by Anne Malcom
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snapped to his broad back as he turned towards the body I was doing my best to ignore.
Keltan whirled me back to face him, ignoring the glare I gave him. “What the fuck are you doin’ at a murder scene, Lucy?” he seethed, a glare of his own looking rather unnatural but nonetheless hot as anything on his attractive face.
“There was nothing good on at the movies,” I shot back.
His dark and sculpted features hardened as he scowled at me. The hands at my forearms tightened in warning.
As if I was only just registering his touch and the fire that came with it, I jerked out of his grip. He allowed it, though I knew I wouldn’t have moved had he willed it to be. Those muscles bugling out of his white tee, covered in tribal designs, weren’t just for show. No, they were used for doing God knew what in God knew where for the New Zealand army, and now for high-risk security jobs in the City of Angels. And where there were angels, there were sure to be demons of the worst kind.
The ones who went around slitting throats.
And the ones who reminded me of what we’d had, and then didn’t have, with one single gaze into the depths of those chocolate eyes.
I shivered despite the mugginess to the air.
Keltan noted that and his eyes ran over me in concern once more. I took a beat to do the same, except my gaze was not concerned. Hunger, perhaps, but at a murder scene I reasoned it wasn’t exactly couth. I schooled my features as I ran my eyes over his powerful jean-clad thighs, the left of which had a jagged scar from almost kneecap to groin.
Roadside bomb.
I’d peppered that with gentle kisses the night he told me the story, haunted by the ripples marring his light caramel skin. It was the night of the car bomb that blew up whatever hope we had. Obviously, I hadn’t known that then; I had been too busy holding onto the life, the now, after he’d showed me some of his demons. And I’d returned the favor.
I moved my gaze up past his belt buckle, quickly so I didn’t think of what lay beneath and what I’d done once I’d finished kissing his scar. And then what I’d done when I’d finished kissing his… third leg.
I swallowed around the memory and then went back to my perusal.
The white tee was fitted, but not tight like the douches in L.A wore them, plastered to their steroid-riddled abs and dipping down to show more cleavage than I did. No, the ridges were only hinted at, the tee casual yet good quality. His broad chest filled out the upper half, hiding crisscrosses of scars gained from knife fights to bullet wounds. One half was covered by the rest of the tattoo that took up his left arm.
Maori. It told the story of his Iwi, or tribe, back home in New Zealand. He’d explained the history and meaning behind the swirls of ink as I’d traced my fingers across the smooth yet hard skin that same night, after he’d told me about the stone at his neck. Greenstone. The name of his company. The piece of stillness, of home he carried with him.
I swallowed and moved my gaze up his corded neck and sharp jaw, brushing past his angular cheekbones and crooked nose to meet the hard eyes, swirling with a lot of anger and a lot of something else.
He stepped forward, his presence both a relief and a lance of pain at the same time. He lifted his hand to lightly cup my cheek. “You okay, Snow?” he murmured, little more than a whisper.
“Define okay,” I whispered back.
He stared at me for a long while, the months passing between us. The distance. “Well, short version. For me, it’s standing in front of you,” he said. His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Without the fact that you almost got killed by a man who seems to enjoy slitting the throats of women,” he continued, voice razor-sharp.
I blinked at the response and the unrestrained fury in his gaze. My phone rang, jerking me out of his hold because I was jumpy, and then because I grasped sanity.
Which meant not letting him touch me and say things like that while looking at me the way he was.
I reached into my bag.
“Snow,” he warned.
I eyed him, daring him to stop me. “It’s my editor. I’ll have to inform him that my latest story has just become a lot more interesting,” I whispered.
I didn’t want to broadcast to a whole room of cops that I was likely going to divulge more to my editor than I did to the detectives. They were stiff like that. But I was intent on proving myself in my new job and lifting myself past the fashion and beauty section of Current, the upcoming online news and lifestyle publication forging through the new journalistic environment.
I put the phone to my ear and moved away from Keltan, for both privacy and self-preservation. He crossed his arms and followed me with his fury-filled eyes.
I dodged the various cops, moving to the balcony that was at that point unmanned.
“Lucy. Please tell me the bitch didn’t flake on you,” Roger demanded before I even had the chance to speak. “We need this feature or the whole fucking story is dead.”
I glanced behind me. Keltan was rubbing the back of his neck and talking to his buddy who’d been there since the start. His eyes darted to me, and I looked away, focusing on the smog-filled view of Hollywood.
“The story is far from dead, though the feature is. Oh, and so is Lucinda Cross. I’m thinking more front page instead of feature,” I told him.
I proceeded to give him whispered details of the murder, sensing his excitement and thirst for the story over the phone.
“See if you can snap a pic of the jewelry the corpse is wearing. And maybe some blood. That would be one hell of a front page,” he decided. “I’m ordering a shit ton of jewelry from her website,” he said, followed by clicks in the background. “As soon as this breaks, it’ll go up in price.”
Charming.
“She’s not even cold yet, Roger,” I reminded him.
“Which means the story’s still hot,” he countered. “But only for as long as we’ve got the scoop. Get your lily-white ass in here so we can file a story on the website tonight before any other fuckers get to it. The primetime news might even run our story.”
In addition to being bloodthirsty, callous and literally willing to sell his own daughter for a story—she’d been involved in a high-profile actor’s marriage ending, and he’d gotten the scoop—Roger didn’t believe in such things as sexual harassment boundaries. Which was why, at any given time, there was at least one HR complaint. Usually three.
Yet he’d been editor for well over fifteen years. And one of the best journalists of his time for a decade before that. When real newspapers still flourished and real stories made differences.
He was a remnant of an industry that fossilized editors like that if they didn’t learn how to change with the times. Roger may not have moved far from objectifying women in the workplace, or his taste in shirts, but he was good at his job. He was the best, in fact, not cursing the industry for making him more and more obsolete but utilizing the changes to turn Current into the first hybrid online-offline newspaper that was actually bringing new staff on instead of laying them off.
For a budding and aspiring journalist like me, I could handle a few less than politically or humanly correct statements and a lack of empathy if it meant a job. Plus, I really liked Roger—sexist statements aside.
“I’m in a police interview, but I’ll wrap it up and be right there.” I paused. “That means you want me to write the story, the crime story, for the front page?”
“Of course, you’re writing the fucking story. You’re the eye-fucking-witness,” he scoffed.
I grinned, forgetting myself for a moment.
That some woman had to get brutally murdered in order for me to get myself away from shoes and sparkly things and onto a front-page murder story that would not only be the scoop, but have my byline.
Maybe it wasn’t leftovers from a redundant age of journalism that fostered a callousness towards humans who turned them into stories. Maybe it was a character trait.
“Make sure you leave a tidbit for
an exclusive,” he ordered.
“You’re asking me to lie to the authorities?” I clarified, sounding more outraged than I was.
Which was not at all.
I’d lied to the police before. In fact, lying to the boys in blue was kind of the default when Rosie and I blew things up for fun and counted outlaws as our family.
“Omit,” he corrected. “Though, if asked by any officers of the law, or shareholders, I will deny this conversation ever happened.” A wet chewing sound telling me he was sucking on a throat lozenge. Since he couldn’t smoke at his desk anymore, he was always sucking on them. His office was littered with papers, new editions and specs, and wrappers for the things. He hadn’t adapted to a paperless office yet, despite environmentalists protesting. He needed a hard copy of everything.
“Of course,” I agreed, squinting at the smog-filled skyline and already thinking of the first line for my story.
“Okay, now get off the fucking phone, talk to the cops, flutter your eyelashes, show some chest if you have to and get your skinny white ass here for the story,” Roger ordered roughly.
I rolled my eyes. “You really like to keep the HR department busy, don’t you?”
A grunt accompanied by more sucking noises.
I turned back to the bustle that was a crime scene. Though it wasn’t really a bustle. There were a lot of cops standing around doing not much of anything while a few people dusted and bagged things. There was no rush or urgency; she was dead, after all. There’s no need to rush for the dead.
One figure carved himself out of the scene to make it little more than background, and my eyes gave him the stark focus of a camera finding the perfect subject.
His eyes were on me. In a focused way like they’d been on me for a long while. It made every hair on my body stand up in a way that even a murder scene and brush with the responsible party could not.
I swallowed.
“Okay, thanks for the skinny part of the comment, at least,” I told Roger, my voice shaking only slightly. Heartbreak was the best diet a girl could have; I fit into all the sample sizes now.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” I said after thinking of traffic and however long it would take to escape this situation.
I wasn’t worried about the police. Roger was right; I could somewhat bullshit while fluttering my eyelashes and get out of there without too much drama. I’d had enough experience in that.
No, it was the figure with crossed arms and a stifling gaze that wouldn’t blink at my fluttering lashes. That would be near impossible to escape from. Namely because it had been almost two years, and I still hadn’t escaped from him.
A terrible voice in the back of my mind that I usually only heard in front of a blank page told me I might never escape him.
Another terrible voice taunted me with the reality that I never wanted to escape him.
“One hour. Any later and you’re not getting your byline because someone else will have sniffed out the story,” Roger grunted.
There was dead air.
He didn’t usually do goodbyes. Or basic human manners. I kind of liked it. Bullshit was pretty much the status quo in Hollywood, so it was nice to have a crude and vaguely sexist boss who didn’t stand for it.
I slipped my phone into my bag, all the while keeping eye contact with the other man who didn’t do bullshit either.
Problem was, if I was going to get out of this with my fucked-up heart intact, or as intact as it would ever be, I’d have to bullshit better than the pros in L.A.
I’d start with the police.
And hopefully the rest would follow.
“Is that it?” I asked, wanting desperately to rub my eyes but knowing the mess smudged eyeliner would create with such a gesture. “I’d like to go home and shower off the Old Spice and death that is not the eau de parfum I like,” I informed the detective. “Chanel is so much more timeless.”
I was sitting on the sofa, Max standing in front of me with the notepad he’d been scribbling my responses in. He obviously hadn’t gone paperless either. That was nice to see.
Keltan hadn’t moved from where he stood behind me, hand on the back of the sofa made more for aesthetics than comfort.
The lack of comfort and the hand were why I was leaning forward, away from the danger. And the back problems leaning back raised.
He hadn’t spoken since I got off the phone, but refused to leave while the police interviewed me. Though the leather of the seat had creaked in protest at the tightness of his grip when I recounted just how close Old Spice had been to springing me.
“Yes, that’s it for now, Ms. Walker,” the older detective replied.
“But you have our number in case anything else comes to you.” Max handed me a card. “Or if you need anything. At all. You need a ride?” His eyes twinkled, and his tone held something more than empty professionalism.
I fingered the card. Was he seriously chatting me up at a murder scene?
He was hot and all, but not hot enough for that.
The only man hot enough for that was currently standing beside me, turning rigid at the detective’s words.
“She’s not likely to need anything from you,” Keltan clipped, also catching the flirt and obviously not liking it. At all. “She doesn’t need a ride. I’ve got her.”
The meaning of those three words triggered an unexpected lance of pain that I outwardly didn’t acknowledge, my face impassive and calm as was my default.
I stood, anxious to be out of there and away from him. The dead body in the corner was even preferable to his presence.
The dead didn’t really pose too many problems for the living. Even their ghosts. Ghosts of people who were still alive were that much more dangerous.
Gray’s dead ghost had nothing on Keltan’s living one.
“No, I’ve got myself,” I told Keltan flatly, raising my perfectly groomed brow at his stoic face. “I drove here. I’m quite capable of driving back. Though there will be a stop for wine and chocolate between home and here,” I lied. I was going straight to the office to file my story. And I had about thirty minutes to navigate forty-five minutes’ worth of traffic to get to my computer in time.
Only an idiot would tell Keltan that. He’d likely protest me doing such a thing as driving myself home when in the presence of such a strong, capable male as himself.
Another fossil, a different kind than Roger, one who was easier on the eyes, didn’t smell of cigarette smoke and throat lozenges, but a remnant of time gone by just the same.
A caveman who wanted to beat his chest with passion and make sure the woman he owned was not burdened by such things as independence.
Problem was, he didn’t own me anymore.
He never did.
Or at least that’s what I was telling myself.
“I got you,” he said firmly, his eyes flickering with something that made my stomach dip in an entirely unpleasant way.
That simple sentence, like everything with him, was so far from simple even Einstein would scratch his head trying to figure it out.
I retrieved my bag, ignoring the statement for the time being and focusing on the two men who had been easy to lie to and get rid of. “Officers, it’s been a pleasure. Let’s really never do this again,” I told them.
“Remember, anything else you remember, keep in touch. And we’ll do the same. Your testimony might be needed if we catch the perpetrator,” the older detective replied.
I smiled at him. “Well I do hope you catch him. The Old Spice and moustache were crimes in themselves. The murder too. Obviously.” I gave the body another glance, my stomach rolling once more at the realization that despite my blasé attitude towards it, knowing a woman had lost her life in such a grizzly way was getting to me.
Compartmentalization. That’s what people did with this stuff to get through the day, right? Put it in a box, lock it, swallow the key and get on with life. Keltan’s box was rattling with ferocity that chattered my teeth, but it was still l
ocked.
It would stay that way. Because I had to get through this day. And every one after it.
I focused on the older officer. “I’d be glad to testify. Tell me the time, place and dress code, and I’m there. You’ve got my number. Now I’ve got places to be that don’t include dead bodies or any sort of blood.”
When I turned my back, intending on strutting out of the place as fast as my secondhand Louboutins would take me, a gentle but firm hand on my wrist stopped me.
“I said I’ve got you,” Keltan murmured, the words curling themselves around the box that was still rattling.
My eyes went to the large tanned hand circling my pale skin, staring at it just to make sure it was not, in fact, on fire like it felt it was. Not the fire that had erupted in that very same arm when I’d broken it what felt like a lifetime ago. No, a gentle burn that was somehow an inferno at the same time. One I was rather too tempted to burn in.
My hand yanked itself back, despite the carnal urge in me to let the touch remain there.
My eyes met his, blank and hiding any reaction to his touch. I hoped. “No, Keltan, you don’t.”
My meaning was more than clear on just how much that statement encompassed as I moved towards the door. It was a considerable effort—all the effort I had left, in fact—to make my gait unhurried and confident.
I heard him swear and then mumble something to his buddy who was lingering, as he had been during the entire interview, doing his best “menacing hot guy statue” impression. It was impressive, I’d give him that. And it also gave me an urge to go to New Zealand purely to conduct ethnographic research on this strange and fucking inhumanly hot species of male that existed there.
“Lucy!”
He caught me by the elbow just as I was leaving the apartment.
Yellow crime scene tape now kept out the various residents and spectators craning for a view of the body.
This may have been a nice building with tenants who prided themselves on their utter “betterness” in accordance to bank accounts, but that didn’t mean they weren’t as nosy as their “uncouth” counterparts when it came to a murder.