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 to 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 22
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 journal
ist, 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.
"Good," he says, getting up again. "Now finish what you were saying."
I get what he's doing. He wants me to talk about something unrelated to help make my reactions to his moves more automatic and less calculated.
"Someone's trying to intimidate me. The notes? They're blank now. It's like he's telling me something with that." I block his strike and offer the counter move we've been practicing.
"Do you think it's possible you're attributing a different meaning to the gifts? Maybe this Caleb guy is just trying to tell you he likes you."
I falter at the name. "How do you know Caleb?"
"I went by the paper first thing Thursday morning, asked around. Talked to security. Everyone seems sure he's the one leaving the gifts."
Thursday morning. I was meeting with the mayor. Still, I can't keep my eyes from narrowing in confusion.
"Thursday night was our first session. Why didn't you mention it?"
"I wanted to be sure before I told you. There are still some things I need to check out. But I don't think he's a threat. He might be trying to rattle you, but he has an alibi for the night of your attack. All of the men you work with do. We checked them all out."
This doesn't bring me comfort. Caleb could still be leaving the gifts on behalf of the mayor, but why? Just to get satisfaction out of messing with me?
I rub the space between my eyes.
Reed seems content about the conversation we've just had. As though he brought me the answers I've been wanting. I try to hide my dissatisfaction in what he's told me. Because a voice in my head instantly whispers, no. It whispers I would be smart to not let my guard down.
What could Caleb have to gain from this? From lying? From trying to shake me?
It doesn't make sense.
I silence this voice. Because this voice has been in my ear all of my life and it's finally starting to make me crazy. This voice is the remnants of all the doubt, insecurities, and suspicions ingrained in me from childhood. This voice doesn't listen to reason, to the fact that coincidences are sometimes just that, coincidence. That there is an alternate, more reasonable explanation to all of my suspicions.
"Are you ready?" Reed asks, getting into position to run through another move.
Right as I nod, he wraps his arms around my middle, just under my breasts. And I hesitate in my next move, not because I forg
ot what to do but because I swear something firm grazes my lower back. I maneuver out of the hold as he taught me and use his body weight to throw off his balance, until he trips over, allowing himself to fall onto the ground again.
He flashes me a proud, satisfied look as he gets up. For a moment, he just stands in front of me, taking in my appearance. I think he's analyzing how spent I am. Yet something ignites in his eyes as they trace over my body. Sparks of desire that he blinks away.
"Okay, water break," he announces, turning abruptly to grab a towel. He throws it in my direction. I grab it and dab at my temples. He glances at his watch. "We've only been at it for three hours; it's impressive how quickly you learn. It typically takes days for a student to start moving intuitively and stop counting the steps in their head. And you? After the second try, you move like it's coded in your muscles. You're a natural."
"A natural what?"
"Fighter."
He doesn't give me a minute to bask in the compliment, darting right back to what we'd been talking about before.
"This Caleb guy, he needs to know you've got someone looking out for you. I don't care who you are or how badass you think you are. Being alone, not having anyone to vouch for you--it's a serious weak spot. Trust me."
I consider this for a moment. If someone were watching me, they'd realize how alone I am. How isolated. I never worried about it before. I always preferred to be alone. But things have changed and now I crave something else.
I look up at Reed, just now realizing how close he stands to me. He brings his fingers to the spot between my eyes and gently spreads them, as though smoothing out the skin there. His touch takes me by surprise not only because it's unexpected, but also because it sends soothing warmth across my chest. He lowers his hand quickly, and his expressive eyes tell me the move was an instinct and he's not sure if he did the right thing. Meanwhile, I'm reeling from the urge I felt, in that split second, to lean into his touch.
"Sorry about that," Reed says in a quiet voice. "I couldn't help it. You zone out sometimes and get these lines between your brows."
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