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K. Bromberg’s next steamy standalone romance,
HARD BEAT
Coming from Piatkus in November 2015
A hand slaps me on the back firmly. It’s one of many in an impromptu celebration to greet me in the bar of the hotel.
“Welcome back, you crazy fucker!”
Burn out, my ass.
I turn to see Pauly: broad grin, hair falling over his thick glasses, and belly protruding. “Man, it’s good to see you!” As I turn to shake his hand, I’m instantly pulled into his arms for a rough embrace.
He pulls back and cuffs the side of my cheek. “You okay?” It’s the same look that everyone has been giving me and it’s driving me fucking insane. Pity mixed with sadness. But Pauly is allowed to look at me like that since he was there before all the shit hit the fan. And coming back here, I feared this moment, meeting him face-to-face—as if he’d judge me, think it was my fault … but all I feel right now is relief.
It feels so damn good to be back here, with people who get me, who understand why I’d return to work when so many others think I should have given it up to stay home for good. They don’t get that once you’re a nomad, you’re always a nomad. Or that home isn’t where your house is necessarily; it’s where you feel comfortable. And, yes, that comfort can alter over time—your needs shift and your wants change—but I feel more like myself than I have since Stella’s death.
I pull my thoughts back to the here and now, to Pauly and the stale cigarette smoke that hangs in the air around me and the pungent scent of spices coming in through the open windows of the bar.
“I’m better now that I’m back here.” I motion for him to sit down on the barstool next to me.
“Thank God for that. Took Rafe long enough.”
“Almost four months.”
“Shit,” he says in sympathy, knowing what a big deal that is to someone like me.
“Yeah. Tell me about it. The first two months were a mandatory leave of absence, but then, once I threatened to go to CNN, he said he was speeding things up…. Then, fuck, they made me go take another Centurian course.” The Centurian course was a class for foreign correspondents about what to do in hostile environments and how to handle the multitude of things that can go wrong at any given time. “And then I was told they couldn’t find a photographer who wanted to travel to this paradise…. It was one damn thing after another.”
“So in other words he was dragging his feet so he could get you back here on his time frame.”
“Exactly.” I nod my head and bring my bottle up to my lips. “He thought I needed a break—probably afraid that I’m going to burn out….” I motion for the bartender to bring us another couple of beers.
“We’re all going to at some point. In the meantime”—he taps the neck of his beer bottle against mine—“might as well get our fix.”
“Amen, brother. So, tell me what the hell has been happening while I’ve been gone.” The need to change the subject is paramount for me right now. I know Stella is going to be everywhere here, but I need a way to make her not so present in my mind so I can focus on doing my job.
At least it’s a good theory.
“I’m hearing that some new players have moved into the game and that there’s a high-official meet in the works, but we can talk shop later. Right now we need to welcome you back properly.” Pauly raises his voice to shout the last few words, and in agreement the crowd of people around us, mostly men, raise their glasses and call out a few “aye, ayes.”
The excitement around me is palpable. It doesn’t take much in this place to give people a reason to celebrate. We all live on that razor-thin edge of unpredictability in this godforsaken land, so we take the chances we get to party, because who knows when we’ll get another one? For all we know, tomorrow we could be on air-raid-siren lockdown in the hotel or out in the field, embedded on a mission with a military unit.
When I turn back around the bartender is busily filling the row of shot glasses on the bar in front of me with Fireball whisky. History tells me that this row will be the first of many in tonight’s welcome-back celebration. My inclination is to chug back the first shot and then slowly work my way out of the bar and to my room.
It’s been a long-ass few days. Between flights through multiple time zones and then a transport into the heart of the city, plus trying to reconnect with my sources to let them know I’m back in town so I can grease their palms some, I’m exhausted, exhilarated, and feeling a little more like myself, back in the thick of things, doing exactly what I love.
“C’mon, T Squared,” Carson yells as he slaps his hand on the bar. Hearing the nickname, which refers to my initials, is like a welcome mat laid before me, and right then I know there is no way in hell I’m skipping out on this party.
“I’m game if you’re game!” I hold a glass up for him and wait for everyone close to us to grab a shot. The jostling of more people patting my shoulders, accompanied by “Welcome back” comments, causes the amber liquid to slosh over the side of the shot glass.
“Shh. Shh. Shh,” Pauly instructs our friends as he stands on his chair, holding up his own glass. “Tanner Thomas, we are so glad to see your ugly ass back in this shit hole we can’t seem to leave. I’m sure once you hand our asses to us time and again by getting the stories first, we’ll want you to leave, but for now we’re glad you’re here. Slainte!” As soon as he finishes the toast, the room around us erupts into cheers before we all toss back the whisky.
I welcome the burn, and before the sting even abates, my glass is already being refilled. When I look up from the glass my eyes lock on a woman I hadn’t noticed at the other side of the bar. The momentary connection affords me a glimpse of dark hair and light eyes as she lifts her drink and nods to me, but as soon as I register she’s doing it on purpose, someone moves and blocks my view of her.
But I keep my eyes fixed in that direction, wanting another glance of the mysterious woman. She doesn’t look familiar to me, but at the same time, something more than curiosity pulls at me. It’s been four long months—she could be anybody—but it bugs me that I don’t know who she is.
“Ready, Tan?” Pauly’s glass taps against mine, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Bottoms up, baby.” God, it feels good to be back in the swing of things. Listening to the guys’ war stories, getting up to speed on the shit that’s happened on the grassroots level that no one back at home has any clue about.
The whisky goes down a little smoother the second and third times while our crowd gets a little bigger as people are coming in after fulfilling their assignments. And each wave of people joining us ushers in another round of shots.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the familiar atmosphere, but soon I feel like I can breathe easier than I have in months. I think of Stella intermittently through the night, how much she’d have loved this show of unity between all these people competing for the next big story, and for the first time in forever I can smile at her memory.
“So, how long are you here for this time?” Pauly asks.
“I don’t know.” I blow out a long breath and lean back in my chair, my finger tracing the lines of condensation down the still-full glass of water in front of me. Whisky tastes so much better tonight. “This might be my last time—I don’t know.” My own words surprise me. A confession from the combination of the nostalgia and my own mortality examined through an alcohol-tinted microscope.
“Quit talking like that. This shit is in your blood. You can’t live without it.”
“True.” I glance across the room fleetingly while I nod my head slowly in agreement. “But, dude, a dog only has so many lives.”
“I guess that’s why I prefer pussies. They’ve got nine of ’em.”
“Christ, Pauly.” I choke on the words. “I prefer
to eat it rather than live it.”
His arm goes around my shoulder as his laugh fills my ears. “I missed the fuck out of you, Thomas. Speaking of …” His hand grips me tighter before he lifts his chin to direct my line of sight. “The hottie at two o’clock has been eyeing you all night.”
I shrug the comment away, even though a small part of me—one that I’m not too happy with right now—hopes that he’s referring to the woman I’d glimpsed earlier. I’d told myself that she’d left. But secretly I’m hoping I was wrong. “I’m sure as hell hoping when you say ‘hot one,’ you’re referring to a woman and not an IED.”
“Cheers to that truth. Scary shit,” he says, again tapping his glass against mine, “and no, I’m referring to dark hair, great rack, killer body—”
“No, thanks,” I cut him off but my eyes dart to where I saw her sitting earlier and immediately chastise myself.
“You still seeing what’s-her-name?” he asks with the same indifference as I felt toward her.
“Nah …” I let my voice drift off, my thoughts veering to our last fight, when she accused me of cheating on her with Stella. “She took an assignment monitoring North Korea.”
“She thought you and Stella were messing around?”
The thought brings a bittersweet smile to my face. Memories of Stella and me, young and in love, flash through my mind. It feels like forever ago. Probably because it was. Two young twentysomethings on our first assignment with no one else to help occupy our time. Lust turned to sweet love, and then the slow realization that we weren’t any good as a couple. Then came an awkward phase in which we had to get over the bitterness associated with lust gone wrong, but through it all we really were a great team, reporter and photojournalist. But eventually, after enough time passed, we realized we were really good at the best-friend thing. We were inseparable for almost ten years, except for the odd assignment that parted us by pulling us to different places, and despite the introduction of significant others.
“Yeah, I get it. I’d probably think the same thing, but”—I shrug—“you’ve seen us together. Know how Stell and I were—”
“Mutt and Jeff,” he mumbles as we both fall into a short silence, thinking of her. “I’m sorry about what’s-her-name. I liked her.”
“No, you didn’t.” I laugh loudly because his statement is the furthest thing from the truth. He just nods his head in agreement—everyone knew they didn’t get along. “But thanks. I think it had run its course before she changed assignments. You know what relationships are like with what we do.”
“Man, do I know it. What am I on here? Wife number three? Four? You’ve got the right idea with the let’s-have-fun versus the let’s-get-hitched mentality … but, uh, she just looked over here again and, fuck me, I’d make her wife number five for the night if she’d let me.”
The deep belly laugh he emits pulls a reluctant chuckle out of me, and it takes everything I have not to glance in the woman’s direction. Resistance is futile. Eventually I give in to curiosity and glance up, planning to avert my eyes before she looks our way again.
Green eyes meet mine and her dark hair is pulled back into a messy knot that should look unkempt but makes her sexy somehow. When our eyes connect, her lips fall open in surprise before they slowly correct themselves into a soft smile. I nod my head at her acknowledgment and then casually look away, hating and loving the pang in my gut that stirs to life.
I’m a man used to living on instinct, and something about her—yet nothing I can put my finger on—tells me I should steer clear. So why the fuck do I glance back up to see whether she’s still looking? And why do I care?
“I’m sure you would,” I finally say in answer to Pauly, a little slow in my response.
“She’s hot. I mean, how often do we get someone that fine in this neck of the woods? Damn, dude, her eyes are back on you now. She’s seriously checking you out.” He snickers.
“Yeah, and she’s probably some sheik’s wife. No, thanks—I’ll keep the hand they’d cut off just for looking at her.” I toss my napkin on the bar at the same time the barkeep slides another round in front of us.
“Better your hand than something else,” Pauly deadpans.
“Got that right.” I laugh.
“I might take the risk for her.” I glance over and look him up and down. He can’t be serious. “Okay. Maybe not.”
“Maybe not.” I scrub my hand over my clean-shaven face, knowing the smooth skin will soon be replaced by the scruff that just kind of happens when you live here. “She one of us?”
“She’s been here about two weeks. Freelance, I think. Don’t know much about her, but heard she’s a loose cannon of sorts. Always off on her own, taking unnecessary risks and getting into people’s business. I’ve steered clear other than a nod in the lobby.”
I grunt in response, because that’s just what I intend to do: steer clear of her. Too many newbies come in gung ho, trying to get the next big story, and end up getting someone hurt. Just like what happened to Stella.
“Well, for what it matters, loose cannon or not, I think you should go for it. She’ll probably be gone sooner rather than later, which is always a good thing—prevents attachment, and, shit, you never know when your next chance to taste those nine lives will be.” He winks at me and I can’t help but snort.
“Thanks, but I’ve got enough to worry about with how to figure out my new photog coming in tomorrow.” I roll my eyes and bring the shot glass back to my partially numb lips. My mind veers back to the fact that it’s been ten years since I’ve had to break in anybody new. I’m not looking forward to it.
“Well, tough shit, man,” he says, patting me on the back, “because she’s making a move for you.”
The resigned sigh falls from my mouth at the same time she slides onto the stool next to me. Gone is the distinct smell of this crowded bar, replaced by a clean and flowery scent as her perfume surrounds me. I keep my head down, eyes focused on the scratches in the wood bar, knowing that I don’t want the small zing I feel to flourish. At all.
But of course the longer we sit here, with me looking down and the full weight of her stare on me, I know I’m in a losing battle. I’ve got plenty of fight in me, just not for her right now. I need to head this off at the pass.
“Whatever you’re looking for, I’m not him.” I try not to sound too hostile, but my voice lacks any kind of warmth. I’ve been here, done this before. The newbies try to butter me up to get the scoop on everything inside town—and coming on the heels of the mess with Stella, I’m not giving anything to anybody.
“I don’t believe I’m looking for anything.” Her voice sounds as smooth as silk, with a hint of rasp. Why did I know she was going to have a sexy voice?
“Good.”
“Whiskey sour,” she says to the waiter, and I have to admit the order kind of surprises me. “And put it on his tab.”
I immediately look up to see the smirk on her face and the taunting glimmer in her green eyes. Intrigue has me keeping my gaze on her because I admire the fact she came back at me with her own line instead of scurrying away to lick her wounds. Can’t say the freelancer doesn’t have some chops.
“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” And the truth of the matter is I don’t give a flying fuck about the drink. I would’ve bought it anyway out of plain manners, but something tells me I just walked right into her well-maneuvered game, and fuck me if I’m going to stay here.
“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” She raises her eyebrows as accepts the drink from the bartender, then brings it to her lips. And of course my eyes veer down to watch her run the tip of her tongue over the drop of liquid that falls there.
My mind drifts to the pleasure she could bring with her mouth and her tongue … purely out of male fascination.
“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” I grunt out the words, unsur
e why I’m pushing her away so hard when she’s done nothing wrong.
“So you’re the one, huh?”
Her comment stops me with my drink midway to my mouth, and my thought process falters as I slowly look over to her, trying to figure out what she means. “The one?”
“Yep, the one who every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time.”
I take in the glossy black hair pulled back so that little pieces fall down to frame her face and soften her strong cheekbones as I mull over her comment. When our eyes meet, there’s defiance laced with amusement in hers, and as much as I want to face her challenge head on, I won’t. Not here, not now—and definitely not with a room packed with other journalists who are watching my every move to see if I’m going to fall apart in some way or another.
I motion to the bottle of Fireball sitting across from me and look at the bartender as I slide my money toward him. He picks up the bottle and sets it in front of me at the same time that I scoot my chair back. When I grab the neck of the bottle, I look back and give her a half-cocked smile. “Yep, I’m the one.”
And without so much as another word, I head out of the bar. The guys give me shit as I walk past about being a pansy-ass until I hold up the whisky bottle to show them I’m not really turning in early. Pauly catches my eye and nods, knowing where I’m headed and that I need the solitude I can find there.
The fucking problem, though, is even as I ascend the steps in the dank stairwell, the only thing I can think about is her.
K. Bromberg, Sweet Ache
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