by J. Kenner
The drone moves in closer, and I hold my breath, trying to get a look at the faces. I even put my finger on the trackpad, trying to zoom in, as if this were a map or something. I can’t, of course, but if I take a screenshot…
I pause the video long enough to do that, then zoom in on the image. But it’s far too pixelated. Frustrated, I let the video play some more. The two figures have almost reached the ground. They’re neck and neck, and the winner hits the ground only seconds before the loser. The drone isn’t recording sound, but something must have made a noise, because they both look up.
It would be a perfect shot for facial recognition, except for the fact that between the distance and the poor light, the images are terrible. There’s too much visual noise and pixelation, and I don’t have the skill set to fix it.
For a moment, I wonder if anyone does. Because surely whoever sent this to me would have tried. They want me to see the shooter, right? Does that mean that this is as good as the video gets? Or do they assume that reporters have magic powers, since in a movie, I’d probably tap a few arrow keys or write some code and get what I need.
As if.
I frown, trying to think of who I know with the skills to clean this up.
Or, correction, who might have the skills to teach me how to clean it up. I’m not ready to share this video. It’s too hot, and a leak could mean that someone scoops me on the story.
What I need is someone who has software I can use. Someone in graphic design or computer programming or, I don’t know, just a tech savvy genius.
Unfortunately, I haven’t got a clue, but I shoot a quick text to Roger asking if he does. Surely the magazine has needed to bump up the clarity of an image before.
His answer is both fast and unnerving.
We have someone on staff who used to code graphic design software. He says he wrote code back in the day that might help you. But you’re not going to like it.
Not going to like it? Is he crazy? Are you crazy? I write. Who?
This time, the answer takes longer. So long, I almost call him.
Corbin, he finally says. And he’s agreed to send you the software. But in exchange, he says you owe him one.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It’s like making a deal with the devil, but if Corbin’s software works, then I suppose it will be worth it.
Roger tells me he’ll get all the wheels in motion, then puts Corbin on the line. He explains that he needs to do some tweaking so I can run the software myself. Right now, it only works on his system since it interfaces with other software he has installed. I’d have to share the video, and I’m not willing to do that. To his credit, Corbin doesn’t argue. He promises to send me a list of additional software I’ll need, and to call when it’s ready so he can walk me through the installation and usage instructions.
He also mentions—every ten or so seconds—how nice it feels to know that I’m in his pocket.
I refrain from calling him an asshole, or worse. It’s a testament to how much I want this story. And I figure if I can handle prostrating myself to my sworn enemy, then I can survive anything.
But when it’s all over and I’ve paid my debt, I’m already planning a full-page ad in The Spall’s competitor affirming that Corbin Dailey is a rare sort of prick.
Then again, maybe best not to. That would only add an all-new layer to his overinflated ego.
My mind is still spinning with anti-Corbin rhetoric as I pull into the garage. Usually, I park in the driveway or the street, but while I might be cavalier about my own safety, Shelby is my baby.
I enter through the garage door that leads into the laundry room. I drop my stuff on the dryer, then hurry through the nearby kitchen to grab a snack. I’m starving, which is ironic considering Brewski has food. But I’d been so wrapped up in work that my only sustenance had been a latte followed by a never-ending stream of black coffee.
I open the fridge, grab a container of vanilla yogurt, slam the door—and scream.
Because standing right behind the door where a horror movie monster would be is a man.
The scream dies in my throat when I realize it’s Ronan Thorne, but I can’t say that I’m relieved. Devlin may believe that Ronan doesn’t have it in for me, but I’m still not convinced. Especially not now that Devlin is away and Ronan is inside this house that is supposedly well protected by an alarm system.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, anger at his intrusion masking my runaway nerves.
“Sorry to scare you. Devlin gave me the code.”
I bite back a curse and make a mental note to give my boyfriend hell. “Why would he do that?”
“He wanted me to check on you,” Ronan says. “And I wanted to talk to you.”
He moves casually to lean against the nearby countertop, but there’s nothing casual about his demeanor.
When I first met him, he was smiling and charming and I thought that he looked a bit like a Nordic god with his blond hair and blue eyes and Thor-like body. He still does, but now there’s a fury about him. He’s like an angry god that has the ability to destroy the world.
I draw in a breath and tell myself that I’m not scared, but the truth is I am. Devlin may be convinced Ronan isn’t behind the creepy texts, but the jury is still out for me.
Still, I’ve always been good at poker.
“Okay,” I say, moving to get a spoon and then taking a bite of my yogurt. “What are we talking about?”
“I told you before that you’d be a distraction. It never occurred to me that you would be an actual danger.”
I bristle. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Devlin told me you got a lead on the Myers shooter. A link to some information. Is that true?”
“He had no right to tell you about that.”
“Is it true?”
“What’s your interest in it?”
“You are. Because Devlin’s pissed, and he has reason to be.”
My head is swimming. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Are you trying to draw a target on your back? That news blast today on The Spall website about the video footage? About your exclusive lead on the identity of Terrance Myers’ shooter? And how you’re confident you’ll be able to clean up the video to identify the shooter?”
“What the fuck? I didn’t publish a news blast—oh, shit. Roger.”
After I’d first told him about the email, he’d published a tiny note on the website letting readers know that The Spall was investigating a possible lead in the Myers assassination. Today, of course, he must have posted an update mentioning the video. Ridiculous, since there’s really no news yet, but even if I come up with zilch, just having that tidbit on the website will draw in readers—and advertisers. The Spall may be a quality print magazine, but per Franklin’s edict, the website has a more sensationalistic slant, supposedly so that the magazine has more of a competitive edge in today’s market. I can’t say that I approve, but I also get that the magazine needs revenue.
“I had no idea,” I tell Ronan. “I should have,” I admit, “but my editor ran that piece.”
“Well, tell him to take it down. Not that it’ll matter. The damage has been done. Nothing disappears off the Internet.”
He’s right about that. “It can’t have been live that long,” I point out. “How do you even know about it?”
“Devlin subscribes to The Spall’s text alerts.”
I blink, not expecting that. “Why?”
For a second, Ronan looks taken aback. “Because you write for the magazine, and it’s important to you.”
“Oh.” I swallow, then take another bite of yogurt to hide my discomfiture. “Listen,” I finally say, “I didn’t realize Roger was going to run the blast, but so what? It’s no big deal. I am writing the article, and I do have the video. Not to mention high hopes that I’ll get a clear image soon. I get that Devlin thinks Myers was a worm who deserved to be taken out. And you know what? I don’t
disagree. But people can’t just go around like this is the Wild West. And if I have a chance to use my job to reveal them, then I’m going to do that.”
“At the risk to your own safety?”
“What are you talking about?”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “That news blast makes pretty clear that the footage was sent to the author of the original piece—you. If it’s as damning as you think, wouldn’t you expect that whoever was scaling that building will try to get it from you?”
I swallow, because he and Devlin are right of course. I’ve always been willing to take risks with my reporting, drawing out potential bad guys in the interest of building a story. It’s never bothered me before because danger never bothered me before. Neither did death. All I was about was chasing the story. The rest of it could go to hell. In fact, the more dangerous the better.
But things have changed. I still don’t understand why I’m here and my family isn’t, but that deep need to take risks has faded. I want to stay. I don’t want to leave this earth yet. Not when there’s still time with Devlin.
“Honestly, I wasn’t thinking about that.” Now that I am thinking about it, I wonder if perhaps the Range Rover incident could be tied to the Myers story and not to the creepy texts.
“Well, then you’re a fool. Does the video reveal the suspect’s identity?”
I laugh, “No. I have a drone video that’s pixelated as hell. I’ve got software that might be able to pull an image or it might not.” I pause, thinking. “I’ll have Roger post an update saying that the video is corrupt and we can’t identify the shooter.”
“Is that true?”
I shrug. “Hopefully not. If we do get an image and a story, then we’ll update again. But maybe this way I throw off whoever’s intent on harassing me.”
He nods slowly. “How does the software work?”
I regurgitate what Corbin explained to me. “He said whether or not we can recreate a decent image depends on the quality of the original video.”
“And how decent is the video?”
“I’m not a graphics person, but it looks fuzzy as hell to me.” I don’t tell him that I’m relying in part on Corbin’s super-inflated ego. I don’t think he would have offered his software if he didn’t think we had a decent shot. The guy will want to be the hero, after all.
“Sounds like a long shot.”
“Probably. Then again, reporting’s all about following long shot leads. But I guess Devlin will be thrilled if I never get a clear image.” I grimace. “I think he wants to be the personal cheering section for whoever took out Myers.”
“I’m with him on that. Myers was scum. He deserved what he got.”
I just look at him. This hard man. This man that Devlin respects and I fear. Not because I think he’ll hurt Devlin—just the opposite.
Because I can’t help but think that no matter what, in the end, he will always choose Devlin. That’s a good thing. But to that end, I’m certain that he’d destroy anyone he thinks is in the way of Devlin’s safety. Including me.
“I’ll tell Devlin you’re going to run the addendum to the article. But be careful. You never know who’s read it and they might not see the update.” I nod. And I watch as his facial features soften. “We just want you to be safe.”
I stiffen with surprise. “We? I thought I was a distraction.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “I was probably wrong to say that. I’ve never felt for anyone the way Devlin feels about you, so I don’t know exactly where he’s coming from, but I do know that he would risk the world for you. And I will always have his back, so I guess that means I’m looking out for you, too. Whether I want to or not,” he adds, but with a wink.
Which means that even as he’s leaving, I’m still not sure if he’s a turning into a solid friend or staying a dangerous foe.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It’s dark when I wake abruptly, jolted out of sleep. I’m not sure what woke me, but after I glance at the clock and see that it’s not quite two, I groan, start to roll over, and then see the figure silhouetted in the darkened doorway.
A scream catches in my voice, stopped only by the sudden recognition. Devlin.
He moves into the room, a shaft of moonlight illuminating him. He’s breathing hard, his wild eyes on me. His hair tumbles around his face like a mane, and his beard needs a trim. He looks feral. Fierce. And though I know it’s an illusion, his scar seems more prominent.
He emits danger like radio waves, and I can feel the force of his power from all the way across the room.
“Devlin?” I sit up. “What are you doing here?”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
I barely have time to process the question as he crosses to me in two long strides. He grabs my upper arms and tugs me out of bed. My body reacts immediately, my nipples tightening against the thin material of my tank top. My core throbbing as the loose sleep shorts brush my bare flesh. He’s burning with heat and fury, and I’ve gone from a sound sleep to a desperate craving so quickly that I’m a little dizzy.
I know what he wants, why he’s here. He’s angry that I didn’t call after the Range Rover almost ran me down. He’s terrified of what could have happened. And he’s translated that fear and fury into a need. To touch me. Claim me. To prove to himself and me and the whole goddamn world that I’m alive and I’m his and that I’m safe in his arms.
And oh, dear God, I want him too. So much that my skin burns in anticipation and my breath comes in shallow, stuttering gasps.
Except he doesn’t touch me. On the contrary, he holds me at arm’s-length, his gaze roaming over me as if he can’t quite believe I’m whole.
I’m totally confused and completely turned on, and I hear the desperation in my voice as I ask, “Devlin, what are you—”
I don’t get the question out before he yanks me against him, his mouth closing over mine in a kiss that leaves no question that I belong to him. I melt against him, lost in the pleasure of being taken. Claimed by this wild man. This savage lover. “Someone tries to run you over and you don’t tell me?” His words are as bruising as the kiss he interrupts in order to force out the question. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I—”
“No.” He grabs my chin with one hand, another hard kiss silencing me as his other hand slips beneath the band of my shorts as he cups my ass. I moan, opening myself under the power of his desperate need. A desperation I share.
I rise onto my toes, my fingers sliding through his hair as I deepen the kiss, our teeth clashing as I pull his head closer, as if I could consume him. His fingers slide between my legs, finding me slippery and so, so ready. I moan against his mouth as our tongues battle with the same intensity as his finger fucks me. And though his kisses prove that he owns me, I still grind against his fingers, my body craving more than the release he can bring me. I crave the man.
I crave Devlin.
“You damn fool.” His whisper is harsh. “I could have lost you. You could have been killed. Do you think I could stand it if I lost you again?”
His hands are tight on my shoulders, holding me in place.
“You won’t,” I say. “You didn’t.” I meet his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” He releases me, then goes to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s wearing jeans, and they hug his thighs and accentuate the hard length of his erection. I take a step toward him, intending to tackle his fly, but he holds up a hand, silently ordering me to stop. “Take off your top.”
I raise a brow, but I don’t protest. I simply reach down, grab the hem, and tug the tank top over my head, then drop it on the floor beside me. My nipples tighten almost painfully in response, and my whole body fires from the way he looks me up and down. He’s not smiling. On the contrary, I’ve never seen him look more serious. And though this is Devlin, the man I love, I can’t help but feel a rush of trepidation mingling with the anticipation.
And, yes, I like it.
“The shorts.”
I hook my thumbs into the band of my shorts, and wiggle my hips until they fall to the floor. Then I glance at the bulge in his jeans and, naked, take a step toward him. Then another. Then another.
“I think it’s your turn,” I say, expecting him to either strip off his jeans or invite me to tug down his fly.
Instead, he says, “No.”
“No?”
He stands, then stalks toward me. Instinctively, I back away, but he comes closer until I’m pressed against the wall. He traps me there, his hand at my throat. “Dammit, El, do you think I could stand to lose you? Do you think I could bear it?”
“I—”
I cut off the word, as his hand tightens. “Is this what you need?” His lips are close to my ear. “Danger. Fear?” I have to struggle for breath as his other hand slides down my rear, his fingers thrusting into my pussy as his thumb rims my ass, sending a flurry of sensual pleasures skittering over my skin.
I moan, the sound silenced as he tightens his grip. His tongue traces my ear before he whispers. “No more chasing danger. You want danger, you come to me.” His fingers fill me completely and I grind against him, understanding his need to control as much as I want to claim it, to surrender to it.
“You want to play rough? Fine.” In one wild move, he releases my neck and twists me around, so that my bare breasts slam against the wall. His fingers are no longer inside me, and I cry out in surprise when his palm lands hard on my ass, the sting both sharp and sweet. He rubs the spot, and I bite my lower lip. No one’s ever spanked me before—I’ve never let myself surrender before. But now…
Again, his palm lands hard, and again he rubs the sore spot. But this time he spreads my legs, his fingers going to my slippery core before moving back to my neck, holding me in place. Reminding me that right now, he is my everything. Even the air that I breathe.
“You like that.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I nod.