Page 112 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
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Beat by beat.
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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.
