Out of the Blue

by Kathryn Nolan

  The spark of warm lightness between us vanished.

  “Gary Duncan, the boss you were held hostage with?” I asked. Apparently, the theme of today was unprepared. If I wasn’t ready for my ex-husband’s charm and kindness again, I absolutely wasn’t ready to revisit the most horrific forty-eight hours of my life.

  And the beginning of the end for Cope and me.

  “Yes, that Gary Duncan,” he said, staring at the ground. “It was Marty’s style of pleasant bullshit. Gary had that same happy humanitarian vibe. His company wasn’t as famous as Aerial, but personally he was loved, adored, highly respected. Squeaky clean. But, as we learned after…” He cleared his throat again. “He was up to his eyeballs in all kinds of shady, illegal activity that he hid behind his pristine reputation. Until he couldn’t hide anymore. And the bad guys came to collect.”

  I winced. “I really don’t like that comparison.”

  “Me neither.”

  I studied his body language. It was rigid, mirroring my own reaction in the car earlier, when I’d talked about my parents. He hadn’t hesitated to comfort me, even though it must have violated several specific rules in the bodyguard-client relationship.

  “Are you… okay?” I broached. Tentative.

  He cocked his head. “About what?”

  “Thinking about Gary. I imagine the reminder of being held at gun-point for two days isn’t enjoyable.”

  I was treading carefully. We were blowing on the embers of our worst and hardest disagreement, the turning point from where our relationship had never recovered.

  Cope shrugged. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because you went through a nightmare,” I said softly.

  It was like snapping my fingers. His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. “I was fine, Serena. And I am fine.”

  The syllables of my name sounded bitter and unforgiving. Just like our final few months together. At the time, watching my husband hide his fear and pain while simultaneously shutting me out had created a yawning cavern of sadness inside of me. And an urgent desire to fix the situation for him, even though he asked me not to. That same urge flared to life now before I could stop it.

  “If you ever needed a… a friend… to talk to about those things, I’m here.”

  Cope shook his head and said, “Thank you, but I don’t need to talk about anything.”

  A buzzing voice in my brain cautioned that revisiting an old, painful argument in this very kitchen wasn’t a smart idea.

  I ignored it.

  “Something is up with your job, you said so yourself. Maybe talking it out or admitting that what happened to you was—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he interrupted. “And don’t need to. And are we really going to get into another argument about our chosen careers?”

  I felt my cheeks redden. “Actually, I’m trying to talk things out. You’re the one arguing this time.”

  His eyes narrowed at me in a standoff we both knew well. “’Round and ’round,” he said. “That’s how you described us this morning, right? You want to tell me how dangerous my job is and demand that I quit. And I’m only going to remind you that your career is much more dangerous than mine and ask you to—”

  “Don’t,” I said sharply.

  He nodded with a humorless expression. “Of course, we’re ending our first day working together by rehashing the same fight we had outside the gym.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I said, regretting the cynical vibration in my voice. Regretting that Cope and I could only reconnect so much before stumbling back into our worst patterns.

  It was infuriating.

  He opened the front door and rubbed the back of his neck, irritated. “Listen, I have to go actually do my job now. But I’ll talk to Quentin tonight and see what I can find out, okay?”

  “Sure, whatever,” I said.

  He looked like he wanted to say more. I wanted to say more. But instead he stepped outside and shut the door behind him. I sagged against the countertop, feeling utterly deflated.

  So far, having an ex-husband as a bodyguard had been an irresistibly sexy temptation and a mind-fuck of emotional baggage.

  Both were distractions I couldn’t afford.

  Yet both were distractions I couldn’t seem to avoid.

  15

  Cope

  Quentin opened his front door and brightened when he saw me.

  “Now what a pleasant surprise,” he said in his thick Southern accent, which was untouched by his many years in California.

  I held up a bag. “I’ve got bad news for me, good news for you, and a six-pack.”

  His eyebrow arched. “Beer and good news are always welcome unannounced in my house.”

  I followed him inside his small apartment. It was essentially a home office more office than home. Given his passion and dedication to journalism, it made sense.

  He dropped the beer onto the low coffee table in the middle of the living room that opened up into a tiny kitchen. Multiple desks held numerous laptops and screens. Awards for his work hung on the wall. His shelves overflowed with dog-eared paperbacks. Literally—they were jammed on top of each other, taking up any space he had.

  I wandered over to the main wall, where white boards, cork boards and calendars hung in perfectly straight rows. It was here that he kept careful track of his stories, sources, and competing deadlines.

  I pointed to one covered in pictures, typed notes, and red string connecting coincidences I couldn’t see. “How very All the President’s Men of you.”

  He cracked open a beer and handed it to me. “I do enjoy a vintage approach to reporting. There’s something classic about it. And, I will say, I like to dramatically stand in the center of this room and stare at my theories while muttering to myself.”

  “Helps, yeah?” I said, raising the beer.

  “Yelling out ‘By golly, I’ve got it!’ never gets old.” He walked into his kitchen and reached up over the fridge, where I knew he kept his best snacks when working late nights.

  Or when his best friend showed up without calling first. Quentin Abernathy was still dressed in what I always called hipster formal wear. A long-sleeved, buttoned-up checkered shirt with a thin, blue tie and expensive loafers. He was just a little shorter than me, lean and angular. He was white and had dark eyes, dark brown hair, and a smile I’d once heard described as artfully impish by another girl in our freshman year chemistry class. He wore thick, square-rimmed glasses that made him look smart and trendy at the same time.

  But I’d known him since he was eighteen years old, and there was no covering up the fact that he was—and always would be—a big old nerd. Over the years, he’d become more brother than best friend, and my little sister, Billie, certainly thought so. Given how far from home he lived, Quentin was a regular guest at my mother’s dinner table and frequently with us most holidays.

  And for two years, Caleb, Serena’s brother, had been the third side of our little friendship triangle. Quentin would never say anything, but I knew he missed him something awful.

  I did too.

  He returned with bowls filled with various snacks before sitting down in his office chair, ankle propped up on his knee. “I need to know about this good news/bad news situation, Copeland.”

  I tossed an M&M into my mouth, chewed for a second. Then I reached into my pocket and produced the USB stick Catalina Flores had snuck out of Aerial on purpose. I was fucking sure of it.

  “Two days ago, Serena was leaving the Aerial offices when one of their in-house lawyers, Catalina Flores, bumped into her out on the sidewalk. Serena dropped her purse, but Catalina picked everything up for her before she could stop her. A day later, Serena discovered this USB stick inside her purse with a note that said watch me.”

  Seeing Quentin realize he was being given a lead was like watching a bloodhound catch a scent in the air. He sat straight up and then leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “A few hours ago, as we were le
aving an interview at Aerial, Marty Lattimore pulled Serena into his office and admitted that Catalina had lost a few sensitive files and wondered if Serena knew where they were. They have brand-new security cameras out front, so they saw footage that showed their collision.”

  “Where is Catalina now?”

  I shot him a knowing look. “Suddenly out sick.”

  He held out his hand, and I dropped the stick into his palm. He spun around and plugged it into his laptop. “I’m guessing you already reviewed this, right?”

  “A bunch of legal documents, I think, that I can’t fully understand. A picture of the San Diego city council, which includes David Lattimore, Marty’s brother. And the badge numbers of the state workplace safety commission in Arizona.”

  “Where Aerial’s factories are,” he said, smiling like a kid in a candy shop. “Sweet Christ, what have you given me?”

  “I have my theories, but I don’t like them,” I admitted. It had hurt, seeing Serena so dejected and concerned after feeling like this sponsorship heralded the next great chapter in her career. I didn’t want my instincts to be true. Regardless of our multiple arguments today, I still wanted her to be with a company she trusted, a company that wanted to change the world the way that she did.

  Quentin’s reaction to this story, however, gave me the sinking feeling that I was right.

  I let him click around and read, taking fast, scribbled notes on a pad, muttering beneath his breath. When he was done, he spun slowly on his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

  “Tell me it’s not what I think it is,” I said.

  “Well, what do you think it is?” he asked. “I’m being serious. I want to know if we came to the same conclusion.”

  I grimaced. You couldn’t work in corporate security for as long as I had and not have seen some things. The kind of things that end up as sensationalized news or an award-winning documentary.

  “I think Catalina Flores uncovered some of Aerial’s nasty secrets. I think she might be a whistleblower.”

  He tapped his pen on his notepad. “Whaddya know. I reckon I came to the same damn conclusion.”

  16

  Cope

  Quentin and I exchanged a look before I sighed and said, “As if this assignment isn’t already complicated enough.”

  “Yes, your ex-wife being given corporate secrets the day before you become her bodyguard is certainly troublesome.”

  I took another sip of beer with a sardonic shrug. “At least I know the old gut instincts can still be trusted.”

  He made a sound under his breath. “I happen to think it’s our finest tool.” He tapped the pen against his laptop screen. “I’m going to need more time with this to put together a picture of what Catalina was trying to tell us. But I’m guessing she grabbed what she could before she could be noticed. Obviously, it’s public knowledge that David Lattimore is a city councilmember, so it feels like she included that picture on here for a reason. A clue.”

  “And the other stuff?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “These could be copies of those private lawsuits. And anything involving factory inspectors is a big oh shit in my book.”

  I grabbed more M&M’s from the bowl. “Why?”

  “Because of what they’re supposed to inspect.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “It’s usually not good.”

  I sat back in the couch and scrubbed a hand down my face. “Serena has a huge event tomorrow, but luckily I’ll be there. Falco’s there tonight. I told her not to tell anyone.”

  “How’d she take that?”

  “She agreed.”

  Quentin seemed surprised. “You must have made her a little nervous then.”

  “To be honest, I’m more than a little nervous myself.” I pointed at his laptop. “This isn’t great, period. But on a personal note, she just signed a huge contract with them. Finding out they might be secretly evil when they’ve always been seen as pioneers…” I shook my head. “That rips a huge hole in her worldview, man. And it’s also not good news for her, career-wise.”

  Quentin was slowly spinning back and forth in his chair. He scrolled through the documents, made a few more notes. Finally, he said, “Why Serena?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Say Catalina is our whistleblower. She got the information out, but instead of going to the authorities with it, she purposefully bumped into a pro surfer and dropped it into her purse. What does that get her?”

  I rubbed my hands together and pondered his question. “Safety, maybe. We know whistleblowers put themselves in immense personal and professional risk to expose a company’s misdeeds. Could be she saw Serena as a convenient tool.”

  “Hmm,” Quentin said. “She’s a pro surfer. Pretty well-known. Has money, resources, a platform. And she’s not afraid to speak out.” He smirked. “I did see that protest she did with Kalei and Prue about the Men’s Workout Journal article. It was both classic and savage.”

  I chuckled. “She’s not afraid to stir shit up when the cause is good. It’s still a risk though. Serena could have never found it or watched it. Or found it, saw it was just a bunch of files and pictures, and tossed it.”

  “True,” Quentin said softly. “It was a risk. Maybe an informed one. Maybe she… I don’t know, saw the opportunity and took it while she had the chance.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said. “I agree, I’m not clear on it either. Only that she gave information to Serena, on purpose, and Aerial knows that someone copied those private files. Serena has them. Catalina is now out sick.”

  “And we don’t know the gravity of what she gave her,” Quentin said.

  “Is it too naive to hope that this is all a big misunderstanding and what she gave Serena proves the opposite? That this kombucha-swilling bunch of hippies aren’t involved in anything nefarious?”

  My best friend gave me a smile that could only be described as artfully impish. “Why yes, it is, Copeland.”

  I laughed. Placed my beer on the table. “What’s next then?”

  “I keep the drive and do what I do best. And you keep Serena safe.”

  “Quent,” I said warningly. “Who keeps you safe?”

  He circled his finger in the air. “This state-of-the-art security system my overly protective best friend installed for me.”

  I frowned. “I’m not trying to get into a thing with a security system, but I’m better.”

  He laughed before handing me another beer. “No, you cannot fight the computer you installed in my house to keep me safe. But I am calling my guy at city police, see what he knows about this company. And I’ll get him to check in on Catalina, make sure she’s okay. That should move this process along quickly so you and Serena aren’t in this awkward position for more than a week or so.” His tone shifted. “I don’t need to tell you what happens when a company like Aerial is backed into a corner.”

  “One that’s about to be named an Olympics sponsor,” I said grimly. “It’s why they hired us in the first place. Heightened security all around given they’re about to be under a media microscope.”

  He started scribbling something down. “Hell, I forgot about that. They’ve got a lot to lose. However closely you were going to watch Serena, triple it.”

  “Trust me. That won’t be a problem.”

  He dropped his pen then pinned me with a bemused, shit-eating grin. “Do tell how it’s been following your wife around.”

  “It’s been fine.”

  “Fine, you say?”

  “I said what I said.” I lifted one shoulder and leaned back against the couch like it was no big deal. Because it wasn’t, evidenced by the frustrating fight we’d just had.

  “Prickly.” Quentin smirked. “I’m guessing it’s actually torture, but you’ll never say that because you are, and always will be, insufferably stubborn.”

  My beer paused in front of my mouth. “Insufferably stubborn?”

  “I said what I
said.”

  I burst out laughing. “That’s something Serena has expressed before, speaking of.”

  “She’s always been a smart girl.”

  Quentin stood up to grab the bowl of chips, patting me on the shoulder before sitting back down. “Tough first day, huh?”

  I wasn’t sure if it was tough or if I was incredibly stupid. Four years had passed, but the second we were thrown back together, our magnetic chemistry was still as obvious as the issues we’d never resolved as a couple.

  “It’s confusing.” I rubbed my forehead. “Very confusing. Some moments it feels like we never broke up, and we’re at our house the way we used to be. As if time never passed and we were never heartbroken. Other times…” I sipped my beer, set it down. “It’s a painful reminder of why we didn’t work out. It hurts…” I cleared my throat. “Well, I didn’t think it would still hurt like this.”

  My best friend studied me, face pinched with compassion. He’d been my support system after Serena and I had broken up, during that first year when getting out of bed felt like lifting a school bus with only my fingers. He brought me back from the dead with weekly movie nights and by dragging me to every social engagement he could think of. And he, my mother, and my sister had conspired often to make sure I was showering and eating.

  “How badly does it still hurt?” he asked.

  I jiggled my knee. Studied the ground. “It’s taken me a massive amount of effort and self-control to lock the pain away. But I guess I’d convinced myself that pining for her was normal.”

  “Do you think you have to protect people even when it puts your own mental health and happiness at risk?” he asked. “Because if seeing Serena this much is going to break that giant heart of yours again, maybe you should call Marilyn and tell her the truth.”

  I grinned. “That will bode well for convincing Marilyn not to fire me. Sorry I lied to you, but this new client was the love of my life, and I’ve never been able to keep my head on straight around her.”