I go in for the kill with that line since he knows the perks their executives have tried to entice me with in the past. And by the widening of his eyes and the set of his jaw, it seems to have worked.
“I’d have to get it cleared with the brass.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling, referring to the executives upstairs. “They think that you…” His voice fades off, the incomplete thought making my mind whirl.
“You’re telling me that they blame Stella’s death on me?” I walk to the opposite end of the room, needing to move to abate my anger, and shove a hand through my hair. It’s shaggy and an inch too long, but fuck if I’ve cared enough to look after myself these last few months.
“I never said that.” His exasperation over how to handle me is obvious in his voice.
“You don’t have to. I live with it every goddamn day… Like I said, the most trusted name in news,” I taunt, dropping CNN’s slogan on him before I raise my eyebrows, making my intention clear as day. Then I walk toward the door, tossing, “Try me,” over my shoulder as I step over the threshold.
After that I just have to hope my threat works.
Chapter 1
One month later
A hand slaps me firmly on the back. It’s one of many in an impromptu celebration in the bar of the hotel to greet me.
“Welcome back, you crazy fucker!”
Burn out, my ass.
I turn to see Pauly’s familiar face: broad grin, hair falling over his thick glasses, and belly leading the way. “Man, it’s good to see you!” As I turn to shake his hand, I’m instantly pulled into his arms for a rough embrace.
He pulls back and cuffs the side of my cheek. “You okay?” It’s the same look that everyone has been giving me, and it’s driving me fucking insane. Pity mixed with sadness. But Pauly is allowed to look at me like that since he was there before all the shit hit the fan; he loved her like a sister too. And coming back here, I feared this moment – meeting him face-to-face – as if he’d judge me, think it was my fault… but all I feel right now is relief.
It feels so damn good to be back here, with people who get me, who understand why I’d return to work when so many others think I should have given it up to stay home for good. They don’t get that once you’re a nomad, you’re always a nomad. Or that home isn’t where your house is necessarily; it’s where you feel comfortable. And yes, that comfort can alter over time – as your needs shift and wants change – but in the end, I feel more like myself right now than I have since Stella’s death.
I pull my thoughts back to the here and now, to Pauly, the stale cigarette smoke that hangs in the air around me, and the pungent scent of spices coming in through the open windows of the bar.
“I’m better now that I’m back here.” I motion to the barstool next to me for him to sit down.
“Thank God for that. Took Rafe long enough.”
“Almost four months.”
“Shit,” he says in sympathy, knowing what a big deal that is to someone like me.
“Yeah. Tell me about it. The first two months were a mandatory leave of absence. Then once I threatened to go to CNN, he said he was speeding things up… but then, fuck, they made me take another Centurian course.” It’s a course for foreign correspondents about what to do in a hostile environment and how to handle the multitude of things that can go wrong at any given time. “And then I was told they couldn’t find a photographer who wanted to travel to this paradise… It was one damn thing after another.”
“So in other words, he was dragging his feet so he could get you back here on his time frame.”
“Exactly.” I nod and tip my bottle up to my lips. “He thought I needed a break, said I was going to burn out.” I motion to the bartender to bring us another couple of beers.
“We’re all going to at some point. In the meantime…” He taps the neck of his beer bottle against mine. “Might as well get our fix.”
“Amen, brother. So, tell me what the hell has been happening while I’ve been gone.” The need to change the subject is paramount for me right now. I know Stella is going to be everywhere here, but I need a way to make her not so present in my mind so that I can focus on doing my job.
At least it’s a good theory.
“I’m hearing that some new players have moved into the game and that there’s a high-official meet in the works, but we can talk shop later. Right now, we need to welcome you back properly.” Pauly raises his voice to shout the last few words. In agreement, the crowd of people around us, mostly men, raise up a glass and call out a few aye, ayes.
The excitement around me feels palpable. It doesn’t take much in this place to give people a reason to celebrate. We all live on that razor-thin edge of unpredictability, so we take the chances we get to party because who knows when we’ll get another one? For all we know, tomorrow we could be on air-raid-siren lockdown in the hotel or out in the field in an embedded mission with a military unit.
When I turn back around, the bartender is busily filling the row of shot glasses on the bar top in front of me with Fireball whiskey. History tells me that this row is the first of many in tonight’s welcome-back celebration. My inclination is to chug back the first shot and then slowly work my way out of the bar and to my room.
It’s been a long ass few days. Between flights through multiple time zones and then a transport into the heart of the city, plus trying to reconnect with my sources to let them know I’m back in town, and grease their palms some, I’m exhausted, exhilarated, and feeling a little more like myself back in the thick of things, doing exactly what I love.