in hell I'm going to let anything happen to her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Amelia

  I'M COMPELLED TO WAKE despite having to stir out of a sleep that wants to swallow me whole. The brightness around me is disorienting, even more jarring since my apartment is typically dim. I jolt upright and my panic comes to a swift halt when I remember I fell asleep…right here. I'm on Reed's couch. Except there's a pillow behind my head and a blanket laid over me. The events of last night come back to me. I cracked a little and he held me in place with his hands.

  A second round of alarm hits me and I check my watch in a hurry. I've got to be at work in an hour. I push the covers away and set my feet on the hardwood floors. It's quiet. The living room is empty. So is the kitchen. Last night, I didn't truly appreciate how open this place is, how large.

  "Reed?" I call out.

  The doors leading to what I assume to be bedrooms are closed. His kitchen looks like the type that is barely used. He's just very clean. Likes things tidy. The bare countertops make it easy for me to spot the note he left.

  I've got an early day. Looking into some things and opening a new case on your assault. Hope you got some rest. Stay as long as you need.

  Reed.

  PS. Tried to move you to a bed, but you kept fighting me off in your sleep.

  I rub my eyes and glance around, not having a clue where my clothes are, the ones I wore last night. These borrowed clothes will have to do. I find my shoes, tucked in a shoe shelf in the closet and my purse, hanging in that same closet. I resist the urge to search through my purse again, as though the mysterious printed note will have materialized into my possession overnight. Or that the daylight would allow me insight that I didn't have in the dark.

  Still, reaching into my purse for my phone, I can plainly see there is no paper inside. I call a cab then make my way down from Reed's place.

  The whole way, I scan the stairs and the floor of the hall for signs of a discarded sheet of paper, but find nothing. My purse strap cuts into my shoulder, the heaviness of the gun it conceals keeping me alert.

  At the end of the hall, I crack open the door and hesitate at the sounds that pour out. There are people in the studio. A small group of women, and the instructor I saw my first time here.

  I shut the door again.

  I've yet to shower and my bed-head is obvious. It would be beyond inappropriate to walk through the studio to get to the front doors. The last thing I want to do is compromise the reputation of Reed's studio.

  I look over my shoulder in hopes of finding an alternate escape route. I'm relieved to see a door at the other end of the hall, sunlight making its small windowpane glow.

  When the cab pulls up in front of my apartment, I pay, but falter before getting out. The driver looks at me in the rearview, waiting.

  "You all right, Miss?"

  "Yes, could you wait for me? I'll be down again in just a few minutes."

  The man shrugs.

  I mumble my thanks and push out of the car. Broad daylight should offer me peace of mind. But halfway up my front steps, I turn to look across the street, wondering where someone had taken that picture.

  As I make my way down my building's hall, one of the downstairs apartment doors creaks open. Mrs. Lowery peeks out in her bright pink nightgown. I can tell she doesn't mean for me to see her. I know this because of the way she hesitates before opening the door a little farther.

  "You all right, dear?" she asks.

  "I'm fine," I say, realizing I didn't check on her all last week. She's a little nosy at times, but she's all alone in the whole world and sweet enough to have captured the concern of every tenant in the building. We all take turns running her dry cleaning and picking up her meds and groceries. She needs very little and asks for less. "How are you? Need anything? Groceries?"

  She waves me off and says, "I eat like a cat."

  I smile in acknowledgement of her joke, but that's as much energy as I can muster. She peers down the hall as I pass, probably double-checking I'm alone. Sometimes I think she's keeping tabs on me.

  I continue on up the stairs but pause for several seconds in front of my apartment door. The distinct fear of facing my own home makes me angry. Angry someone is terrorizing me, weaving fear and uncertainty into places where I should feel secure. Is terrorism a manifestation of hatred? Who could possibly hate me enough to do this to me? All my life, I've just skimmed the surface, never allowing myself to get too close to anyone, even friends.

  I step through my door, finding silence on the other side.

  Except…

  There's no specific name for the instinct, but the moment I shut the door behind me, I sense a foreign presence in my apartment. It's an awareness that rises up my limbs like a surging flood.

  I freeze, my senses focusing on my surroundings even though nothing is immediately wrong. My eyes scan my living room, finding nothing out of place.

  I slip my hand into my purse and retrieve the gun. No part of me feels the urge to run.

  I will do it. I will empty out the magazine into whoever the hell is in my house.

  I hoped I'd never have to use this gun, and in the thick silence of my apartment, I hear my father's voice.

  Right there, right at the top of the barrel, line up the towers and put your target right in the middle. Don't hesitate. Squeeze the trigger. It's you or them.

  My bedroom door is slightly open.

  Did I leave it that way?

  I take slow steps toward it, the gun a heavy slab of death and power between my fingers.

  Reaching the door, I extend my leg out and push it open with my foot in one swift movement. The door bangs against the wall behind it and reveals my bedroom, no one inside.

  I go room by room, looking for signs of someone in my place. No one is here. In fact, there is no evidence anyone ever was.

  Yet, a nagging suspicion crawls all over me.

  I don't shower. Even if I had the time, I wouldn't be able to stand the thought of being in such a vulnerable state. I do dress in a hurry and don't truly breathe again until I'm outside and find the cab still waiting to take me to work.

  When I step into the building, there's no one behind the security desk. This gives me pause, but down the hall, Dale leads a man into the server room.

  I recognize the visitor by just the glimpse I catch as he disappears into the room. Reed.

  He didn't see me, but I saw him.

  He's here.

  Relief ripples through me. I get the urge to head after them, but dismiss the thought immediately. No. I shouldn't interfere with his work. He's no doubt looking into the printer incident.

  Knowing Reed is in the building makes the prospect of facing the gifts less daunting. But I slow to a stop before I even reach my desk. Because even from across the room, it's clea
r. There are no gifts left for me today. None. Their absence is so unexpected that I'm not sure how to react. Slowly, I resume my walk to my chair. Is this good? This has to be good.

  Whoever leaves me these gifts must come right past the front and they must've seen Reed with Dale. Did they get scared off?

  It's hard to work while simultaneously sneaking glances toward the front hall, where Reed and Dale reemerge from the server room in serious conversation and head back to the security desk.

  "Is he here about your attack? I thought they caught the guy."

  Caleb.

  I turn to meet the strange gleam in his blue eyes. Apprehension with bright specks of curiosity. "Why don't you go ask him if you're so curious?"

  Caleb slips his hands into his pockets and shakes his head at me, at whatever expression he spies on my face. "Does he know? That you're unraveling? You shouldn't be working, especially not on a big story."

  Am I supposed to believe he's concerned? He's never been my friend, this guy. I just never thought he was something much worse. It's him, isn't it? The gifts. The printer? I might not know why. I might not even be putting the pieces together the right way, and there may be pieces that don't go together at all. But everything points to him being behind the gifts, at least. But everything I have is circumstantial.

  So this is the game he and I are playing. Now here he is trying to smoke me out. Why is he working with the mayor? The question doesn't plague me because tomorrow night, I will get my hands on what I need to blow this whole damn thing open. Caleb will tumble out. And I will damn well make sure there's retribution.

  My fingers move across my keyboard as I reply, without urgency. "Who says I've got a big story?"

  "Rumor mill."

  "What do you want, Caleb?" I ask him, dropping all pretenses.

  "I…"

  Caleb trails off abruptly as his sights rise to the large, intimidating presence moving toward us like an impending storm. He's dressed in his typical work attire of a dark suit and tie.

  "Reed," I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. I didn't expect him to come find me. His eyes fix on Caleb for a few seconds before they lower to mine.

  "Just want to make sure we're still on for tonight," he says, quite causally.

  Seeing the way Caleb simultaneously stands straighter and shrinks back in one awkward move makes me realize what Reed's really doing. He's here to show Caleb or whoever the hell is looking that I am not alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Amelia

  THE MOMENT WE WALK into the studio I'm overcome by an odd sense of déjà vu. There's a class in session—adults tonight—and the instructor I've only briefly spoken to greets Reed and me with a half nod.

  "Let's go upstairs," Reed says. "There're some things I need to talk to you about in private."

  I'm secretly glad Travis's class ran late. The studio isn't the same now. The vast open space is an uninviting chasm compared to what I know lies just above the ceiling.

  Reed's hand settles on the small of my back as we walk across the gym and toward the back door. The move is subtle, both protective and possessive. The ache I grapple with whenever I'm around him reawakens. I could never grow desensitized to his touch.

  We slip into the stairwell and make our way upstairs. After letting me into his apartment, Reed closes the door behind him and turns to face me.

  "Did you sleep well last night?" he asks.

  The question is simple enough, yet his concern is deep and genuine. It chips away at some of the loneliness I've been clutching close to my heart. Having a man worry about me isn't something I'm used to. Having anyone worrying about me has always been a rarity.

  "I only ever seem to sleep around you these days."

  The truth slips past my lips and leaves me naked. The moment seems to roll over him in just the right way.

  "I'm glad," he says.

  For the first time since I met him, a subtle but satisfied smile forms on his face. His features soften by a hundred degrees. The sight is somehow familiar, as though I've seen it a million times before, in another's life. Quite suddenly, the tiredness inside me is more fulfilling than exhausting.

  "I don't think I've ever seen you smile before now."

  "I'm sorry about that. There hasn't been much to smile about lately."

  "There were no gifts left on my desk today," I say. "For the first time in weeks. You coming around must've scared them off."

  Reed considers this, then says, "I've been around before. Last week when we pulled the surveillance footage," he pauses, shaking his head. "If you could even call it that. The security system is a joke..." He trails off and rubs his chin. "I'm looking into all your coworkers again. I'm missing something. I don't like how shifty some of them seem when I talk to them, especially this time around."

  "Breaking news, you're intimidating."

  This brings another smile to his lips.

  I change into my workout clothes and meet him back in his living room. He waits for me, leaning against the padded column in the corner. As I approach him, all I can think of is how badly I want to climb over him. He's got a quiet confidence emanating from every inch of him. It wraps around me, masculine energy that makes me wonder how well he could handle me in bed. The more I consider it, the thicker the air in the room becomes.

  "You said you wanted a go," he says. I blink at the suggestion in his gravelly voice, but he gestures to the column. It's smaller than the one downstairs in the gym and obviously meant for his personal use. "We can practice some of the maneuvers I showed you last time."

  Is that what he wants? To practice maneuvers?

  He's touched me before, fingers brushing the side of my face and even down to my collarbone. Tenderly. He's held himself mere inches from kissing me even while greed swam in his eyes.

  The way he does now.

  He hovers close and asks me to begin. My thoughts are hazy and my heart beats faster than usual, even before I start working against the padded surface of the column. He puts his hands on my middle, telling me to tighten my abs, telling me the best stance to drive my body weight into a strike without losing my balance.

  Distractions.

  He's one gorgeous distraction and suddenly, I can't remember why this is a bad thing. What's wrong with getting your mind off things once in a while?

  What if I kissed him?

  What would he say if I told him I wanted him?

  Would his professionalism hold up then?

  "You don't stop until your opponent is on the ground," he instructs, from somewhere behind me.

  I jab with my elbow, then with my knee, grunting as I do and picturing an assailant falling to their knees, then I kick some more. I've never before felt I belonged anywhere outside of the newsroom. I guess I've never realized how much anger I've been carrying around inside of me all of these years. It stumbles out of me whenever Reed and I train, an exorcism of my demons, of my desperate need to connect with someone, something, somehow.

  One. Two. Punch.

  "Anger doesn't help you any more than panic does," Reed says. "Learn to calm yourself, focus your energies."

  "I am focusing my energies. I'm focusing them into punching the shit out of something."

  And it feels good. It feels amazing.

  "You pack a lot of strength, for someone your size."

  I turn to look at him, surprised to find he's standing much closer than usual.

  "You know, a compliment can be left at a compliment. No need to amend it with an insult."

  Punch. Punch. Jab.

  "It wasn't an insult. You're quite the sight to behold."

  I hesitate then try to hide it by swinging my fist around with all my strength, but in my haste to connect with the sandbag, I don't brace myself and lose my footing.

  Reed's hands close over my waist from behind to steady me, and I suck in a breath. I turn my head to look at him, and even then, he doesn't release me.

  "Easy, now," he says, his brea
th warming the crook of my neck.

  The way he stares down at my lips, the way he watches them for a beat too long, makes me think he's resisting the urge to close the gap between our mouths.

  "Enough of the punching bag," he says, finally dropping his hands. "Let's try those moves on something that can strike back."

  Am I crazy to think he's really looking for a legitimate reason for our bodies to touch? Because that's what I want, too. My attraction to him has been vibrating through me from the moment I laid eyes on him, just underneath the whirlwind of circumstances that brought us here in the first place. But tonight? I've never been more hyper-aware of how my body reacts to him.

  We start going through the moves, he feigns jabs and I practice blocking them. He makes me repeat the same move over and over again.

  "Tomorrow night, are you hoping someone at the party will let some information slip about the chief? I'm interested to know how you dig up your stories."

  I keep my eyes from connecting with his. I know he can sense I'm not telling him the whole truth, but it seems he believes the part about my story being on the chief. Could it be? What will I uncover on the retiring chief in the midst of pursuing my exposé on the mayor?

  For a wild moment, I want to tell Reed of my true plans to break into the mayor's home office. But that could prove to be a mistake. I can't risk finding out if he'd be against my plan or not, I'm too close now.

  "My job is not so different from yours," I say, finally meeting his eyes. "We both uncover information people want to keep hidden. The difference is, you have a badge. The authority to make people talk."

  "And you? What do you have?"

  "I have the advantage of knowing the truth is a burden no one wants to carry. You'd be surprised how easily people talk when given the platform."

  He raises an eyebrow at this. "You're right. That part of the job never ceases to amaze me."

  There's a subtle shift between us, or maybe within me, but for the first time, I sense him parting the curtains of disdain he has toward my profession, peering behind them, and glimpsing something he recognizes.