Jesus.
My brain is not firing on all cylinders. How did I not consider any of this? I raced here on the fuel of intrigue and overconfidence. I know nothing about the man. How exactly am I supposed to worm my way into his plans? Seducing him?
He could be married.
I steal a glance at his hand, finding his ring finger bare.
"We can start tonight," he says, "if that will give you peace of mind. But we'll have to wait for this class to be over. Travis is getting them ready for the state championships next month."
Reed motions over to a short bench that runs along the wall, where two people already sit, scrolling through their phones. Parents, I'm assuming. I sit beside one woman who doesn't even glance at me, and stare out as Travis conducts his class. It's warm in the room, and the rhythmic sounds of the kids' martial arts calls combined with the routine swooshing of fabric cutting through the air lulls my consciousness into submission. I try to fight it, but once my lids find the closed position for just a split second, it's clear the war is lost. I lay my head back against the wall, listening to the increasingly faint noises around me. I close my eyes without witnessing a flash of an unpleasant memory, without the sickening clench in my stomach that warns me of what's to come, without the frantic heartbeats that rise with the acknowledgment of the unknown dangers ahead. I close my eyes, just for a second, and slip into a thousand more.
"Hey." At first it's just a sound, not a word or anything I can attach meaning to. Not until I hear it again. "Hey."
I stir, then jolt upright, my eyes springing open, arms swinging up in front of me.
"It's all right," Reed says.
He comes into focus as he bends over to bring his gorgeous face level to mine. The class is over, the last of the students heading out of the door now, accompanied by their parents. Travis is pulling a large gym bag over his shoulders, casting a curious glance in our direction before leaving as well.
"Are you sure you want to do this tonight?" Reed asks, and at my confusion he adds, "Have you seen yourself?"
He watches me in silence, sights hovering over my face where I'm sure he can tell my exhaustion hides behind a thin layer of makeup. His words pull down hard on strands of insecurity that shouldn't exist in the context of this conversation. They shouldn't exist because I shouldn't care what this man thinks of me. But to say that I can stand here in front of this attractive guy and not care that he's basically insinuating I look like shit…well, would be a lie. Vanity is one hell of a buoyant creature. It rises to the surface even in the most turbulent of times. And here it is now.
I turn to the mirrored plaque hanging on the wall beside me. My reflection makes me cringe internally. Damn it. The little makeup I'm wearing just seems to add to my exhausted appearance. The bruises on my neck are clearly visible, peeking out from the top of my jacket. My lips look more swollen than usual, telling me I may have been biting them without realizing. It's not so much any of those things that make me look so bad, it's the expression in my eyes. The fatigue.
This was a bad plan, all around. I'm in no shape to charm anyone into anything. The warm wash of insecurity comes over me and my spirits sink a few degrees.
He seems to regret what he said. Or, at least, the dismissive way he said it. A bit more apologetically, he adds, "What I mean is, we can pick this up tomorrow evening, no problem."
I stand a little straighter.
"No," I say. "If we're going to do this, we start tonight."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Amelia
EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SHOULD scream bad idea, but I wouldn't be here if I weren't comfortable with the thought of us being alone. After all, isn't this the nature of a private lesson?
"I didn't anticipate a lesson tonight," he says, indicating his attire. He removes his navy suit jacket and heads to the far wall to hang it on a hook. He keeps his back to me, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. The white fabric of his button down stretches across his broad back and around his arms.
He turns to face me, dropping his arms to hang loosely at his sides.
Focus.
"If you didn't think I called to meet about a lesson," I ask, "What did you expect, then?"
I say this with a sliver of playfulness creeping into my tone, to test the waters.
In response, his energy only grows a shade more detached. He's wound tight. There's a battle behind his eyes, between wanting to help me and wanting to keep his distance.
This is going to be much harder than I thought.
He crosses his arms and says, "I thought this would be about your case."
"It's not."
Although, in a way, it is.
"Are you sure?"
If the notion my attacker has been leaving me gifts was far-fetched to Reed, he might laugh in my face if I told him I suspected it was all connected to the mayor of San Diego.
I get it. Reed and his partner think the case is closed. They've got a guy, someone who confessed and looks just right. And, yes, perhaps he's behind the other assaults, but mine is different. The problem is, all I have is circumstantial evidence and a nagging suspicion.
"I've got nothing." I lift my hands, as if to show they're empty. I keep my face unsmiling, though, sensing any flirtation may lead him to conclude this evening is a bad idea.
It's my job, to worm myself into places I'm not supposed to be, to pry information people hold close to their chests. No story comes easy. None worth chasing, anyway.
"We'll go over some basics tonight," he says. "But first let's talk a little more about what you can expect. Our self-defense classes are modeled after Krav Maga. Have you heard of it?"
"Vaguely."
"It's a fighting technique developed for the Israeli Defense Forces. Their rules of engagement are different from ours. Brutal."
"Brutal how?"
"Let me put it to you this way, American forces aim for the least amount of casualties possible. It's why they clear a building room by room. IDF? They land on a building's roof, pour gasoline down the staircase, light it on fire, and clear the building from the rooftop as its occupants flee."
The chaotic scene flashes too vividly before my eyes. It's more than that. What he said rattles something in me, calling forward the memory of how helpless I felt when my attacker took hold of me, how the panic left a lingering taste in my mouth.
"Brutal," he agrees, without me having to say a word. "That's how Krav Maga is. It's brutal. The aim is to put the attacker down with as much brute force as possible. I wanted this to be at the core of our self-defense classes. Defense should never be half-assed. It needs to be driven by an animalistic instinct to protect your own life at all costs."
He watches me with curiosity, clearly trying to drive home the point that the training will be intense. But instead of leaning away from the possibility of more violence, I'm drawn to it.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"I want to get started," I say.
A sliver of satisfaction sparks in Reed's eyes. The conviction in my voice takes even me by surprise. I didn't expect such genuine interest in learning his techniques. There's anger burning low in my belly, a call for aggression fueled by my need to feel safe inside of my own body. To know I could stop an attack from happening again.
I'm here and my attacker is out there. The police aren't looking for him.
I'm on my own.
I can learn self-defense in pursuit of leads to my story. The two things aren't mutually exclusive.
"Let's start with a simple hold," Reed says. "Ready?" When I nod, he reaches out and grasps my wrist, warm fingers closing firmly around my skin. "Go ahead," he says. "Try to get out of it."
I pull my arm back but his hold remains in place. I pull harder, hard enough to cause him to tighten his grip and take a step closer.
"I can't."
"Stop pulling. There's a weak spot to every hold. Look at my grasp."
I examine the way his fingers wrap around my wrist.
"See here?" He leans into me, and I suck in a breath at how close he brings his head to mine. He points to the area of my wrist where his thumb rests just under the back of my palm. "Turn your wrist until the side of it is flush with this." He traces my skin just over where his thumb and forefinger meet in the tight grasp. My skin prickles pleasantly and I wonder if his fingertips do, as well.
I do as he says and pull. My wrist bone effectively cuts between the grip, forcing his thumb and forefinger apart until I'm free from the hold.
I lower my arm again to allow him to repeat the hold. He makes me practice it dozens of times, hand grasping my arms at different locations. Each time I release from his grip quicker than the last.
"It's a simple maneuver, but effective," he says.
His tone carries the suggestion he thinks we've done enough for tonight.
"I want to hit something now," I say.
He scratches his brow, looking toward the front door. The world is dark beyond the glass pane. His hesitation screams that internal voices warn him to cut this short. He must be tired. I know I am. But I'm nowhere near done.
"All right, let's move over here." He gestures over to the column, padded with material to serve as a punching bag.
I walk in front of him, sensing how closely he follows behind me. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes snap up to mine in an instant, his expression unreadable. Were his eyes moving up my figure?
"We'll start off with the basic fighting stance," he says. I mirror his pose, feet shoulder width apart, left foot forward, elbows tucked to my sides, hands unclenched. "Your left arm should be up, to protect your face. Your right arm closer to your side. Right. Just like that. Keep your knees loose and your abdominals tight."
He lays a palm on my stomach. I tense and, for a moment, so does he. But despite the sparks in his eyes, he keeps his voice even and detached.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but this is hands-on training. There's no avoiding that."
"It's okay," I say.
He drops his hands, but his touch lingers, spreading over me.
We move on to striking the padded column, using the planes and sharp angles of my limbs to inflict damage. Each blow rattles something in me, threatening to unleash what I've locked away. Fear, anger, hopelessness. Emotions I refuse to let through. Reed stands off to the side of the column, watching as I hit it. He hasn't given any instruction in a few minutes, and I think he realizes my need to let out some pent up aggression.
Focus.
Even in its tired state, my mind summersaults to find a segue. An icebreaker. Something to get him talking, make him comfortable. But it's hard to gauge just how to approach him in conversation. He's keeping our interaction at arm's length, careful to not seem too friendly. As though being too polite would send the wrong message. I get it. We're alone. I'm a victim in one of his investigations. This is blatantly inappropriate. All of it. Yet, this was his idea.
"The suspect you picked up, when's his sentencing hearing?" I ask, casually, with the air of someone just making conversation.
"I haven't heard word on that yet. But he's been arraigned and he's off the streets for now. You don't need to worry."
I avoid his eyes, not wanting to give away the fact that this isn't what I'm truly worried about. Reed's a professional bullshit detector. And me? I'm a professional bullshitter.
"Closing a serial assault is a big win for your department, I'm sure. Chief of Police is retiring soon, he must be pleased."
"Chief Sterling?" he asks stiffly. "Yeah, he is."
"Are you close to him?"
My statement is met with the sounds of my fists hitting the column. And then…
"Is this an interview?"
I stop and look at him. His arms are crossed, the white of his shirt is the perfect backdrop for his handsome, unreadable face.
His looks are disarming, but I'm well aware mine can be too.
"Just because I'm a reporter doesn't mean I'm always fishing around for a story."
I go to strike the column, but Reed's hand settles over my arm, nudging it downward. And my eyes are drawn up to his again.
"What are you up to?"
I go still and swallow. The exertion of beating the column has my heart thundering at my temples. Reed lifts a brow at my lack of response and takes a step closer. He's never stood this close before. His proximity tugs at every inch of me, and I want him closer still.
"You're clearly fishing for something, Amelia. So why don't you just go ahead and tell me what it is."
He towers over me, but I'm not afraid. Being underestimated can be a weapon in itself. Doors left open, windows cracked, opportunities present themselves to those who appear meek.
I open my mouth to answer, but before I can decide what to say, Reed makes the mistake of speaking first.
"Are you writing a piece on Chief Sterling?"
A strange expression flickers across his face when he asks the question, and I don't miss the desire for confirmation subtly lacing his tone.
There it is. A window just creaked open.
"What if I said I was?"
He just stares. I want to backpedal, take the words back, because it's clear they've rubbed him the wrong way. A low, humorless chuckle escapes him with a rise of his chest. He walks off, back to where his jacket hangs.
I storm over to him and close a hand over the fabric of his jacket before he can shrug into it. "Wait."
He exhales, impatience radiating from him, and tugs the material out of my grasp. "You didn't have to pretend to want private lessons, Amelia. This was a huge waste of my time."
"I do want the lessons," I say.
He pulls his jacket on and the way he pauses at my words makes guilt worm into the pit of my stomach. He wanted to ride in on his white horse and save me from myself.
"I'm serious, Reed. I…" I glance away, not prepared to have a genuine moment. "I need this."
"But…?"
"But it's not all I need. You said you wanted to help me. I need your help."
"What do you need help with? You want me to give you dirt on Chief Sterling? You want me to be some anonymous inside source? Is that what you want? Because I can tell you right now, it's not going to happen."
"No. I need to get into his retirement party."
"For what?"
"I can't say."
"Anything illegal?"
Can I pretend he wouldn't count stealing a few photographs as illegal?
"No."
He scans my face, gaze razor sharp, and I swear he can see right to my bones. He knows I'm not telling him the whole truth, yet he's still weighing the decision. There must be bad blood there, between him and Chief Sterling.
"I can't help you. I can see why you would think I would—Sterling has fueled the fire that can ruin my career. I'm not a big enough asshole to return the favor, but I'm sure you'll find a way to get your job done."
"Is that what you think my job is? Ruining people?"
"Isn't it?"
His words settle over me. I chew on my bottom lip, not at all pleased with the glimpse of what he really thinks of me. Turning from him, I collect my things in silence.
He gestures forward, to the front door. "I'll walk you to your car."
"I haven't driven my car since—" I swallow the admission, then say, "I take cabs now."
Reed's lips turn down a fraction, eyes softening just a hair.
"No cab tonight. I'll take you home."
"Yeah, I don't think so."
"Let me do this for you." He lifts his brows with sincerity and speaks again—a single word that disarms me, coated in a silent apology for his previous statement. "Please?"
CHAPTER TWENTY
Reed
HAVING HER SLIDE INTO the passenger seat of my car is somehow more intimate than our proximity during the entire one-on-one session. I rest my hand on the gearshift, even though my car is an automatic. I do it because my hand wants to find her, wants to touch some part of he
r as I drive.
I've derailed. Where all of my gates should draw up, I'm letting them down. Offering her private lessons, letting her into my car.
It's a slippery slope.
Nothing could've prepared me for the effect she has on me when we're all alone. She's beautiful with an energy that lashes out at me in waves. I've trained classes full of women before and never once have I wrestled with maintaining professionalism. I've never had issues with keeping my thoughts from straying too far. Until tonight. My eyes strayed, too, indulging in the sight of her curves when she wasn't looking.
Is that what you think my job is? Ruining people?
There was a shade of defensiveness in her voice. And I'm glad for it. It's a reminder for me of a truth I've lived firsthand. Journalists are bottom feeders. But as much as I try to remind myself of this, there seems to be a disconnect where Amelia Woods is concerned.
She causes a misfire in my brain.
The drive is short and our silence is pointed. There are questions saturating the air between us. But there's more than questions. There's the reminder of how the air between our bodies is pulled taut and threatening to snap.
I turn into a neighborhood in Hilltop and crawl to a stop where she indicates.
"That's a big house."
"It's an old mansion repurposed as an apartment building," she says, pointing upward. "I'm on the second floor."
She gets out of the car without looking at me. Not until her feet are planted on the sidewalk does she speak to me again, through the window.
"I know you think tonight was a sham, but it wasn't. I want to learn more, but I understand if that won't be possible."
Truth.
She's telling the truth.
The car window frames her like a photograph. Strands of hair stick to her forehead, her cheeks tinged pink from training. I expected a light session, but she surprised me. She gave it all she had until sweat dotted her forehead and her chest heaved from exertion. Fire burned in her eyes and made me wish circumstances were different. Because, this woman? It took everything in me to keep from begging her to let me take her hard and fast, right against that column.
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