Hard Beat

“Over my dead body. Who I text is none of your damn business,” she says, her tone even with each word.

“I beg to differ.”

“Differ all you want. This is a job, not a strip search, so if you have a problem with how I do it, talk to my boss.”

“Strip search? And I thought we were leaving sexual harassment off the table.” I can’t help the sarcastic comment. I’ll push her buttons all goddamn day if it ends up getting me the truth. “If you’re not texting anyone, then it shouldn’t be a problem to show me, right?” I step toward her, and she moves to put her hand on her back pocket where her phone is resting.

Fuck yes, I’m having an asshole moment here, but I hate that gut instinct that tells me there is something more to her explanation. It’s the same instinct I’ve used to make a career out of getting the story no one else can get.

The worst part is, though, whereas I’d expect someone to shout at the top of their lungs how crazy I am at the accusation, she just keeps her voice soft, unbelieving. I want fiery denials and someone who fights against me to prove that they’re lying to keep their cover. But she’s doing nothing of the sort, and it’s what I expected.

And I might live my life by the unexpected, but this time, I’m not too happy about it.

Beaux falls silent and just shakes her head. “Obviously you have trust issues. I’m not the one who screwed you over, and I refuse to stand here and have the shit verbally beaten out of me for whoever it was. You want another photographer? Call Rafe. You want to know why I took a picture of Omid? See for yourself.” She reaches for her camera and opens a little door on the side of it. She messes with something momentarily as I try to figure out what she’s doing.

When Beaux finishes, she looks me in the eye as she extends the memory card out to me. I refuse to take it, even though I’m curious because now I suddenly have a feeling that I’m going to end up being the royal prick when all is said and done. When I just hold her gaze, she purses her lips and gives a resigned sigh before walking back to the nightstand. She sets the card down and heads to the door, but stops before stepping through it.

“I quit.” She announces the words in a quiet whisper, but they reach across the distance and hit me like a sucker punch as she leaves.

So I stare at the closed door for a few moments, completely at a loss for words over how the day turned us from partners to fighting to this, completely disassociated. All things considered, I should be happy; I just got what I wanted. The temptress who played me for the fool is now gone, and I can continue as a one-man jack-of-all-trades.

So why do I not feel victorious? Why do I keep glancing at the memory card, wondering what it is she wants me to see?

Don’t do it, Tanner. Don’t walk into another one of her mind games by doing what she intentionally left for you to look at.

Screw that. And yet curiosity killed the damn cat. Fucking cats and their nine lives.

Chapter 8

“S

he – she quit?” Rafe’s stuttering tells me he’s displeased with the sequence of events. And of course he has every right to be. “Is it that hard to keep your asshole tendencies to a minimum? Fix this, Tanner.”

When I hear the dial tone in my ear, I don’t even flinch at the fact that he didn’t give me a chance to explain myself. Instead I’m transfixed by the photos on my computer screen. I keep the slide show running over the thirty or so pictures, mesmerized by what Beaux has captured in such a short time frame.

After I successfully ignored the memory card for most of the day, it sat there taunting me when I came back from my rooftop haven where I escaped into the memories there to calm down. And of course curiosity got the best of me, the need to know rooting itself into my thoughts until I couldn’t resist any longer. When I inserted the memory card into the computer, I was shocked when my own image looked back. At first I was pissed that she took pictures of me. It took me a few seconds to realize she snapped them yesterday from across the lobby when I was looking out the window lost in thought.

And the anger and outrage that I’d usually hold on to with my type A personality dissipates when I look at the pictures again. I can’t stay angry. She captured something in my eyes – more than just the expression on my face – that reflects everything I’m feeling inside but thought I was hiding so well: loneliness, anger, bitterness, grief, and temerity. You can’t escape the truth in your own reflection – and everything she’s drawn out through the curve of the lens hits me like an inescapable ton of bricks.

I can’t stop staring at my image, for the first time really comprehending how other people see me, and when I’m finally able to tear my eyes from the lines and shadows of pain and loss written all over my face, I click the next set of pictures. The images depict the daily aspects of life here that we saw on the way to the meet but in a unique perspective. Objects are crisp but people are blurred; yet the images tell a story about each person with such a definitive clarity, I’m overwhelmed. It’s eerie and beautiful and haunting and poignant all at the same time.

Each image is more compelling than the last. Each one holds my interest and engages my imagination. And it scares me that she can see through things so well, because that means she’s probably seeing everything that I’m trying to hide.

I proceed through those images, and when I come to the picture of Omid, I’m staggered once again. Chills chase over my flesh as I stare at his face close up and see the exact same thing in his eyes and expression that she captured in mine. Identical.