“Cullen?” Sky’s musical soprano came over the line, bewilderment filling every word. “Why do you have my editor’s phone? And why—”
He cut her off. “It doesn’t matter why. You’re not going.”
But before Cullen could say more, Frank Peterson pushed him. Or tried to. The man had risen to his feet in a tizzy and made a quickly aborted attempt to stand up for his property—but even Frank knew that his flabby form didn’t have Cullen’s staying power.
Frank slapped his hand against the bar. “That’s my phone, Hunt,” he snapped, spittle flying. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll—”
“I’ll what?” Cullen tightened his grip on the cell so much that he heard an ominous cracking noise, his voice lowering by a whole guttural octave.
“Cullen.” Eli materialized beside him, but Cullen’s focus stayed on the asshole luring Skylar Reynolds into a viper pit.
“You’ll be sorry,” Frank said.
Cullen snorted. “Last time you and I tangled, I seem to remember my fist breaking your nose.”
Frank’s complexion skipped right over the color red and turned a distinctive shade of purple. “You haven’t changed one bit from the violent, little, delinquent shithead you were at fourteen. Go ahead, Hunt. Take a shot. You’ll find you’ll get more than a spanking from the law now.”
Red flashed at the fringes of Cullen’s vision, his heart rate and pulse all rising, feeding an irresistible need to sink his knuckles through Frank’s skull. Cullen had been fourteen the last time he’d had the pleasure, and the resulting spanking was a lawsuit that broke whatever relationship he’d had with his parents, snatched him out of his home, and got him marooned at Trident Academy military school.
Then again, he did meet his Tridents there, so it was more than worth it. It had been more than worth it to keep the girl Frank had been pawing from getting what the gleam in Frank’s eye said he’d intended.
But Frank was right. Bashing in his skull in the middle of North Vault would tie them up in court for months. And the bastard would target Liam as the owner as well.
Frank raised his index finger and pointed it right into Cullen’s face.
Cullen growled in warning.
“Peterson. Don’t.” Kyan stepped up beside Cullen, his movement silent as a ghost’s. Though Kyan kept his voice low, he emanated power with every uttered syllable and glared at the man’s upraised finger until Frank wisely dropped it and took a pace backward.
Cullen went to step after him, but Kyan splayed his hand on his chest. “Not worth it, Hunt.”
“Keasley’s right.” Eli threw Frank a foul glance before inserting himself between him and Cullen. “Are we going or not?”
There was no need to explain where. Since Skylar worked at Trident Rescue, she was one of their own.
“Reynolds,” Cullen barked into Frank’s phone, only to discover that the woman had disconnected. Cullen slammed the phone down on the bar, the abused screen giving a final click before shattering while its owner yelped in pathetic dismay. “Yeah,” Cullen said, turning his back to Frank. “Let’s move.”
13
Sky
I stomp out of my basement apartment, trying like hell to stop seething at Cullen’s audacity so I can focus on my work. Did the man seriously think it was acceptable to interfere in my journalism? To get between me and my own editor? To opine on what stories I should be covering? My hands clench into fists, my pulse rising. The next time I see Cullen, I’m going to—
Stop, Sky. I force myself to take a deep breath of the cool evening air, the breeze whipping my hair over my face. Cullen’s attempt to interfere was his fuck-up, but you letting it consume you now would be yours.
My thoughts finally calm three breaths in, my professional mind taking over. This isn’t Frank’s usual drivel; this is actual news. The reason I went into journalism. It doesn’t matter that I only got the lead because I’m closer than anyone else. I have it. And damn it, I will cover it.
Pulling my hair back into a bun, I adjust my shoulder bag and set a quick pace toward the unfolding scene, trying not to let the fact that it’s only a few blocks from my house distract me. It’s still light outside, but won’t be for too much longer. Two steps later, my phone vibrates. I pull it out, expecting to see Frank’s number and nearly answer on reflex before seeing the caller.
Cullen Hunt.
Yeah. Sorry, Hunt, I’m not on your clock right now.
I set the phone to silent and then, after a moment’s hesitation, temporarily block the bastard’s number altogether. If he can’t act like a respectful professional, then into a digital time-out he goes. Slipping the phone into my back pocket for easy access and recording, I quicken my steps toward the address—and the Channel Thirteen van that’s already parked at the end of the block.
Dammit. On the other hand, if rival new stations are responding as well, that underscores the relevance. Plus, Thirteen is on air and I’m print, so we go after different angles.
“Again, this is Trent Cannon, reporting for Channel Thirteen News from Denton Valley’s Lincoln Drive,” a well-dressed young man says into a microphone as his cameraman monitors the footage. The shot is angled to get both Cannon and a house with peeling red paint, which must be where the action is. “Here, an exclusive source reported seeing two men with faces covered removing merchandise from the residence directly behind me.”
Exclusive source? I snort, willing to bet Cannon just chatted with Mrs. Frobisher, my crotchety neighbor who fancies herself the neighborhood watch and spends her day peeking through curtains and ranting about the police. Now that I think about it, she’s exactly the kind of person to ring up the news instead of law enforcement should a crime happen.
“The circumstances became immediately worse,” Cannon goes on, “when a vehicle evidently containing the family who lives here pulled into the carport, interrupting the burglars. Two of the criminals reacted by dragging the three family members, including a small child, inside, where they all now remain. Denton Valley authorities are expected to arrive at any moment.” Cannon gives a dramatic pause, and the cameraman shuts off the footage.
“Still on burglary?” The cameraman snorts. “That’s a fucking collection crew raiding a drug house. Can I help you?” The last is directed toward me.
“Skylar Reynolds,” I say, my mind still reeling from what I’m hearing. “Denton Uncovered.” I hold out my hand, and both the men shake it.
“Welcome to the shit show,” Cannon says. “Though this isn’t the type of thing Uncovered is usually interested in. This is more…”
“Actual real news?” I supply, earning an earnest grin. Cannon has a nice-boy look about him, nothing like Cullen’s dark broodiness. And he smiles a great deal more too. I stick my hands into my back pockets and peer at the screen, where the cameraman is rewinding the footage. “So why did you say burglary if you think it’s a drug money collection?”
“Same reason I said the authorities were showing any time soon. Political correctness.” He yawns. “This is Lincoln Drive, Reynolds. Neither the cops nor anyone else gives a flying fuck about Lincoln Drive. Now if this were happening about two miles down the road, that would be a different situation. As it is, though—we only got the airtime because it’s a slow night. Plus, odds are ten to one that nothing more’s happening. The bastards are going to work things out behind closed doors, and end of story.”