Page 63 of Dirty As Puck
Money switches between hands in a sloppy exchange, uncounted bills passed too quickly to be anything legitimate. One of the men leans in, face sharp, and voice low as he speaks quickly. Derek nods too much, an obvious show of nervousness. I can almost read the panic off him even from here.
I swallow hard. My story-hunting instincts scream this is gold, really front-page material, but my chest tightens with something heavier. This isn’t just about the scandal anymore. This is about Kai, about the way his voice shook when he opened up to me that day in my hotel room, about the cracks in his armor that only I have seen.
Derek leaves after twenty minutes. I give him space, then count to ten before slipping out. My heart hammers as I trail him through downtown alleys. He stops at another bar, that’s darker and louder, with a haze of cheap perfume and cigarettes.
Same routine, quick meeting, hushed conversation, nervous gestures. Only this time, he slams his fist on the counter when the man across from him shakes his head.
Debts. He clearly has too many. And no more patience from the people he owes.
I duck behind a parked car, raising the lens again. Each shutter click feels like a countdown to something. One wrong move, and he’ll notice. If Derek catches me trailing him, I don’t know what he’ll do.
He’s reckless enough to gamble away his future, desperate enough to take money from anyone willing to give it to him. Desperate men don’t think straight or act rational.
My palms sweat as I text quick notes to myself, saving the photos in a locked folder. Every instinct screams to walk away before I get in too deep, but the mental image of Kai won’t let me. His brother’s mess is circling closer, and if I don’t dig this out now, it might swallow Kai whole.
By the time Derek disappears into a city street, my knees ache from crouching and my throat raw from holding back fear. But I’ve seen enough. He’s drowning in debt, he feels cornered, and that makes him even more dangerous.
And for the first time, I realize the story isn’t about whether Derek ruins Kai. It’s whether I can stop him before he does.
The downtown restaurant is half-empty, and it feels the kind of place where businessmen linger over late lunches and waiters keep their distance. It’s quiet enough to for me to focus on work, but noisy enough to keep me anonymous.
I slide into a corner booth, my laptop open, notes and photographs spread across the table like puzzle pieces I’m desperate to solve.
Derek’s face stares back at me from a grainy shot I took outside the bar. His eyes are hollow, and his shoulders slumped, he’s the image of desperation in human form. I drag the image into a file marked Case Study and start building a timeline with locations, dates, the men he met, the cash exchanged. My fingers fly across the keyboard, as I document everything.
Names circle my notes. Shady regulars and bartenders with loose lips. Debt collectors who don’t wait politely for repayments. Each connection is another thread in the web Derekhas tangled himself in. I lean back, rubbing my temples and asking myself the question I can’t escape,how far am I willing to go with this?
I’ve always drawn a line in my career. Report the truth but don’t become a part of it. But now? Now it’s different. This isn’t about headline and catchy stories. This isn’t about winning over my boss. It’s about Kai, the way he looked at me across that café table yesterday, his exhaustion leaking through even when he tried to smile. If Derek’s spiral drags him under, everything Kai has ever worked for goes down the drain. And I can’t let that happen.
I make a few quiet calls, my voice low, eyes darting around the restaurant. One bartender remembers Derek vividly from late-night poker games, and tabs he never fully paid. Another one, after some hesitation, admits he’s seen Derek leave with men who are not to be messed with. Off-record, they tell me the same story––that Derek is in deep, gambling debts higher than his pay checks, and his creditors are running out of patience.
I type every word, cross-referencing stories, building a case like I’ve done a hundred times before, except never with my heart pounding like this. Each confirmation is both victory and dread. The proof is undeniable now. Derek isn’t just reckless, he’s volatile. The kind of man who could take everyone down with him if he falls.
My coffee goes cold as if has been untouched. I sit staring at the screen, watching Derek’s file take shape: photos, testimony, financial traces. It’s enough to convince anyone that something is wrong, but not enough to stop it, at least not yet.
My instincts scream to run straight to Kai, lay it all out and let him decide. But my heart argues otherwise. If I go too soon, Derek will spin it, deny everything, and Kai will be caught in themiddle. I need more. Enough that even Derek can’t wriggle free from.
I close my laptop slowly, staring at my reflection in the darkened screen. Somewhere between fact-checking and shadowing his brother, my role changed. This isn’t professional anymore. It’s deeply personal.
And as much as it terrifies me, I know the truth––I’m not chasing a story. I’m fighting to protect Kai.
24
The vibration wakes me before the alarm does. I reach for my phone on the nightstand, eyes still heavy with sleep. One glance at the screen and every trace of drowsiness burns away.
It’s Derek. Again.
I swipe the message open with a pulse that’s already hammering in my ears.
A photo fills the screen. Not of me this time, or my teammates like the last one. It’s one of Rochelle. She’s standing outside of an office, with a tote bag slung over her shoulder, hair tied up like she always does when she’s working. The angle is low, like whoever took it was parked on the street.
Below it, his send a message.
24 hours left, brother. Your pretty journalist won’t stay pretty for much longer.
My stomach flips like I’ve just taken a blindside hit in my lung area. Heat surges through me, with a mix rage, panic, and helplessness, all crashing together. My hand tightens around the phone until the frame creaks. For half a second, I want to hurl it against the wall, and watch it shatter into pieces.
Instead, I start to pace. The room suddenly feels too small, every step sounding like a scream in my skull. He’s watching her. He’s not just after me anymore, he’s pulling her into this, targeting her because he knows I can’t stand the thought of her being hurt.
