1
BEAU
Five Months Earlier
Sliding onto the dark, polished stool in the dimly lit hotel bar, I smile to myself. All my hard work has paid off, and life is moving in the right direction.
Positioning myself at the end of the long countertop, away from the cluster of suited businessmen nursing beers near the television, I signal the bartender. She's got a no-nonsense air that I appreciate as she slides a whiskey in front of me without attempting small talk. It’s a middle of the road generic hotel, with unremarkable guests and unremarkable decor, attempting to be both a traditional pub and a sports bar, and not doing either particularly well.
It’s not the kind of place I’d normally frequent, a little too bland for my taste, but it’s right next door to my brand-new office, and after picking up the keys and moving some boxes, I told myself I should go and celebrate.
And yet, I can’t relax.
My earlier job took longer than expected when an accident on the highway turned a one-hour trip into three, and I'm feelingevery tense minute knotting my shoulders. Traffic jams are no fun at the best of times, let alone when you have an angry fugitive handcuffed in the back and a bear inside you that gets claustrophobic in confined spaces.
But that was hours ago, and after handing the bail jumper over and collecting my check, I should be feeling better. Instead, my head is pounding, and I can’t seem to sit still.
Maybe I need a good run to work off some of this restless energy.
That’s going to have to wait, though. One of the drawbacks of living in town, closer to work, and far from the remote territory of my clan, is the lack of immediate access to somewhere quiet enough to shift and explore.
On the plus side, not everyone here knows my business or my family’s to judge me for it. Though I have to admit, coming from a family known for being dangerous doesn’t seem to have hurt my private security business one bit. In fact, I’d dare say having Lennox as a surname has helped.
Nobody seems to mind the Lennox reputation when they can use it to their benefit.
The television above the bar is tuned to local news, and the volume is low but audible. A polished news anchor speaks with exaggerated concern while a photo fills the right-hand side of the screen, showing a young woman, mid-twenties, with a bright smile.
"...there are still no leads in the disappearance of up-and-coming television star Amber Reeves, who was last seen almost three days ago. Police are asking anyone with information on the whereabouts of the young woman..."
Her pretty picture remains up as the broadcaster continues in a sombre tone. I tune it out, praying silently that she’s found alive and well against the odds. Seventy-two hours into the search though, those odds aren’t good.
Shaking my head, I bring the glass to my lips, sighing as the soothing burn of the golden liquid slides down my throat. Instantly, the restlessness inside me eases a little, enough to allow me to sit in peace and for my mind to calm.
As I gesture for another drink, the door opens behind me, letting in a gust of cool air and a tantalising scent that makes my bear sit up and pay attention.
I don't know the woman, that much I can tell from her smell, but the urge to turn and see her is overwhelming. That urge persists until I give in. Trying to be subtle, I shift in my chair, and the second I catch a glimpse of that red hair and fiery expression, my bear forgets about going for a run and decides he needs to know who she is.
She takes the stool down from mine and orders a gin and tonic with a tired smile. When it arrives in something that looks more like a goldfish bowl than a glass, she exhales, relaxing, and wraps her fingers around the stem. Her shoulders lower, and she rolls them back, stretching her neck, letting go of her worries from the day.
Just like me.
When she catches me watching, that softer side vanishes immediately, and she twists her head without turning to face me fully, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising. "Can I help you?"
You,my bear rumbles, loving the spark of irritation in her eyes that dims as she takes me in, replaced instead, with suspicion.
"Nothing." I turn back to my whiskey, a hint of a smile tugging on my lips at the sass in her tone. "Rough day?"
Her eyes trail over me once more before she faces forward again.
"You could say that,” she mutters before she slides a bill over the bar and takes a long swallow, eyes fixed on her giant drink. “Just… men. Colleagues, I mean.” She sighs and shrugs. “Takingcredit for my work while simultaneously hinting that I’m bad at my job. Usual shit.”
She looks sad, and the urge to find these dipshits and pound them into the ground for being mean to her is strong.
"I work alone, always have, so I can't say I know what that’s like."
As her full, rosy-pink lips move, I stare, obsessed with how they form each word and then pout when I admit I know nothing of her troubles.
"Lucky you." She tips her head toward the television, where Amber Reeves's photo is back on display, with her acting credits listed underneath.
