Hard Beat

I’m all for dating smart women. Shit, intelligence is a major turn-on for me. But time and again I keep feeling like I’m being duped here even though her actions are not really one hundred percent her fault.

Or they are and she’s just smart enough to make me think they aren’t.

Fuck! This woman is driving me crazy. What the hell? I never doubt myself, always trust that gut instinct of mine, and yet right now she’s making me question so many damn things, it’s not even funny.

And then there’s her little show with Omid. First, shocking the shit out of both of us when she piped into the conversation in his native language so that even if he was trying to be quiet and only share information with me in the little bit of Dari that I know, she understood every single thing he said. Add to that she takes a fucking picture of him. A picture! My trust quotient with her just went down a whole helluva lot. She was freelance. Her stunt begs me to question if she still is, or maybe she’s trying to chase the story too and will break it first, steal it right out from under me, and get the notoriety herself.

The more I think about this scenario, the more each bump along the uneven pavement lodges the idea firmly into my psyche. Pauly said she was freelance for a few weeks before I got here. Was she freelance as just a photog or as a reporter too? Was she just biding time to find some sorry fucking sap she could mooch off and steal what she didn’t earn?

“Tanner.” Her voice calls softly from the seat behind me, my name an apology and a question all mixed into one.

“Don’t talk,” I growl, my head spinning a mile a minute. The man who never gets rattled is fucking rattled, and not because of a goddamn mortar strike or IED but rather because of this woman. The only thing she has going for her at the moment is that at least she listens and shuts up.

This time.

We make it to the hotel without incident. I pay the driver and am out of the car and striding into the hotel without giving her a second glance. I know she’s safe since we’re at the hotel but couldn’t care less what she does now. She thinks chivalry is dead… I’ll show her just how dead it is. Let her fend for herself in this godforsaken place.

Anger and theories fuel my every step as I stride into the alleyway at the rear of the hotel where I had the driver drop us off. We have to forgo a lobby entrance because making one would mean we’d have to pass by Pauly and the crew who would know something was up since we were out and about rather than locked in our rooms.

All I focus on is calming my temper, but the clipped sound of her steps behind me echoes off the walls around us.

“Tanner. Tanner.” More footsteps. “Wait. Please. Wait!”

I ignore her, don’t want to deal with her, but when she grabs my biceps, I’m primed for the fight and ready to unload on her. I whirl around and have her back up against the wall within a heartbeat.

“You want the fucking story, you work for it your goddamn self.” My hands are on the sides of her shoulders, and my face is mere inches from hers. “You think you can waltz into my meet and take the fuck over?”

In an attempt to control my fury that’s spiraling out of control, I release my grip and stalk away from her a few feet. I’m loyal to a fault, so to feel betrayed is something I don’t take lightly. When I turn back around, Beaux’s shoulders are pressed against the wall, her eyes are wide, and her mouth is slightly open – shock written all over her face – and the words I’m about to shout die on my lips.

She looks like a frightened child.

It takes me a second to see through the haze of my fury to realize I’m fucking losing it. I’m standing with fists clenched and more angry than I’ve been in some time, wanting to throw a punch like she’s some damn guy. But I know beyond a doubt she’s so far from that, it’s comical.

I roll my shoulders and try to rein my emotions in because the woman makes me a goddamn lunatic. Add to that I don’t know what to say or do besides shake the truth out of her, and that’s not a fucking option.

I’m not sure if it’s the look on her face or the memories dredged up in my mind, but I have a flash of clarity that causes me to take a step back. I’m out of control, my anger over what happened to Stella is being transferred to Beaux, and the certainty I had ten minutes ago that she was trying to steal my story now has more holes in it than a fishing net.

I begin to speak, but instead just shake my head, run my fingers through my hair, and blow out a breath as I turn on my heel and stalk into the hotel. All I can think about as I jog up the stairwell is how my always sure self is nonexistent these days and how fucking hard that is for a man used to being in control of everything – work, relationships, instinct.

When I shove the door of my room open, it slams into the wall behind it. I push it closed with my shoulder, but I’m so distracted that all I can think about is hitting the gym to try and work this all out of my system before taking a scalding hot shower to wash away the day and the doubt that feels like a damn constant since I’ve been back here.

I forgo unbuttoning my shirt, grab hold of the back of my collar, and pull it over my head, tossing it to the bed behind me without glancing back. In a practiced habit, I pull the Glock from my waistband.

“You had a gun?” Beaux’s quiet but surprised voice cuts through the tension pulling me so damn tight, a fucking breeze might cause me to snap.

I grunt in response but look toward her standing in my door anyway. Her head scarf is off, hair pulled back like that first night we met with little curls falling softly on those defined cheekbones of hers, and sincerity is reflected in her eyes that keep darting to my weapon on the tabletop beside me.