Hard Beat

“Thank you.”

“No thank-you needed. A story is a story, but our guys’ safety comes first.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to Stella.”

“Thanks.” The line falls quiet and I hate the silence, so the next step of our dance. “So I have a favor to ask you.”

“Ahhh.” He laughs. “No, you ca

“C’mon, Sarge. I’m bored to tears here. Help out your favorite journalist.”

His sigh comes through loud and clear, and I know he’s thinking about it. At a time when the military hates the post–Iraqi Freedom world where embedded journalists are allowed, the press are considered both a blessing and a curse. When things go well, our presence is a good thing for the men in office because they have an unbiased commercial to use to rally support for the millions of dollars they are spending to combat terrorism. On the other hand, when things go to hell in a handbasket, there’s a documented blow-by-blow of the botched mission that can either turn public tide against the military objective as a whole or find a single person or unit as a scapegoat to blame the error on.

It’s a fucked-up position to be in: to tell the truth and gain trust, all the while having the pressure from the public and the politicos to skew it to their liking. But I’m also aware I’ve earned a reputation with Sarge for not oversensationalizing situations and being fair to his men and their missions.

And I’ll use this unique status to my advantage every chance I can get. He’s required to have so many embedded reporters with him a month, and he prefers to use me over others. His silence tells me that he hasn’t had anyone ride with him in a while, and that means I’ll get my turn sooner rather than later.

“There’s nothing going on but knock and talks right now,” he says, referring to U.S. military knocking on neighborhood doors and talking to the residents to try and gain information on what the political undercurrent is in that specific area. “My guys are lying low.” I groan because this means I’m going to be stuck in this goddamn hotel. “But, how about you come out, hit the range?”

“Are you throwing me a bone here? Something to get me out in the sunshine for a bit?”

“As long as you don’t start humping my leg, we’re all good.”

I don’t hold back the laugh, excited that I get to leave the confines of the hotel and the overly paranoid eyes of my counterparts. “Deal. But I have a plus one. My new photog. She has clearance and everything, but —”

“She? How come you’re the only one who gets to score female photographers?”

“Because I’m just that good,” I tease.

“Is she hot?”

“Sarge…”

“Ah. So you’re humping her leg, then.” I snort because his comment is pretty fu

As much as his comment irritates me when I shouldn’t care, it does, but I get it. I’m in the same boat most of the time when I’m abroad as well. Nothing but the same pool of women to look at.

“Yeah, she’s no hardship on the eyes, that’s for sure,” I answer reluctantly before we firm up where to meet.

Beaux’s shooting the shit with some other people in the lobby when I find her. And how in the hell does she manage to look hot in camouflage cargo pants and a tan tank top? I mean what female can wear masculine colors like that and have the word gorgeous come to mind when you see her? Obviously Beaux Croslyn.

Shut it down, Thomas. Just because you think she takes great photos doesn’t mean you have to like her. Or like anything else about her.

I wait behind her, expecting her to sense that I’m there, and watch her hair ripple down her back as she moves her head. It’s a bad idea, because that affords me the chance to take notice of every line of her body and how those ugly pants hug her as she talks to the group around her. The thoughts that flood my head are going to get me into nothing but trouble, so I decide to intervene.

“Hey, Chatty Cathy? Let’s head out.” I see her stiffen at my words before she slowly turns around to face me, one eyebrow lifted and lips pursed.

“You must have the wrong person. I quit. Remember?”

“Yeah well, Rafe refuses to accept your resignation and I was wrong, so let’s go.” I lift my chin over my shoulder toward the front doors. I figure it’s better to say it and get it over with. Then we can move on.

The problem is, she doesn’t move. Nope, she just crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me like I’m crazy. Even better, she’s got an audience around her to witness the emasculation that comes with admitting I was in the wrong regardless of whether they know about the circumstances.

“I think I’m hearing things because that sounded sort of like an apology, but in no way did I hear the actual words I’m sorry fall from your mouth,” she says, holding her hand to her ear in a childlike ma

Shit. She’s going to make me work for it. Then again, why would I think she’d just roll over and let it go since we’ve butted heads since day one? Or I guess I should say since the first orgasm.

I shift uncomfortably, but then recall the pictures she took of me and her undeniable talent. I’ve been a prick to her, doubting her skill when she obviously can hold her own. Man up, Ta

“I’m sorry,” I offer at the same time I hold her memory card out to her as some kind of lame peace offering. She looks down at my hand and then back up to meet my gaze, her eyes asking me if I looked at the photos.

“You’ve got a good eye.” It’s not much, but I’m not big on compliments and fuck if I’m going to start pulling off my jacket to cover puddles for her just yet.

She stares, hands on her hips, head angled to the side while her eyes measure whether or not I’m sincere. I guess she decides that I am, because her eyes flicker to everyone around her as she gauges what she can ask with an audience. “Where are we going?”

“I thought it was time that I show you the lay of the land.” I nod my head toward the door.

“Okay…” She draws the word out, clearly unsure what I’m telling her. But it looks like she’s on board.

The security at the base can be daunting the first time you experience it, but Beaux handles it like a pro. What she’s not liking is how I’m not telling her why we are here.

As we’re escorted via Humvee through the maze of tilt-ups and plywood barracks, I glance over and watch her take in the enormity of this military city for the first time. She leans toward the window to see better, eyes hidden by sunglasses, and when she finally looks over and meets my assessing gaze, she smiles softly before immediately turning back to take in the nonstop hustle and bustle of the base.

I stare at her a bit longer while her focus is elsewhere, allowing myself to get lost in the lines of her posture and wonder what she’s hiding from, when she steps behind the camera herself. Stella used the device as a shield to protect her from the fucked-up reality of her life before she was adopted. I wonder what it is that Beaux hides from.

It’s none of my business. Not prying is a noble notion, but I’m curious nonetheless.

Once we reach the outskirts of the base where there’s a secured shooting range, Sarge is already standing there, stiff and dressed in desert camo head to toe. I ignore the inquisitive look that Beaux gives me as we climb out of the transport, and I extend my hand to him in greeting.

“Good to see you, man.”

“Likewise. Sarge, this is BJ Croslyn. BJ, this is Sergeant Jones… or Sarge for short.” I catch her inquisitive look over my introducing her as BJ, but I don’t plan on him knowing her well enough to use her full name.

Sarge extends his hand to Beaux.

“Nice to meet you,” she says with a wide smile, but her eyes are still taking stock of her surroundings.