Hard Beat

And then of course she opens her mouth and ruins it all. “Going somewhere, Pulitzer?” She stands with her hands on her hips and her head angled to the side.

“You stalking me or something?” I prop my shoulder against the wall and shove my hands deep in the pockets of my cargos.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Last time I checked, I didn’t have to.” I could volley like this all day if she wants to.

“So where are you off to?” she asks again, this time with a bit more impatience.

I gesture toward my bed. “I’m about to take a nap, actually. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like, but for some reason I don’t take you for the type who likes to spoon.” I raise my eyebrows in a taunt as I wait for her rebuttal.

But she says nothing. She just stands there with arms akimbo, eyes reflecting her inner struggle over whether to believe me or not.

“I don’t trust you,” she says, throwing my own words at me as she steps backward into the hall.

“Good to know,” I tell her as I shut the door in her face. Feeling like an ass, I stand there for a moment with one hand pressed flat against the door, the other on the handle, and indecision clouding my thoughts.

I’m not sure how long we both stand on opposite sides of the slab of wood waiting the other out, but eventually, I hear her feet shuffle away and the ding of the elevator. I run a hand through my hair and flop on the bed on my back, set my alarm on my phone, and find myself staring at the cracks in the ceiling again.

I can’t help but question myself – technically she is my partner, so why am I keeping the information about the meet from her? For one thing, I’m not ready to have a partner again, not ready for some fresh-faced rookie to come waltzing into this position and fill Stella’s shoes like she never existed.

But I signed up for this, right? Begged to get back here. How can I keep shutting Beaux out when I need to let her the fuck in so I can do my job to what the brass considers the best of my ability?

Add to that this is going to be my first time out in the field since the day Stella died. Do I really want to be so preoccupied with making sure that Beaux’s okay when the last time I tried that, I failed miserably? Stella’s blood still stains my hands.

Even with all of my reasoning, my justifications keep missing the mark. I doze off, still trying to grasp the concept that if I let Beaux come along, she’s not replacing Stella.

And I’m not forgetting her either.

The sounds of the late-afternoon traffic on the streets travel up to my hotel room as I prepare for the meet. I know it’s early, but I plan to get to the meeting location ahead of time and scope out the surrounding area to make sure no surprises await. My hands have a tremor with the adrenaline coursing through me as I open the bottom drawer of the hotel dresser and shuffle clothes around until my hand connects with cold metal. With caution, I lift the Glock 19 that Pauly has kept safe for me from its hiding place.

Taking a moment, I look over the gun again like I did yesterday when he returned it. I push the magazine into the grip and pull the slide to make sure the chamber is empty before tucking it in the back of my jeans. The weight offers a false sense of comfort but one that I find necessary nonetheless.

I pull on a baggy, button-up shirt that I can leave untucked to hide the weapon in my waistband before picking up my San Diego Padres baseball cap. I should be focused on the task at hand, but the defiant look on Beaux’s face keeps flickering in my mind as I tug my hat down and tuck my sunglasses in the neck of my shirt.

I start to walk out of the room but stop to take my wallet out of my pocket and empty it of everything but my reporter’s credentials, two hundred dollars, and my driver’s license. The cash is merely bribing money in case I should fall into trouble, which is quite possible, and everything else is to identify my body should something go awry.

Wouldn’t Rafe be proud? All of that new training they gave me, and I remembered to empty my wallet. Go team!

And I don’t know why all of a sudden I’m in a foul mood. I’m getting my first taste of action again; I should be ecstatic, but I’m not because I know that even against my own common sense, I’m not going to leave this hotel without Beaux.

It’s a bittersweet sense of resignation. Having her with me means I have another set of eyes watching for danger, but it also means that I have someone to look out for besides myself.

And it’s pretty obvious by what happened to Stella that I can’t protect anyone from shit, so I’m not real thrilled with the prospect.

As I begin to walk out of my room, for some random reason I’m compelled to turn back and pick up a pad of paper. In a moment of indecision, I toy with the edge of the paper, thankful for the first time ever that our living accommodations are without housekeeping services, because that means no one will ever see this unless something happens to me. Moment of indecision over, I go with my gut and jot down where I’m going and whom I’m meeting with. It’s something I have never done before in all of my years in the danger zone, but after Stella’s death, I feel a whole lot less invincible than I used to.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Maybe it’s not.

All I know for sure is that it had better not interfere with getting the job done or I’m in for a whole fucking world of hurt.

Once I leave the room, my feet prove they have a mind of their own. Each step I take up the stairwell, I become more agitated with my obvious lack of follow-through on the promises in coming back here: first and foremost, to look out for myself and myself only. Knocking on Beaux’s door proves I can’t even do that.