6
Sky
“Fetch me some coffee before you leave, sweetheart,” Frank calls from his office as I’m already reaching for the door handle.
I open my mouth to tell him off, but the image of trading my basement apartment for a cardboard box halts my tongue. More to the point—I want to be a journalist. And right now, being blackballed everywhere thanks to Jaden and the assholes at the United States Navy press office, Frank is my only chance at that. Only an idiot gives up on her dreams over a cup of coffee.
Letting go of the door handle, I go into our stinky break room—for some reason, the place reeks of onions all the time—and try to start the coffeepot. Only, that pot is some sort of weird French press contraption that’s holding on to the liquid like a momma bear. By the time I work out how to coax coffee from it, I’m wearing a large stain and running late again.
Frank takes one sniff and pours it out into the trash, but at least he doesn’t shout obscenities into my face.
I shake my head. Being around military vets with anger issues has plainly warped my view of acceptable behavior.
After a quick hop to my apartment to change, I set my phone’s GPS to the address Catherine sent me this morning and hope Cullen Hunt himself isn’t planning on welcoming me to the office in person. My watch beeps at the late hour, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Bad start. Maybe I should just have come wearing coffee. It’s not like anyone sees a dispatcher.
Unless Cullen is there today.
It doesn’t help my jitters at all to remember that last night’s dreams all starred Cullen Hunt. It started out with him demeaning me, then altered to some bizarre episode where we hid together beneath the hood of my Corolla. Then he stared at me with those cool green eyes until my body started to ache. My palms had grazed the light stubble along his chin and traced the lines of his muscular body, even though his gaze never softened toward me.
I woke with my breasts feeling heavy and my panties soaked through with desire. I had to take a shower just to cool down. This isn’t how I really feel about him, so I don’t know why my body isn’t receiving that message. Cullen Hunt may be sex on a stick, but his shitty personality is more than enough to ward off any wayward cravings I might entertain about him. The bastard is antagonistic, short-tempered, and a bully.
His one moment of helpfulness notwithstanding.
Maybe that’s why Cullen’s image wove itself through my nighttime subconscious. When I gazed up at him, standing there with his ruined pocket handkerchief, grease all over those thick square fingers, and corded muscles filling out his once-white shirt, it’d done something to me.
It’s not called something, Sky. It’s called stupid.
I blow out a long breath. The Cullen I saw yesterday was a mirage version of him. Jaden and my father had these mirage moments too. I think it’s something the military trains into them, a way of showing one thing on the outside while being anything but that in reality.
Jaden could be nice too. Flowers, fancy dinners on the Hudson River, the lights of New York City’s many lit bridges right there within view. Getting me an interview—and then a job—at one of the top papers right after college. Showing me the ropes of journalism. I’d fallen for who I thought he was, hook, line, and sinker.
And then came Fleet Week, Jaden’s marine buddies, and his true colors. Now I am here working for Denton Uncovered and being grateful for the opportunity. Yeah.
Maybe I should be grateful that Cullen has shown me his true colors already, and more than once. A lone instance of decency does not a good man make. That’s not how it works.
Pulling into the parking lot of Trident Rescue’s single-story brick building that reminds me of a much smaller Urgent Care unit, I shut off my car and straighten my silky blouse—even if it’s made of polyester—and simple tan slacks.
Pushing through a pair of wide double doors, I find no obvious direction to go in. “Hello? Catherine? Is anybody here?”
Silence greets me.
Walking slowly through the building, I discover a collection of treatment rooms with all the customary medical paraphernalia, as well as an office with a landline, a police scanner, and a complicated-looking radio setup. The last third of the building houses a garage, with one wall dedicated to every piece of rescue gear imaginable. Being a climber myself, I only recognize the rock-climbing equipment, but given the bright orange colors over everything else, I get the general gist. Both the Suburban I saw Cullen using for fast response and a more traditional ambulance are parked inside, gleaming from a fresh wash.
For a moment, I imagine Cullen standing there with a hose, cleaning the car. The image is as delicious as it’s absurd.
So the vehicles are here, but without any employees? Odd.
I’m right in front of the main double doors, about to call out again, when they whoosh open, mowing me over. I tumble to the floor, landing hard on my right side.
“What are you doing down there?” demands a familiar baritone. Cullen Hunt, of course.
“You knocked me over,” I inform him.
Cullen grabs my wrist and pulls me up. I anticipate a jerk forceful enough to dislocate my shoulder—the man’s muscles seem not constructed for anything but excessive force—but Cullen’s surprisingly gentle as he brings me to my feet. An intangible sizzle races through me, pulsating from where our skin touches, Cullen’s features a mix of concern and heat.
Then Cullen lets go, and it all vanishes. His features return to that familiar stoniness so swiftly that I wonder if the rest of it happened at all.
“Where is everybody?” I ask.
“You are everybody,” Cullen informs me. He’s wearing another business suit, this time a charcoal gray that highlights his blond hair and green eyes. “Hence, everybody is bloody late.”
“I—”
“You’re an irresponsible twenty-two-year-old who can’t get herself on time to an interview, a job, or a car maintenance schedule,” says Cullen.
“I’m twenty-three—”
“I stand corrected on that point.”
I snap my mouth shut.
Not missing a beat, Cullen jerks his chin toward the end of the hall. “I need more coffee to deal with you. Make some. Break room’s the last door on the left.” Without waiting for a response, the man turns on his heel and walks in the opposite direction.
What in the ever-loving fuck is happening today?
I don’t make the bastard coffee, sitting down instead at what I presume is the main dispatch desk—though the stacks of inventory, bills, and patient records piled around the computer make it seem multipurpose. Picking up the top page of a very, very neat pile, I find myself holding an overdue bill. For $15.22, with another $35 in late payment penalty.
“You know, laying your bills parallel to each other doesn’t actually get them paid,” I yell into the void.
“So I’ve been told.” Cullen reappears from one of the exam rooms, this time in his Trident Rescue uniform.
I stare for a few seconds before I can stop myself, unable to make up my mind about which is better, the suit or blue Under Armour. Then I snap myself out of it. It doesn’t matter which is better. It doesn’t matter how hot the man is. He’s an asshole, and I hate him.