Page 55 of Hard Beat (Driven 7)
“Hmm, I think we need to blow more bubbles,” I say with a resolute nod of my head, and I flash her a smile.
“Bubbles?” she says, obviously taken aback by my response.
“Yep, bubbles. Because that means nothing has changed from a few minutes ago except now I finally know this is real between us. That what I see in your eyes and how you look at me is real. That what I feel is real.” I drop my head down for a minute, totally blown away by the moment, by the surge of inexplicable emotions within me. “Beaux… I… I…”
My voice fades off because for the slightest of seconds Stella’s comment flickers through my mind. About how when the love I feel is real, I won’t be so quick to say the words back to someone. It turns out that she was absolutely fucking right. When you really mean it, you don’t want the other person to think you said it out of obligation.
As I continue attempting to speak, to untangle myself from the asshole I feel like while I’m stuttering and falling flat, I need to make sure she doesn’t take my reaction the wrong way. It’s not that I don’t feel the same, because I do. It’s just that I don’t even know what to say or how to react, and it’s pretty damn hard to figure out when your heart is racing out of control and your mind is thinking of possibilities.
But she doesn’t let me talk. She just presses a finger against my lips and shakes her head. “I don’t want you to respond. I just want you to kiss me,” she whispers.
So I do the only thing I can. I kiss her. But not just any kiss. I take everything I feel inside and try to express it with the tenderness and reverence of my touch. And just as her fingers thread through my hair and my hand finds its way beneath her tank top, my phone disrupts the rooftop’s silence.
We both groan, but at the same time the distinct ring tells me it’s Sarge, and a quick glance at the face of my phone tells me my assumption is correct.
“What is it with him and his awful timing?” I mutter as I lift my phone to my ear, recognizing that it’s the second time he’s interrupted us. “Sarge,” I say in the way of hello to also let Beaux know I didn’t break the moment up between us over something unimportant.
“Be at the usual meeting place tomorrow. We move out at sixteen hundred hours.” His voice is clipped, all business.
“What’s going on? Yes, of course. We’ll be there,” I respond, my words trying to catch up when I’d felt like I’d lost this story and now here’s a chance to report it. “Was my source —”
“Wrong. Very wrong. No questions, Thomas. You and BJ are on the mission, but you will be removed from the action. We’re coming in for cleanup after air support moves out.”
“Can —”
“I said no questions,” he snaps, not letting me get a word out. “It’s this or nothing. I’m sure Pauly would kill for the ride if you have a problem with the terms.”
I’d say he’s under a bit of stress right now since I’ve never heard him like this.
“Ten-four. We’ll be there at sixteen hundred hours.”
As the line disconnects, I look up to meet Beaux’s widened eyes before dropping the phone on the mattress beside me. “We’re in, baby!” I exclaim, completely confused over the information that Omid gave me but reeling because that buzz is back with such a vengeance that when she raises her arms in the air and lets out a whoop, I tackle her playfully until she’s on her back and my body is flanking hers.
“I thought we were going to blow more bubbles?” She giggles, and it’s the best sound.
“Bubbles can wait. I’ve got more pressing things to do,” I tell her as I push my hips forward before smothering her laughter with my own mouth, to try and take advantage of the moment and the high of being with her tonight and what promises to be a kick-ass exclusive tomorrow. She responds without hesitation, hands hooking under my arms and over my shoulders, and actions speaking without words.
I lose myself to the moment under the cover of this desert night with the star-riddled sky above and a woman who loves me beneath me.
Chapter 19
I
replay Sarge’s phone call from last night in my mind and try to piece everything together. The crux of what I can’t figure out is why Omid would tell me the meet had happened when it hadn’t. Was he found out? Was he trying to protect me? Or more likely himself from a threat?
I remind myself I shouldn’t care because we’re getting to ride along and get the story and that’s what we are here to do. But it still bugs me to the point that I’m wasting time surfing the Internet.
But when I raise my eyes above the screen of my laptop, I stop worrying simply because it’s much more interesting to watch Beaux while she works. She’s methodical and precise and double-checks everything as she moves through her camera bag to make sure each compartment is properly filled, adding extra batteries, memory cards, lenses, and filters.
She’s in perfect silhouette against the sun’s rays behind her that are somewhat muted from the sheer panels on the window. And she’s not doing anything fascinating, yet I can’t keep my eyes off her.
Perhaps it’s the words she expressed last night that I can’t get out of my head nor stop thinking about. The ones that made me realize how very meaningless everyone else before her has been. I mean, yeah, I loved Stella, but not this way. Not the kind where I start to look at the future stretched out beyond the next assignment, the next country, or after the hard beat’s over.
I wonder if this is how she’d look on the deck in my backyard with the ocean behind her: wisps of hair dancing around her face, a drink in her hand, and the freedom to do as we please without the danger that hinders and plagues our every movement here. Could we survive as a couple in the everyday world? With real life and the problems it creates?
The thought makes me shake my head, because of course we could. We’ve spent every day together for weeks on end in the tight confines of the hotel. Sure our relationship – because yes, I can most definitely admit that this is a relationship now – is still in the proverbial butterflies-in-the-stomach stage, but we are under a constant pressure here that doesn’t normally occur in the real world. We’ve gotten annoyed with each other, figured out how to give each other space, and passed the ever-important phase of don’t-push-each-other’s-buttons-on-purpose.
Suddenly I scrub a hand through my hair, completely and utterly shocked at my train of thought. The no-go compartment
