Hard Beat

“I’ve got shit to do. I’m assuming you ran after me because you realized I’m right about the boss man.” Her slight smirk and the gloating expression in her eyes are the only physical signs that she knows she’s won this one. All I can do is stand and grit my teeth as I bite back how I really feel about it. I’m most definitely not admitting to her that she’s right in any capacity. That would give her an advantage in a situation where she already seems to own the upper hand. She stares a beat longer before reaching in her pocket to pull out a small piece of paper with a number written in perfect penmanship. “Here’s my number. Call me when you get a lead. Otherwise stay the hell away from me.”

I take the paper as she walks past me. Out of habit, I turn to watch her and curse myself when I want to tell her she can’t go that way. That there’s nothing but a maze of alleys and a few unsavory characters I’ve been warned about by my own sources. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily with my hands fisted at my side, telling myself it’s none of my business where she goes or what she does.

So why in the flying fuck am I walking back toward her? I guess babysitting mode is in full effect, and I hate that I’m playing the part of nanny and putting the baby gate around her.

“Beaux!” Even when I say her name, I’m cursing myself for it. “Beaux!” She just keeps walking, causing my better judgment to win out over my obstinacy.

“I said stay away… and it’s BJ to you.” She stops and turns around, but a passerby on the sidewalk bumps harshly against her shoulder. Her small frame sways from the contact, and I’m beside her in two strides.

“You can’t go that way unless you’re looking for trouble.” I decide to ignore her comment.

She just shakes her head and starts walking away from me, but at least she’s moving in the direction of the hotel. I swear I hear her mutter something about always looking for trouble, but I miss the rest of it when a car passes in between us, the sound drowning out her voice.

My feet kick up the dirt on the street as I try to catch up to her. I lie to myself that I want to talk to her to establish some kind of ground rules about how we’ll work together, try to restore a professional level, but I know I’m just making sure she gets back into the confines of the hotel safely.

The barely chilled air-conditioned lobby of the hotel meets us as we enter, but it feels like heaven in contrast to the stifling heat outside. If she knows I’m beside her, she doesn’t acknowledge it, and that’s fine with me. I just want to make sure she’s nice and tucked away in her room where I don’t have to worry about her for a bit while I try to drum up some leads.

The elevator doors open on cue as we approach. I step in right behind her, lean against the rear wall, and fold my arms across my chest to mimic her posture. The doors close, but neither of us moves in a game of chicken. Just when the doors start to open up again without the car ascending, Beaux steps forward and presses the button for the twelfth floor. She looks over to me and raises her eyebrows in question.

“My room, please. You remember where that is, right?” I angle my head, stare at her, and enjoy watching her cheeks flush with anger.

I wait for the snide comment to come, but she just turns and faces the doors of the elevator without pushing the button for the eighth floor. Tension is so thick in the car, you can all but see it.

“I don’t trust you,” I say evenly, but it cuts through the silence.

“Good,” she says matter-of-factly as the car alerts our arrival on the twelfth floor. “Be careful whom you trust – the devil was once an angel, you know.”

And with that she walks off the elevator without another word, her comment already replaying in my mind.

Chapter 5

T

he shrieks of mass chaos and the sound of desperate and injured people suffering ring in my ears, the scent of gunpowder and blood haunts my psyche as my own shout dies on my lips.

The nightmare slowly fades into the darkness of my hotel room as I wake, leaving me with nothing but the thundering of my pulse in my ears, along with memories I wish I could erase and a chest damp with sweat.

“Just a dream,” I mutter into the silence, hoping the sound of my voice chases away the ghosts still lurking.

But it’s no use. No matter how much time has passed, I can still hear that unsteady thread in her breath. The one I fixated on as fear and pain contorted her face because regardless of the false hope I clung to, that sound told me the truth I couldn’t run from.

That Stella was going to die.

“Fucking hell.” The words do nothing to abate the pressure in my chest, and frankly, I’m sick of feeling it. That’s why I had to get back here. Get back to the one thing I can focus on. Ironic really, considering this is where it happened, but at the same time, I need this, need to be back in the thick of it all so I’m not scared by it. Because when nightmares and reality are the same, it’s harder to fear them.

And you sure as hell can’t outrun them.

I lie back on the bed and scrub my hand over my face. When I open my eyes again, they’re drawn to the spiderweb of cracks in the ceiling above me. As I will myself back to sleep to no avail, I try to quiet my head by tracing the cracks along their broken path through the darkened room. I know that the jet lag is going to kick my ass in the coming days and I need the sleep, but no matter how much I try, I’m wide awake. Sleep doesn’t come.

The sounds of a drowsy city slowly stirring to life begin to float up to my room, and when I look over at the clock, I realize it is five a.m. and I’ve been staring at the damn ceiling for way too long. I give up hope that I’m going to fall asleep. Feeling restless despite the exhaustion deep in my bones, I shove up out of bed, knowing what to do to clear my head.