Reckless Touch

by Veronica Larsen

  "You lied to me." His voice is low and angry, but betrayed by the passion threatening to edge into his tone. He's losing the fight against my touch. "You weren't there for Chief Sterling."

  I barely hear him. Heat pours from my lips in the kisses I trail from his earlobe to his neck.

  "What are you doing?"

  Never in my life have I felt such an urgent need. My heart thunders in my ears and my skin itches for his touch. I'm a raw nerve dying to be stimulated.

  "Fuck me," I beg, utterly gone.

  He shuts his eyes as though he's about to refuse, but a small sigh signals his surrender. He surrenders in the way he grows harder by the second under my touch. I clumsily work to free him from the fly of his pants. He's large, solid, and uncompromising, and when I take him into my mouth, the feel of him makes me moan.

  "Goddamn it," he says, raking in a breath. I weave him in and out of my mouth, peering up to see him stiffen even more in his seat. He reaches down and tucks my hair behind my ear to see me properly. His lids hang low over his eyes, and his voice is almost just a groan when he hands me a small square package and says, "Get on top of me."

  I pull my head back, a shaky breath leaving my lips as I roll the thin material over his solid erection. I hurry to straddle him, my dress rolling farther up my thighs. Our lips connect at the same moment our bodies do. I lower myself over him and let out a long, wistful sigh at how tantalizing it is to have him fill me.

  "Yes," I breathe out.

  His hands close over my waist to steady the wild jerks of my hips as I find a rhythm. We fill the car with quiet but rousing sounds, long moans and low groans. I can barely breathe between our eager kisses, mouths clashing as roughly as our bodies.

  "Damn it," he says, as though furious at his own lack of restraint. But his fingers clutch me tighter and I pick up my pace.

  I lose myself on top of him, winding over him between wild pants. Every minute I ride him, I'm swept further into undulated bliss. We're savages, starving for each other's touch and agonizing for release.

  I'm desperate to tease out the orgasm building up to a mania in my core. When it finally bursts from me, a wildfire that envelops and leaves me shaking and moaning out in a frenzy, he grips me tighter and goes rigid.

  We relax against each other and I press my face into the crook of his neck, satisfied. He tilts his head back against the headrest and breathes with me as silence comes over us and the darkness of the night presses in on all sides of the car.

  "Damn it, Amelia," he mutters again, though this time the words don't convey a struggle for control, but rather a sobering realization. "You've been lying to me all this time."

  I shut my eyes tight at his disillusioned tone, stomach sinking as I rake in a breath, taking in his scent as deeply as I can. Because I'm sure he's seconds from pulling me away. Maybe forever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Amelia

  IT'S LATE AND WE sit in his car outside of my apartment. The last traces of pheromones have cleared our systems, and his demeanor has grown colder and colder the whole drive here.

  "I can't tell you who the woman is, but I can tell you she's not me."

  His jaw ticks as I say this. He tears his gaze away to stare out of the front windshield. I twist my hands together, thinking of how they might as well be tied. If I told Sebastian what I was up to, who I suspected was behind the events of the past week, he'd want to take matters into his own hands and blow the lid on my entire story. I'm too close to the finish line now to let that happen. This story is everything I've been working toward in my career. If anyone could understand the limitations of a job that thrives on closely guarded secrets, it should be him.

  "What are you using the pictures for?"

  There's harsh judgment in every syllable and every layer of meaning rubs against me, grating my already guilty conscience.

  "I'm not using the pictures. They're for an exchange."

  "An exchange of what? What's your story? Are you outing some affair the mayor's having?"

  "I can't tell you."

  He taps a finger on the steering wheel, his displeasure radiating in every tense tap during the extended silence. And every beat wedges more space between us.

  "You need to tell me something. I deserve to know what you used me for."

  "I didn't—"

  "Stop lying to me."

  He doesn't raise his voice, not even a sliver, but his tone slaps me across the face.

  I fall silent.

  He's intense. A black hole you can't encounter without being sucked into its depths. And though there were times I found him intimidating, he's never once made me feel afraid.

  Until right this moment.

  I'm afraid. I'm rendered speechless with the knowledge there's little I can say to make up for what I've done.

  I've lied and he knows it. And I still can't share the truth.

  Can a lie be excused for the sake of the greater good? He should know. Detectives can tell a suspect anything they want to elicit a confession. It's all fair game.

  Except, this is different. We were supposed to be working together. I fed into his desire to reveal another side to Chief Sterling. Because Sebastian has suspected the man to be a fraud like his own father. But the only person who's revealed themselves to be a fraud is me.

  I take a breath.

  "The story I've been working on, it will bring everything to an end."

  He watches me carefully, his keen eyes charged up by the quick thoughts flurrying past them.

  "Let me get this straight. You think everything that's happened is connected to a story you're working on? And you didn't think to mention this to me?"

  My heartbeat goes off rhythm, overwrought by the tension pouring from his eyes.

  "Someone's been trying to silence me. I won't be silenced."

  Sebastian bites out a laugh.

  "I'm an idiot," he says under his breath. "Of course I am."

  In the pause between these phrases, there's another that's spoken in the slight sag of his shoulders, in the embarrassed way he looks away.

  For thinking you really wanted me.

  It squeezes my insides. But how do I respond to what hasn't been spoken? How do I quell fears that haven't been faced?

  I try the only way I can think of.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I—"

  "Is it worth it? Is chasing a story worth putting your life in danger? Is it worth…?" He trails off again. Once again letting his silence speak words he can't seem to grapple with.

  Is it worth ruining us?

  My mouth parts at his question, but the answer dies on my tongue. I don't answer because for a moment, I think he can see the answer in my eyes. My mind is an endless stack of memories and thoughts shuffling before my eyes, too fast for me to grab one. And when I finally close around a thought, it spills from my lips without context.

  Is that what you think my job is? Ruining people?

  Isn't it?

  Those words had stung when he first spoke them, yet it all seems to have come to pass.

  "It's all I've had. All my life," I say. "This. Just one dream, one goal. One thing I wanted to be. It kept me focused. It gave me purpose. It gave me the power of narrative. It made me feel like I was part of something…important. Part of…anything."

  He runs a hand over his hair, letting it rest on the back of his head. He looks away and for several long seconds, he just breathes into the silence, then he drops his hand on the steering wheel again.

  "Lines got blurred at some point," he says, quietly. "That's on me. It was my responsibility to keep my head on straight."

  How can he act so much like a stranger, all of a sudden, with words so impersonal and cold? When less than twenty minutes ago our bodies were connected and our mouths spoke different things entirely.

  I reach out across the gearshift, the space feels like miles, and set my hand over his arm where it extends toward the steering wheel. Even through the fabric of his uniform, I
feel his skin react to me. Because the truth is there, bare-naked. He and I know each other in ways we can never pretend not to.

  But he drops his arm, and I pull my hand back.

  "Stay here," he says. "I'll take a look around your apartment, make sure nothing's out of place."

  I hand him my keys. He gets out of the car without another word and his heavy footfalls echo up the front steps before he disappears inside. I let out a sigh, the adrenaline of the night's events has died out, and now I'm just tired.

  But the night's not over yet.

  I glance at my watch, and shut my eyes in dread as I realize more time has gone by than I anticipated.

  Sebastian returns several minutes later, startling me by knocking on the car window. The sound is so sudden and jarring, I nearly let out a scream. My hand flies to my chest in relief when I realize it's only him. He opens the car door and helps me out into the chilly night.

  "Everything looks good," he says, staring past me to take in our surroundings. "I'll have a patrol car drive past later on, just to be safe."

  I nod, though a part of me feels this is overkill. I live in a building with several other people and a very nosy elderly neighbor. I doubt anyone could break in without attracting attention.

  We fall quiet, staring at each other. His mouth is turned down, and I know mine is as well. Having him stand in front of me compels me to bring my body flush with his, lift up to my tiptoes, and plant a kiss on his lips. He doesn't kiss me back. His posture remains impassive and when I pull away to look at him, he's staring past me again, expression unreadable and impenetrable.

  Is this the end?

  Lines got blurred at some point.

  Was that his way of saying the lines have been redrawn? Every part of me stings, but I don't have time to dwell. Holding my purse tight, I make my way up my front steps and into my building. I don't spare a glance backward, even though I can feel him watching me every step of the way.

  Once I make it into my apartment, I turn on the lights and rush to the window to signal to Sebastian who, just as I expected, remains outside of his car, waiting.

  Seeing me, he turns and gets back into his car.

  I stand by the window, waiting for his car to make its way down the road and disappear. When I'm sure he's gone, I turn on my heel and prepare to head back out again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Amelia

  IN A LOUD BAR teeming with college students, Susan Levine should be difficult to spot. Instead, she sticks out as the only person who'd clearly rather be anywhere else. She's got a young and unassuming face, but the unmistakable aura of confidence and sex appeal oozes from her, even while she's the most conservatively dressed woman in the bar. Her silky white blouse is neatly tucked into a black pencil skirt, and her hair's slicked back into a bun. She stares sour-faced into a half-empty martini glass, and when I slide onto the bar stool beside her, she doesn't even stir.

  "Did you get my pictures?"

  I don't respond right away, the music blasting from the overhead speakers seems to knock against my skull. I'm tempted to get a drink to numb the noise, but I know I shouldn't let my guard down. Not so close to the finish line.

  I pull the stack of Polaroids from my purse and hand them to her, face down. She snatches them from my hand.

  "Jesus, couldn't you have put them in an envelope or something?" she snaps.

  "Sorry, I came straight here."

  She lowers the stack under the bar ledge and begins flipping through them, her lips moving wordlessly as she counts them. I try not to look, but catch glimpses of things I'd rather not see. A woman in her most compromised and vulnerable position, allowing things to be done to her that she likely never expected anyone else to ever see. Her affair with a powerful, married man forever recorded in dimly lit photographs.

  "What?" she snaps again when our eyes connect. As though in a dare, she adds, "Just say it."

  "Say what?"

  Her rudeness is only thinly veiling her defensiveness. She isn't fooling me. The self-conscious way she straightens her blouse is just the smallest hint of how embarrassing this whole exchange must be for her.

  "I made a mistake," she says, not looking at me. "I was an idiot."

  "It's really none of my business," I say. "Do you have what you promised?"

  She opens her own purse, slides in the stack of Polaroids, and pulls out a small square of plastic from one of the inner pockets.

  "It's all on here."

  I take the memory stick, frowning at it. How the hell am I supposed to confirm what's inside?

  As though reading my thoughts, Susan pulls out a folder full of papers from her purse and hands it to me as well. "The cheat sheet," she says. "I've compiled a detailed list of all the transactions, complete with my own personal notes to help you make sense of it all."

  My eyes go wide when I scan down the first page.

  "Holy shit," I whisper. "You're efficient as fuck."

  She blows out a breath, takes a sip of her martini, and says, "Yeah, well, I'll be sure to add that to my resume. Maybe it will help me land a job now that this asshole can't blackmail me with these pictures. Efficient as fuck."

  I flip through a few more pages, my mouth parting in utter amazement. This asshole and his cronies embezzled millions upon millions of taxpayers' dollars. A name jumps out at me. Leonard Thatcher, CEO of the Thatcher Organization and father of James Thatcher, the man suing Sebastian. My thoughts race. Will these files reveal Chief Sterling's greasy hands? Was he protecting Thatcher's son in exchange for bribes?

  "He thought he could control me," Susan says, snapping my attention back to her. She speaks from behind her glass. "He thought he could keep my mouth shut by fucking me. He thought wrong."

  When I look back at Susan, my astonishment must show on my face, because her lips curl into a satisfied smile. She may look young, she may radiate mindless sex appeal, she may be selfish and not make good decisions, but Susan Levine is far from stupid. This young woman is singlehandedly blowing the lid on the mayor's criminal enterprise. The most powerful man in the city is going to fall to his knees. All because he underestimated her.

  I leave the bar and make my way back home, too distracted by the whirlwind inside of my head to grapple with the dissatisfaction hanging over my shoulders. I should be ecstatic. Just an hour ago, securing this information from Susan was all I wanted. Just an hour ago, I was on top of the world. On top of Sebastian. And now, despite returning home with everything I sought to have, all I'm left with is a stomachache.

  When I slip into bed, the vast, empty space beside me brings the memory of Sebastian's face stumbling into the forefront of my mind. The true reason for the ache in my stomach. I can't get over the way he looked at me. Disillusioned and betrayed. Tonight was the end of something that never had a chance to begin.

  Not a real chance, not a safe place to grow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Amelia

  DUNCAN SHAKES HIS HEAD at me from behind his desk, a printed version of my story clutched in his hands, his eyes cast downward. He looks tired. Much more tired than I've ever seen him. Though maybe I just haven't noticed because the darkening circles under his eyes are partially hidden by the frames of his glasses, and I haven't exactly been paying much attention to him.

  Muted sounds of ringing phones do little to drown out the dense silence of the office. I chew on my thumbnail, waiting patiently, when the back of my neck prickles with self-awareness. I look over my shoulder through the glass wall behind me, glimpsing the countless journalists milling about their workstations. No one spares a glance in my direction.

  It's strange how this room can feel simultaneously insulated and exposed compared to the rows of desks in open view, just outside.

  Duncan flips to the last page, which contains only a few lines, before setting the printed paper on top of the pile he's just read. Frowning, he pushes the stack across his desk and closer to me.

  "Will you stand by this
story?"

  My hopes rise up to the base of my throat. "I do."

  "You'll have to run it past legal," he says, still frowning.

  "I will."

  I thought he'd be more excited. He's somber, almost. He brings the pen he's holding to the corner of this mouth, eyes narrowing at me. "I'm curious. How'd you catch on to this story?"

  I hesitate, knowing my answer won't impress Duncan.

  What tipped me off to the mayor's shadiness? My gut.

  "I just sensed there was something not right about him. And not just in the typical politician sort of way."

  He rubs the space between his eyes as though I'd just told him I looked into a magic ball to come up with my story. But he's seen my notes and all of the evidence I have to back up the details in the story. Evidence I will likely be forced to turn over to prosecutors in the near future. Not that I'll mind, I just wanted the opportunity to expose the truth before the justice system is able to filter it. My job isn't to be the judge or juror. My job is to be the bearer of truth.

  "Your source, is she still with the mayor's campaign?"

  "I won't say. And I never said my source was a she."

  Duncan leans forward and places his hands on his desk. "Amelia, you're smart. I don't have to tell you this is going to unleash a whirlwind of shit."

  "I know," I say, tapping a finger to my thigh.

  "Go," he says, leaning back in his seat. "Run it past legal and get it cleared so we can run it as soon as possible."

  The day, which started off with a gift-less morning, melts into a full-blown manic blob of rewrites and edits. I spend all of Friday and most of Saturday rewriting my story according to suggestions from our legal department. Sometime midday, a thought falls into my head. Splitting the story up into three parts. This story isn't like any other I've ever written. It requires a strategy to protect everyone who's entrusted me with information.

  Despite my best efforts, the story doesn't go to the press in time for the Sunday paper. It will have to print in the Monday paper, instead. Regardless, by the time this week starts, San Diegans will wake up to a rude realization about the man they entrusted with their city. The mayor's office will undoubtedly push back. Denials will be issued, but he'll have to address the allocation of funds and a series of discrepancies to what's on the public record. After the story prints, I'll leak all the files online. That will blow the lid on the whole damn thing. Full details, events, times, and quotes I've gathered from people within his campaign.