Sky swallowed, vulnerability flashing in her gaze for a heartbeat before her fists clenched at her sides. “I’ll write the story in such a way that he can’t refuse to publish it.”
Liam, who stood behind Sky, frowned. This was the second time in the conversation Sky had avoided the why here question, and Cullen’s security operations friend had caught on as well. Cullen’s gut tightened. Maybe he was going about this all the wrong way. Maybe—no, certainly—he was a blind, bullheaded asshole. “I have a win-win solution,” he said, capturing all Sky’s attention and savoring its intensity. “Work at the Rescue full-time. You have the skills we need, and I’ll make it worth your while. Cut Frank out of the picture completely—he’s not a man you want to be dependent on for anything. Trust me on that.”
To his utter bewilderment, Sky shook her head. “You don’t get it, Cullen. This isn’t about Frank. This is about my career. Journalism is in my blood. And the free press? It isn’t a paycheck, it’s what makes a free society stay free. Just like your work at the Rescue—”
“You want to know the first goddamn rule of rescuing?” Cullen’s blood, which had cooled to a reasonable simmer, shot right back up to his head. “Dead rescuers help no one. And I am not okay with you—”
“You’re not okay with—” Sky shouted over him.
“Stop.” Liam’s low, powerful voice cracked through the conversation. Striding forward as if he owned the very air between Sky and Cullen, Liam looked between them and—for once—Cullen shut his mouth in deference while his chest heaved. Liam nodded as if he expected nothing less from both parties. “My line of work exists because too many people need to go into dangerous situations that they, in a perfect world, should not be going near. But this isn’t a perfect world. If a doctor or a diplomat is needed, you can’t send a marine instead. So we mitigate. We use trained security. And we target harden.”
He twisted toward Sky. “You want to go into danger? Learn to defend yourself. Or take someone who can do it for you. Preferably both.”
Sky’s spine straightened. “No one is coming on my interviews with me.”
“Then I’ll see you on the mat at six a.m. tomorrow morning,” Liam told her.
Sky, whose mouth was hanging slightly open, shut it with a resounding click. Liam was very hard to argue against when he got persuasive. There was just one last point to address.
“She can’t do tomorrow morning,” he told Liam. “She’s just been through hell and—”
“And if you can’t stand watching, Hunt, stay the fuck home,” Liam shot back. And that was that.
22
Frank
Frank Peterson ran a hand through his thinning hair, frustrated beyond belief. One would think that between owning the whole damn medical industry in Denton Valley and being worshipped by everything with two eyes and a pussy, Cullen Hunt would have better things to do than insist on ruining Frank’s life at every turn. But no. No, not at all.
After failing in his scheme to block the Peterson family from collecting the military’s death benefit for Bar—Frank’s own little brother—Hunt got busy conspiring with the gold digger who’d tricked Bar into marriage. And now… Now Hunt was going after Frank’s piece of ass.
Frank’s hand tightened around his beer, the tinted glass reflecting the dark granite countertop of his kitchen island. It had been bad enough to discover that Reynolds never reported back on her assignment yesterday. It was worse to learn why she hadn’t called in her story. Because she was busy fucking Cullen goddamn Hunt.
After everything Frank had done to secure the little journalist, to give the bitch a job when no one else would, to fucking spoon-feed her leads while she teased her way around the newsroom and never put out—after all that, the skank dove for Cullen’s cock the first chance she got. Did Sky imagine Frank wouldn’t find out? That he’d just keep waiting for her indefinitely while she sampled the whole damn town?
Well, at least Frank now understood why Hunt had thrown such a temper tantrum at the Vault. The asshole thought he had some sort of claim on Skylar and had been acting in accordance. Because, as usual, Hunt had wanted what Frank already had.
Fucker.
Frank threw his empty beer bottle into his kitchen sink, feeling the slightest bit of relief at the sound of the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces. He imagined taking one of the sharpest shards and slitting Cullen’s throat with it, just to be rid of him once and for all. But then Frank leaned on his granite counter, taking some labored breaths. He had to be careful. The fucking Trident gods were beloved by many in Denton Valley, especially by members of the powers that be. If Frank crossed any of them in too direct a manner, he’d end up with more trouble than he could shake a stick at.
One tenet Frank lived by above all else was the value of plausible deniability.
Ironically, that lesson Hunt himself had taught Frank back in adolescence. And of course, it all started with a skank. Not any skank, however, but one Frank was taking to the eighth grade dance. Sick of being a virgin, Frank had chosen a girl he knew longed to spread her legs for him—and would most certainly have done so had Hunt not interfered. Reaching up, Frank rubbed the bump on his nose, which had never healed right from Hunt’s knuckles.
The worst part was that Hunt’s only punishment had been a fancy new school and a shiny uniform—but Frank had realized something important over that incident. If he’d gone through with what he (and secretly she) had wanted that evening, the whore might have twisted things into making Frank the villain. And since Frank had never been as lucky as the town’s precious Trident gods, there might have been a good dose of nastiness poured on his head.
In other words: distance was key.
Frank pursed his lips as he contemplated the broken glass. His housekeeper would come in and take care of it, so that didn’t concern him. The pattern of the shards was giving him an idea, which solidified as he looked again at the bright orange sticky tag he’d ripped off Hunt’s mailbox while storming away that morning. It’d been a small, impulsive movement, and the tag was nothing more than a reminder from Overnight Express on an upcoming shipment to be delivered Wednesday between ten and noon.
But now that Frank was looking at it more closely, he knew his instincts had been spot-on—because the upcoming shipment was from Trident pharmacy, and it had a drug reference number on it to boot. Prazosin, the same shit Bartholomew had been on to keep him from rushing about like a rabid dog and destroying the furniture between deployments.
Pulling out the throwaway phone he used when he needed to re-up his roofies order, Frank ordered some sugar-pill placebos from his bewildered contact, then dug through his address book for the right person.
Timothy Browning, one of the underlings in Liam Rowen’s security firm, picked up on the third ring and grunted into the receiver.
“I need Hunt’s outside security to come down for emergency maintenance Wednesday, ten to noon.”
Browning’s response was clipped. “Cullen Hunt? Jesus Christ, Frank, I’m not comfortable with that. Plus, that’s just down the street from Arnie and Phylicia. ”