Page 26 of Deadly Force
The office door creaks open as Caleb pushes it. The stale scent of old coffee and industrial-strength air freshener rushes out to meet us.
Behind the counter, the clerk’s eyes flick between Caleb and me. “One bed or two?” he asks, smirking.
Heat prickles over me at the insinuation. “We’re not?—”
Caleb doesn’t blink. Doesn’t posture. Just levels the clerk with a look so flat, so cold, the air in the room seems to thin. “Two rooms,” he says, voice low. A warning. “Cash. And I need a receipt.”
The clerk’s smirk disappears. “Yes, sir.” He fumbles at the key rack, barely making eye contact as he accepts Caleb’s cash.
All my fight drains away as Caleb hands me a key. I should resent him for stepping in. But all I feel is relief… and the terrifying truth that I might need him more than I want to admit.
SEVEN
Caleb
The motel room is as lousy as I thought it would be. Worn, stained carpet. Rattling A/C. A table bolted to the floor. A sofa with stuffing visible on one arm. Double bed with a limp floral bedspread that hasn’t been washed since the Bush administration. It’s a dump, but at least it’s a dump with a functional lock.
I bolt the door, flip the flimsy security latch, and wedge a chair under the handle for good measure. First priority: sweep the room.
As I move, Brooke hovers near the wall, trying to pretend she’s not shaken up. Praying under my breath, I cross the room in two strides and gently steer her to the safest corner—back to the wall, sight line to the door.
“If anyone tries to come through the door, getdown,” I say, voice low, steady. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”
She nods. Wide-eyed, hanging on to her composure by a thread. After a glance around the room, she goes right back to scribbling in her notepad. Same thing she did after the Glades, back when I thought she was tough enough to take on Adena and Verity without blinking. Now, I’m not so sure.
I’ve seen this before. People wear masks, laughing, fighting, pretending, until they think no one’s watching. That’s when they break.
I lean against the wall, watching her closely. Noting every detail—the slight shake in her shoulders, the quiver in her lip, the quiet panic in her eyes.
She lets out a sigh, short and sharp. “I can’t write with you staring at me. It’s unnerving.”
“Just checking you’re doin’ okay.”
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing with something close to contempt. “I’m fine. Why do you keep asking me that?”
I soften my tone. No sense making a bad situation worse. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re scared.”
Her eyes flare, her body tense. “I’m not scared. I’m…” She throws up her hands. “Forget it.”
I wish I could. I really do. But Brooke’s hurting, and every instinct in me wants to stop it.
“Do you want to recite some Psalms? Always helps me,” I offer.
Her expression softens slightly. A wry smile follows. “You think they even have a Bible in a dump like this?”
I chuckle, glad the tension’s starting to ease. “Check. Though I think some motel chains outlawed them.”
She sighs softly. “Of course they did. People don’t want to hear the truth.”
“That why you became a journalist? To tell the truth?”
She leans back, smile warming. “Pretty much. Why did you join the Army?”
“I wanted a challenge. To be the best of the best.”
“Chasing perfection is dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as chasing the truth,” I say.
