Still Waters (Greenstone Security 1)

Up until the day before, when she abruptly fired them.

I felt strangely guilty about that, like I was betraying Keltan somehow, but then shrugged off that feeling, banishing it to that box.

Keltan and I were nothing; therefore, no loyalty. Kisses on car hoods notwithstanding.

There was a long pause and sucking sound at the end of the phone once I finished.

I waited, wandering over to the sliding door that was open, letting in the gentle breeze in of the L.A. morning, watching the dusky colors of the sunrise dancing amongst the littered rooftops of West Hollywood and the hills beyond.

“Interesting,” Roger said finally.

“There’s something there,” I said confidently.

“Oh, fuck yes, there’s something there,” he agreed.

“This could be big for us. For the publication. Legitimize us. Maybe put us in the big leagues. Give Huffington Post a run for its money.”

“Oh yes, we’d blow those assholes out of the water.”

I leaned against the cool and peeling metal rail of our tired building. It wasn’t exactly swanky and new, but it was big, had decent security, was in a good location and gave me a small spare room classed as a ‘second bedroom’—otherwise known as a closet.

“Sooo?” I prodded.

“So what?”

“So, this sounds like a job for the reporter who actually discovered the story in the first place,” I said.

“Stumbled onto a murder scene while going to talk to the victim about sparkly things. More luck than good journalism.” Roger may have been cranky in the morning, but statements like this, honesty without fluffy compliments to pad it out, were the norm no matter what time of day it was.

“You may be right,” I agreed. “But my story was good. And this story, once I break it, will be even better.”

There was a pause, more sucking. “The police will be investigating this too,” he said finally.

I perked up. Him not instantly ruling it out gave me hope. “All the more reason to put me on the story immediately. I’ll work overtime. Unpaid.” I silently apologized to my credit card for that little offer.

“Of course it’ll be fucking unpaid until you show me it’s actually worth having you on something other than frocks and fashion shows,” he spluttered.

I ignored it. “So, I’ve got the story?”

“You’ve got other stories,” he hedged thoughtfully.

I waited, letting the silence do the talking for me.

“But I suppose Stephanie can do them. That lazy bitch spends far too much time frowning at her frozen forehead in the ladies’ room than actually doing any writing,” he said.

I grinned.

“And if you fuckin’ repeat that to anyone I’ll banish you to obits until you need more than Botox and a tummy tuck to make you look like you do now,” he added.

I nodded, smiling freely at the upcoming horizon. The only morning since him that I was content to be awake at such an hour.

“Roger that, Roger,” I told him, a smile in my voice.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Don’t make me regret it. Get this fuckin’ scoop.”

“I will,” I told him confidently.

Just as I prepared for him to hang up without a goodbye so I could do the same, he spoke again.

“And Walker?”

“Yeah?”

“You wake me up this early with anything less than a national headline, I’ll run you over with my car.”

That time I was met with dead air.

And I met the sunrise with a triumphant smile.

Although there was a slight curling in my stomach that I couldn’t properly put my finger on. Like that sunrise had all these possibilities for changing my life and my career, but echoes of Keltan’s kiss and words lingered between the rays, promising maybe another change that I didn’t know if I would survive.

Two Days Later

“Sorry, you said you were from Current?” a surprisingly dry-eyed, well-put-together woman asked me. She had agreed, rather begrudgingly—I could be persuasive—to meet me for a quick coffee and chat about her former boss. The one who was murdered two days before. Hence my surprise at her immaculately pressed and expensive white pantsuit, enviable Prada heels, a sleek bun and eyeliner sharp enough to cut someone’s throat.

Too soon?

Yeah. Maybe.

I sipped my coffee, my hand shaking slightly as I did so. Maybe five cups before 9 a.m. was pushing it. Or maybe I needed to push through. This weekend hadn’t exactly been filled with any form of sleep, considering I was trying to do as much research as I could on the story and think of Keltan and the kiss, and everything else, as little as possible.

So, because he was the last thing I wanted to think of, it had been all I’d been thinking of.

Thankfully it was a Monday, and Criss Cross seemed to still be open for business, despite Cross—the designer—being dead.

Handy for me. And my story.

“Yes,” I replied, holding the door to the coffee shop open for her as we emerged into the sunny morning in Venice. Hip boutiques littered the street, still dark since their equally hip employees likely wouldn’t roll out of bed for another couple of hours or so. “I was actually meant to interview her on Friday, but….”