“Why did you apply for this job?” he asks.
If he interrupts me one more time, I may not be responsible for my actions. My temperature rising, I take three deliberate deep breaths. I can’t smart off to this guy. It took every cent of my savings just to provide first and last month’s rent. Except for Frank Peterson—who is paying me nearly nothing—this is literally the only place that has given me the time of day.
Gathering my dignity I lean toward Cullen and place a copy of my portfolio containing samples of my past articles on his desk. Not exactly dispatch relevant, but it’s all I’ve got to prove my worth. When the bastard doesn’t react, I move the folder toward him until my hand bumps against his. The contact feels like a zap of electricity, as if I’d received a static charge.
“Mr. Hunt, I know we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. But I’m being utterly forthright in saying that my application for this job has nothing to do with my position as a reporter. I wouldn’t use one to influence the other, or vice versa. It would be unprofessional and fall short of the high standards I set for myself and my work.”
Cullen’s eyes zero in on where our hands are still touching, but the fact that he allows me to finish my sentences is encouraging. Heart still pounding a drumbeat, I lick my lips and continue.
“May I walk you through my credentials, then?”
Cullen glances up at me, his eyes darker than I remember seeing them prior to now, before he jerks his hand away from mine as if I’d bitten him like a rabid animal.
“I’ve seen enough, Ms. Reynolds. You can go.”
“I—”
“I said, dismissed.” Cullen barks the last word out as a full-on order, and I’m up on my feet before I can get control of my body.
“I was going to say, I agree,” I snap back at him, the world that’s been spinning around me suddenly settling with a resounding click. I know what kind of man Cullen is. He’s my father. He’s Jaden. All bark all the time, as if the world was invented just to scrub floors with toothbrushes on their bloody command. And this interview? I’m freaking lucky. Better end this now before his barks morph into bites. Because they always do.
I pause with my hand on the door. “You want to know why I wanted this job, you pompous ass? The same reason everyone who isn’t a damn CEO playing medic for fun wants a job. Because it comes with a paycheck. But you know what? I don’t need your blood money. Go find yourself someone else to abuse. Or better yet—don’t.”
My voice is still ringing off the walls when I storm out of his office, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me.
4
Cullen
Cullen’s ears rang from how hard Skylar Reynolds had slammed the door, causing a photograph from Afghanistan to fall from where it hung on the wall. The thing had survived Central Asia and the Middle East, and now one small woman nearly destroyed it. Ironically fitting.
Cullen sat there for a minute, dissecting what had just gone down between them. He didn’t like Sky. She’d attempted to set up Cullen’s best friend, scoured help-wanted sections for story leads, and understood nothing about why Cullen and the other Trident men served on the Rescue. She was the type of woman for whom being a colossal pain in the ass was as natural as breathing. But one thing Cullen couldn’t call Skylar Reynolds was dull. She had a backbone and a will strong enough for a good drill sergeant—that much was more than evident.
Which he found, well…interesting.
And grating.
Especially when she sat there licking her lips at him. A deliberate provocation? Seeing that soft pink tongue peeking out of her delectable mouth had given Cullen’s thoughts a highly inappropriate twist. It had made him hard, and when she’d shouted at him, it’d made him even harder.
What the actual fuck?
Cullen didn’t want Reynolds making him hard. He didn’t want to ever see her again.
Full of energy that had nowhere to go, Cullen stood and paced next to the framed certifications and honors he’d gained over the years, some as a SEAL and some since. The certifications were mostly tied to overseas days, like when he’d completed his Special Operations Combat Medic—SOCM—training. It’d been intense, like taking a drink from a power washer on high. By the end, though, Cullen had a competency level equal to a third-year medical student. He’d used that knowledge too. All his brothers had.
Far too often.
That was the part Reynolds didn’t—probably couldn’t—understand. He’d seen it in her eyes when they’d narrowed with disdain at the sight of his sidearm mounted on the wall, the backup weapon that had saved his life and taught him the value of training. Of preparedness. To the Skylar Reynoldses of the world, guns were like dangerous firecrackers, as disposable as the little green soldiers who carried them.
Cullen shook his head, not wanting to think about that.
Picking up the fallen photo, Cullen put it back beside the small accolade from Denton Valley Memorial’s pediatric ward. Though he didn’t spend much time there, he’d donated a substantial sum to the ward. Burns and cancer killed as efficiently as mortar rounds. He’d been unable to stop the latter. He hoped he might help fight the former.
Feeling moderately calmer now, Cullen returned to his desk—only to find Reynolds’s portfolio staring right at him. Who brought a portfolio to a dispatch interview? Fuck. The woman managed to get to him without even being in the goddamned room. That took skill.
The whole interaction with Reynolds had left Cullen feeling…off. She’d traipsed in with that snug black dress hugging her curves like a glove, licking her lips and touching his hand. Again, she’d left him enraged as well as hot and bothered.
Christ.
Yet his normal defenses weren’t working with this Sky woman. Somehow, she’d seeped in under his skin anyway.
Maybe it was that Skylar Reynolds was a walking contradiction. One moment she had passion for her work, the next, her passion was for a paycheck. A claim of standards and integrity against the practice of working for Frank Peterson, of all people. At first, Cullen had been certain the girl had come for a story, not a job, but maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe her principles and integrity were simply for sale to whoever was willing to pay.
Cullen didn’t know. Cullen didn’t care. He didn’t.
Outside the window, a crash of thunder and lightning ripped through air with a violence that jerked Cullen around. A moment later, rain and hail mixed together in a sudden downpour that batted against the windows. Rat-tat. Rat-tat. Rat-tat.
Cullen’s breath quickened, his eyes blinking against the darkness. He was moving. Running. Ripping through the debris. The scent of charred flesh and copper blood filled his lungs. He opened his mouth, tasting phantom sweetness as children’s screams rose on all sides around him.
“Come with me!” he shouted, grabbing a little girl against his chest. She wasn’t breathing. Snatching an ambu bag valve mask that, by some miracle, was within reach, he fit it snugly over her face, then squeezed the bag to breathe for her. The girl’s chest rose.
A woman, the girl’s mother, hit him with a rock. She was bleeding badly. Deadly badly. But she hit him anyway.