Hard Beat

For a split second I freeze. Memories collide with the present, and I swear to God I’m taken back to the frenzy of trying to find Stella. Sounds and smells and sights that don’t exist fill my head, fuck me up, until another spurt of gunfire followed by men shouting breaks through the hold the memories have over me.

Instinct takes over immediately. The need to survive, overcome, and live fuels my movements. I duck down and run for cover on the other side of the Stryker parked behind me, while thoughts of Beaux commingled with frantic panic fill my head.

The need to find her consumes me. An eerie silence falls over the village, dust particles dancing in the air, and my ears ring. My heart pounds in my ears and my blood feels like it’s mixed with jet fuel as it races through my body, causing my hands to shake, muscles to vibrate with fear-laced adrenaline.

Beaux.

I need to get to her.

She’s my only thought, my only motivation. It feels like minutes, but it’s probably only a few seconds of silence before I start to leave the cover of the vehicle to go and find her. As I step around the rear of the personnel carrier, I’m yanked backward by my vest and pushed through the open back doors of the Stryker at the same time the air around us erupts with more gunfire.

I scramble to get up and scurry back off, but Sarge is in my face, guys piling in around us. “Rosco’s got her,” he shouts, pushing me farther into the transport to make room.

And yeah, I believe him, but at the same time it’s pure chaos out there. How do I know that Rosco really has her? How do I know she’s not hurt and injured? My mind screams at me to shove the soldiers out of the way, get to her somehow, whatever it takes to make sure that she’s okay. Before the doors are even shut, though, the Stryker is on the move, and my chance is gone.

I strain to hear Sarge on the radio. The words unstable, insurgents, too open, are being shouted, and with each bump over the rough terrain, the doubt lodges further into my psyche about whether Beaux is really okay. But I’ve got no way to interrupt him, to ask him to call Rosco and make sure he has her. Sarge is in charge of getting his unit of men to safety, and right now he’s got no spare attention to pay to a reporter who signed on for the risk.

Each jar, each bump, and each mile stretches into what feels like an eternity as my mind races and my cell phone shows no signal, its eerie silence making me want to stomp it beneath my boots in frustration. My watch is not my friend either because each minute that ticks past, each mile that we put between us and the village, is more time and space from wherever the fuck Beaux is with her curiosity to take more damn pictures.

When my phone alerts a text, all of my panic and worry reach a boiling point as I glance down to see who’s sent it. I sag against the side of the carrier in momentary relief before all of the tumultuous emotions inside me morph into anger.

Are you okay? I’m worried. I’m with Rosco. We were under heavy fire.

Yes. I’m okay.

I hit Send on my reply, but my signal fails again and I have no way of knowing whether it was delivered.

“She good?” Sarge shouts in my ear when he sees me looking at my phone. I nod, before resting my head back in exhaustion, the adrenaline still coursing through me, but at least I know she’s safe.

For now.

I swear I’m going to wear a hole in the goddamn floor as I pace back and forth waiting for Beaux to get back. Not only were we separated during the flare up at the village, but then the convoy she was riding in had some mechanical issues. So now we’re going on over an hour that I’ve been back safe and sound while she’s out there. Alone. Without me being able to protect her.

And I’m not stupid enough to think that I could save her from all of the shit that can happen out there, but at the same time, the not knowing is killing me.

Pauly watches me from afar. Poor bastard was the first to greet me and congratulate me for the exclusive on the big mission. It also meant he was the first in line for me to rip into since I had no one else to take out my worry and frustration on. And thank fuck we’ve been friends so long he knows something’s wrong, can assume what’s bothering me given my history and that I came back without Beaux, and won’t hold it against me. Shit. I know I’ll feel bad later and I’ll buy him a few rounds to apologize, but right now it’s the farthest thing from my mind. Beaux is front and center.

Every time the doors to the lobby open, I look up, then curse when it’s not her. I’ve been running the gamut of emotions, hating this feeling of unease that riots within me, knowing I won’t settle down internally until I set eyes on her.

And then there’s the anger I hold out like a shield around me. Of course she doesn’t deserve it; deep down I know that, but I can’t bring myself to care because if she hadn’t asked to take more pictures, she would have been with me when shit went south, and she’d be beside me right now.

“Tanner.”

I whip around at the sound of Beaux’s voice saying my name. And of course she’s standing there in the lobby, looking no worse for wear, with her camera bag strap slung from one shoulder to opposite hip with her hair disheveled. In fact her cheeks are flushed with color and her eyes alive from the adrenaline rush. Even I can see it across the distance of fake marble floors between us.

Still, my feet are rooted in place as relief floods me, and the proverbial breath I never realized I was holding whooshes out. Neither one of us moves; our eyes lock and say so many things and nothing all at the same time. We’re both guarded because there’s no denying that what just happened made whatever that fucking stirring is deep down I have for her ten times stronger. And I think she feels it too.