by Alex Lidell
“What are you blathering on about?” Palm on the edge of the table opposite Frank, Liam manages to loom over everyone without even trying.
Frank holds up the papers he pulled from his drawer. “I’ll let Arnie here tell you.”
As he slides the papers over to the chief, I glimpse the front page of notes and feel the blood drain from my face. These are my papers. The story I’ve been working on for weeks about the response times of the Denton Valley PD by neighborhood. I’d gone through several drafts of the piece, and the copy in the police chief’s possession is an early version exploring a possible corruption angle. Since gathering more data, I’d started a second piece that cast doubt on my original assumptions, but that’s not what’s on the table now.
It’s not what Chief Arnie Jackson is reading, his face darkening with every word.
Every word that I wrote, dragging his whole department through the mud. Shit. I can’t look at Cullen, can’t even think of any of the Tridents. In two minutes’ time, I’ve just plummeted from being a star evidence collector to becoming a Denton PD persona non grata. That has to be a damn record. More to the point, it makes everything I touch radioactive. Including that recording Liam tossed onto that table.
“I like the idea of helping each other out, Arnie,” Frank says, leaning back in his chair as the chief leafs through one page after another. “I personally think the DVPD is doing the best it can with the resources it has. There’s only so much ‘more with less’ that anyone can do. But you know how the public likes to rush to conclusions. Still, maybe there’s a way we can help each other, like you said. A win-win.”
41
Sky
“Ms. Reynolds.” The chief of the Denton PD turns his stern pale eyes to me, making the heat of mortification surge to my face. “Were you planning to print this?”
“No, sir,” I stutter out.
He raises a brow. “Your name is on the byline. Is this a forgery?”
My hand closes around the edge of the table, but there’s nothing I can do except tell the truth. It’s who I am. As a person and as a journalist. “It’s my first draft, sir. Based on preliminary statistics and interviews. But those don’t form a complete picture. I like having an angle when I draft, but then assumptions often get disproven. That isn’t a finished draft, sir. It isn’t even the most up-to-date draft that takes into account actual calls made to the police.”
“We’d be sure to mention that Denton Uncovered’s investigation into the situation is ongoing,” Frank coos on the tail of my words. “But facts are facts. And, headlines.”
“These aren’t the facts,” I snap, my eyes flashing at Frank.
He waves a copy of the crime report. “Seems factual to me.”
“Context matters, Frank. It—”
“It’s the story I intend to run,” Frank says, cutting me off. “That’s all there is to it. Arnie can argue context from the podium all he likes. Unless, of course, he’d like to get ahead of the issue.”
Drawing a breath, I shore up the guts to check the other men’s faces, finding carefully closed expressions across the board. If I had any doubts before, they’re gone now. Frank has us over a barrel. All of us. Not only me and the Tridents, but Arnie Jackson too. Every one of us is fucked. Royally.
Brazenly, Frank turns to look at the police chief. “I assume we have an understanding. Isn’t that right, Arnie?”
“You could say that,” the chief says evenly, with a type of dignity I wish I had. I’ve sunk this ship for us, but for some reason, the chief is still maintaining his ground.
Frank smiles and gets to his feet.
“Sit your ass down, Peterson,” the chief says. “To start with, I’d like to point out that it’s very difficult to run any headline from a jail cell. More to the point, your last three months of headlines included proposals of Natural Foods Mart Adds Minced Rat to Angus Beef, Local Vet Hospital Hosts Illegal Dog Fights, and Police Wiretap Couple to Listen to Shower Nookie Sessions.”
I glance at Cullen at this last reference, the word shower bringing up all sorts of delightful memories. Cullen snorts and, without having the decency to even blush, quickly hides his amusement behind a trained stony façade, while the chief of police continues unperturbed.
“So you’ll understand if my concern for Denton PD’s reputation is less tied to your paper than to the facts.” Twisting his chair to get a better line of sight to me, the chief leans forward, bracing his forearms on the edge of the table. “You said your investigation is not yet complete, Ms. Reynolds?”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I mean, yes, it’s not complete.”
“Would it help your accuracy if you had unfiltered access to all our call logs, records, and mileage reports?”
Wait, what? I open my mouth, close it, then finally find my words. “It would, of course. But I don’t understand.”
The chief taps his finger on the stack of papers. “This is important work, Ms. Reynolds. Either my officers are not responding as they should, in which case there’s going to be a readjustment of my force to stamp out this nonsense, or else they’re doing the right thing but an important segment of our community is unaware of the facts. Either way, the situation needs to be corrected, and I cannot think of a better writer to get to the bottom of this.”
Frank’s jaw slackens.
Getting to his feet, the chief claps Cullen’s good shoulder. “I can see why you like this one, Hunt. We’re responsible to the people we protect—and journalistic integrity helps get us there. Thank you for what you do, Ms. Reynolds.” Pulling out a set of handcuffs, the chief walks around to seize Frank’s arm. “I’ve changed my mind about wanting to help you out, Peterson. We’re done here.”
“Remind me again why I’m having to don this fancy nightmare?” I ask Cullen from the gleaming white marble bathroom of New York’s Carlyle Hotel. I may not be moving back to the Big Apple anymore, but that hasn’t stopped my mother’s—and Greg’s—insistence that I visit. Padding to the doorway, I scrutinize Cullen from his place in front of the double mirrors, and—unlike me—what I see is a sight to behold.
Cullen’s blond buzzcut and mossy-green eyes are set off by the simple black lines of his tux, the formal white shirt beneath it a dazzling contrast. I’m so lost in the stunning handsomeness, I forget my own question until he walks over and takes the dress out of my hands.
“Because Dr. Greg Andrews, also known as your stepfather-to-be, is opening up a new hospital with a couple of his heart surgeon buddies on the Upper East Side. Showing up to dinner and ribbon cutting in rock-climbing gear tends to be frowned upon.”
Right. Turns out Mom’s latest sugar daddy may actually be, well, just a good man in love. One who truly cares about my mother—enough to have proposed to her last weekend. Apparently, his insistence on my visiting was part of his romantic plans, but he finally couldn’t wait. Sometimes, miracles do happen.
“Plus,” Cullen adds, holding up the velvety black-and-azure gown with a crisscross design which dips low in the front and even lower in the back, “I need to know how this looks on you. I fear this isn’t the last high-profile event you’ll be forced to attend.” Leaning down, Cullen presses his mouth over mine, the demands of his lips lifting me to my toes and leaving me wanting as he breaks it off. “It’s the hazard of being with me.”
I shift my tingling thighs to relieve the sudden tension.
He gives me a wolfish grin. “Before you do that, though, do you know how to tie this damn thing?” He waves at his bowtie, not wincing at all as he moves his shoulder. Dr. Yarborough removed his shrapnel four weeks ago today, and the incision and internal damage is largely healed now. “Catherine usually does this for me.”
I bat his hands away and rescue the expensive cloth from his grip. “In fact, I do. You’ll find I’m full of surprise talents. Wearing dresses not being one of them.”
“Mmm. Nothing that can’t be trained.” Before I can bat at him the same way I did at his hands, Cullen wr
aps an arm around my waist, pulling me down and to the side as if doing the tango.
I can never seem to get over how easy this is with him now. How easy we’ve become over the past month since getting together. Truly and genuinely together. While Cullen may always be a hard man in some respects, with me, he’s softer. Especially when it counts. Even returning here to New York City, the location of my greatest humiliation and trauma, feels different with him. I feel different. Confident. Grounded.
And, at the moment, half naked. Realizing that it’s either the dress going on or my underclothes coming off, I glower at the clock and let Cullen hold the zipper open for me.
Twenty minutes later, I loop my arm through Cullen’s elbow as he leads me down to the reception Greg and his colleagues are holding below the twenty-four-karat gold ceiling at the iconic hotel’s Bemelmans Bar.
“When Greg finds out you own a hospital network, he may try to corner you,” I warn Cullen, doing my best not to trip in this ridiculously tight skirt. It’s something Jaz referred to as a mermaid cut, which means I have to take teeny tiny footsteps to walk in the stupid thing. “Also, there will be press here, so please don’t do anything you wouldn’t want on the front page. No, scratch that. Don’t do anything Trident Medical’s board of directors wouldn’t want on the front page.”
Cullen scoffs. “Greg will want nothing to do with me, Reynolds. I’m no heart surgeon. That would have been my father. They have a very different notion of success, trust me.”
There’s a flicker of tightness in Cullen’s voice, but before I have a chance to ask about it, we pass through the double doors into the heart of the reception. Renowned murals decorate the bar’s walls, scenes of various pleasures depicted by an artist’s vibrant brush. The slowly milling groups of people are dressed as formally as Cullen and me, which at least means I’m not alone in my suffering. Or maybe I am. Cullen certainly seems as much at ease in his tuxedo as he does in his rescue gear. I guess he’s right. When you run a hospital network, you learn to camouflage yourself in the environment.
Spotting my mother and Greg over by the baby grand piano, I steer us that way, nearly tripping over my heels as I catch sight of two men in tuxedos with press credentials clipped to their lapels. Jaden Harris and Martin Bainbridge, the Manhattan Post editor who fired me.
“What manner of Murphy’s Law has Jaden here?” I murmur to Cullen under my breath. “The bastard doesn’t even cover medical news.”
Cullen brushes his thumb slowly over my hand. “I made a special request to the Post.”
I jerk my head toward Cullen’s, but before I can demand what the heck he was thinking, my mother and Greg walk over with champagne in hand.
“Lary, honey, don’t you just look wonderful.” Leaning toward me, my mother touches her cheek to mine, kissing the air the way they do in movies set in Paris. “Let me finally introduce you to Greg Andrews. Greg, this is my daughter, Skylar. Lary, Greg.”
“A pleasure to finally meet you.” Greg shakes my hand, his grip strong without being crushing. In a tux similar to Cullen’s, he looks like the textbook doctor with graying hair, intelligent eyes, and diamond cuff links in the shape of the star of life. Turning his gaze to Cullen, Greg holds out his hand. “And you must be the Cullen Hunt responsible for keeping Skylar in Colorado?”
“I’ve learned that no one keeps Skylar anywhere, sir,” Cullen says, returning that handshake. “But I’m grateful she’s decided to stay.”
Greg frowns at the clasped hands. “Are you injured, Mr. Hunt?”
Cullen blinks. “Sir?”
“My grandmother has a firmer handshake, son.”
Cullen withdraws his hand, placing it behind his back into a parade rest position. “I’ve been told that it’s disrespectful to put pressure on a cardiac surgeon’s fingers, sir.”
Greg blinks. “What blathering self-pompous idiot gave you that notion?”
Cullen’s other hand joins its partner in the small of his back. “My father.”
Uncomfortable silence fills the air between the men, creeping to encompass my mother and me. I rack my brain for something to say and almost laugh when I find the same lost bewilderment shaping her face. If my mother and I have been on the same side of anything in the last two decades, I don’t remember it.
Suddenly, Greg snaps his finger. “Hunt. Your father wouldn’t have been Henry Hunt the third, would he?”
“He was.” Cullen’s voice is utterly void of emotion.
Greg’s is not. “I knew him. I mean, it’s all been many years ago, but we crossed paths a couple of times over business matters. Now it all makes sense.” Greg grins, clapping Cullen’s shoulder. “Good God, man, I know who you are now. In fact, I’ve always wondered how any offspring of Henry’s could land so far from the tree to do good for a change. Not just for your hometown, but for our country as well. I hope you don’t mind my forwardness, son. It’s always been my way. Now, how do I talk you into giving me a tour of Trident Medical?”
Seeing the spark of interest in Cullen’s gaze, I step away a couple of paces to let the men talk while I catch up with my mother.
“I take it you won’t be returning to New York, Lary?” she asks wistfully.
“I’ve been offered a position at Denton Valley PD in their internal investigations unit. But it looks like you may be visiting us soon.” I point my chin toward the men and see my mother’s face soften as she watches Greg talk enthusiastically about something.
“Sometimes you go looking for one thing and something else finds you instead.” Her voice tightens. “Back straight, Lary. There’s a pair of reporters coming our way. Please tell me that is not Jaden I see.”
My stomach tightens. “It is.”
“The Jaden?”
“Mr. Hunt.” Bainbridge stops beside Cullen and Greg, Jaden hanging a few feet behind. “Martin Bainbridge, Post. Can you tell us what brings the CEO of Trident Medical Group all the way to New York City? Is there a merger being discussed?”
“This is a personal trip, actually,” Cullen tells the editor, holding his arm out to me. “But I imagine the person you really want to speak to is Skylar Reynolds.”
What the hell are you doing, Cullen? I plaster on a fake smile that matches the one on Bainbridge’s face as Cullen folds me against his body.
“Ms. Reynolds,” Bainbridge says tightly. “What an…unexpected time to see you again.”
A smirk slides over Jaden’s face, lighting up his eyes. “Mr. Hunt, did your lady friend not mention that she had departed the Post under some unfortunate circumstances? Fortunately, Denton Valley seems much more lax when it comes to journalistic integrity, so I’m happy to hear that Skylar found a place more suitable for her…creative writing needs. Ms. Reynolds.” Jaden turns toward me, all but preening at the exclusive drama he’s drumming up for the Post’s front page. “Wasn’t your editor at Denton Uncovered arrested for multiple charges a few weeks back? Blackmail and possession of controlled substances, I believe?”
Undiluted fury-filled heat fills my face, Jaden’s loud speech now drawing a crowd. I reach for my voice and find nothing but rage filling my lungs. With so many eyes on us now, maybe that’s for the best.
Seeming to suffer no such handicap, Cullen releases me and blades his body to stand halfway between my ex and me. Not to protect me from Jaden, I realize, but to keep me from tearing the bastard limb from limb in the middle of a ritzy bar.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you again under better circumstances, Mr. Harris,” Cullen says, the look of surprise on Jaden’s face at Cullen’s choice to reference their prior incident mirroring my own confusion. Cullen, however, presses on, this time addressing my former editor. “Mr. Bainbridge, I’m a big fan of the Manhattan Post, especially your coverage of the military. In fact, I just referred Major Lovvit to your office. Did you have a chance to speak with him?”
Bainbridge frowns. “He must have called after we’d already departed today.”
“No problem. Let me sh
are the lead with you directly.” Reaching into his tux pocket, Cullen pulls out a neatly folded sheet of paper, Rowen Security’s logo visible at the corner. Around us, other members of the press close in, cameras and notepads at the ready. My heart pounds, and I hope to God, Cullen knows what he’s doing, because I sure don’t. “Approximately eight months ago, a Post reporter had intended to write an exposé on several marines whose partying turned to assault.”
Jaden literally scoffs, huffing out a burst of air through his front teeth. “That’s old news. Ancient history.” He deliberately eyes me. “The report and reporter were shown to be hacks, and the story was never printed.”
“Yes, well, according to a security firm I work with, those very marines have continued their unsubstantiated activities to the tune of gang rape. Once the victim, Gloria Redman, retained the law firm of Hite, Hite, and Wellesley to represent her, several other women came forward with similar instances. I believe the attorneys are now doing a thorough investigation into the marines’ previous conduct, so I would highly recommend you locate all your records of that particular investigation, as I’m sure a subpoena is forthcoming.”
Bainbridge’s face—which went bone white at Cullen’s mention of gang rape—now slackens altogether. Hite, Hite, and Wellesley are some of the sharpest attorneys in Manhattan, known for leaving no stone unturned. “Thank you for the heads-up, Mr. Hunt,” he breathes finally, finding his voice for the other media that are watching. “The Post will, of course, cooperate fully with the investigation.”
A warm trickle of satisfaction spills into my blood. Bainbridge isn’t a bad sort, and I’m certain that the thought of having gotten it wrong scares him as much as the pending lawsuit. Gathering himself, my former editor turns to me. “Ms. Reynolds, would—”
