He chuckles lightly, as if he’s more than aware what meeting up might mean. “A drink. Dinner maybe.” Doesn’t sound too bad.
My smile increases, and I roll onto my side, eyes looking out at the sun in the still reddened sky. “Where?”
“There’s a place I know not far from you. I’ll come by and pick you up. Seven?”
That gives me all day to catch up on emails and sleep. “Deal. I’ll meet you in the foyer.”
The phone goes dead within a heartbeat, and I stare at it, wondering where manners disappeared to. No goodbye, see you soon, great even? Strange. Although, what would I know? Maybe this is how military types do life. Short, sharp. Strategic. Either way, I’m not sure I care all that much, and my legs creeping into the sheets should tell me that. He might be fine, and hot, and a hero, but I’m too tired to think straight, let alone consider what I’ve just agreed to.
My eyes close and I sigh, ruffling the sheets up until they’re tucked under my chin to stave off the air conditioning. I’m just going to sleep and let the day pass me by. Maybe when I wake up, life, and all that comes with it, will seem a little clearer. Thankfully, it’s now certainly safer.
~
Getting up from the desk chair, I start rifling through my suitcase. There’s not much in it. A few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, and light jackets. Certainly no heels for any type of date scenario, but I grab one of the nicer tops and casual jacket combo in an attempt to look stylish.
Most of the day has been a waste of nothing but sleep, but at least I got around to answering emails and sending some pieces out to the associated press. Hopefully, someone will pick up one or two of them. They’re good, and certainly sensational enough for the tabloids to grab hold of, but I’m still pissed that I didn’t get the main story I came out here for. That would have been big money, and while I’m thankful I’m alive, I’m beginning to feel a little sour because I didn’t get hold of any concrete info from Asif.
Ten minutes later and I’m staring at myself in a mirror, less than pleased with the overall effect. That alone is reasonably unusual. I normally don’t give a toss about what I’m wearing other than functionality, but it’s been a while since I’ve got my rocks off, and Blake probably needs laying as much as I need to be laid. I feather some light makeup on my eyes and cheeks, then wipe half of it off because of the absurdity and walk out of the room.
As promised, I can see the shadow of him waiting on the front wall of the hotel. Tight fitted T-shirt, a pair of black jeans sitting low on his hips, and black boots. Very casual, and those forearms are doing all kinds of things to me.
He looks up at me as I make my way down the steps, then looks down at me when I eventually reach him. It gives me pause to take in the clean version of him, my own blue eyes catching hold of his green ones. “You don’t scrub up badly, do you?”
He takes his hands out of his pockets, smiles like the devil I’m hoping he is. “You either.” He doesn’t hide the visual once-over he performs with his eyes. “I barely recognise you.”
I smile as he looks out into the street and starts moving us along. We walk silently for a while, both of us slightly awkward presumably. I don’t know why. We’ve just been to hell and back, watched as people got killed. More specifically—he killed them. I still can’t really wrap my head around that. It’s a bizarre concept to me, and yet he seemed to do it without any real sense of remorse attached.
It isn't long before we reach a lively looking bar. A little dilapidated, but there seems to be plenty of life going on inside. I walk in after him, watching the way the chap on the door welcomes him in like an old friend.
“So, Ivy Broderick, what do you like to drink?” he says, as he waves his hand at the waiter, signalling for a beer.
“I’ll have one of those, too.”
“Beer?”
“Yes. Problem?”
He chuckles and hands the second one he’s been given over to me. “No. I just assumed someone from your family would like something a little more upmarket.”
“My family?” I slide onto a stool beside him and shift the jacket from my shoulders to get some air. “Have you been looking me up?”
“No. But I am a photographer. Anyone in this business knows Broderick Media. You must have grown up in some mansion.”
“I did. And we have another one, too. That doesn’t mean I’m not capable of enjoying a beer. Especially in this heat. I don’t know how anyone gets used to it.”
“It grows on you.”
“You said you’ve been here for a few months, any time before that?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“How were they?”
“You want to talk about war?”
“I’m a journalist. You might be a good story.” I take a few sips of the cold beer, letting the frigid chill of the bottle help cool me down. “Any other hero antics I need to know about?”
“No, none other than the normal when you’re trying to protect a nation.” He looks at the bar, plays with his beer bottle, and frowns as if this isn’t something he’s comfortable talking about.
