Page 15 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

Beck leans over, plucking a pen from the cup in the middle of the table and grabbing a fresh notepad.

He strides over to Hicks, his expression calm, nothing like you would expect from a man who’s toeing the line of losing his job.

He shoves the pad and pen into Hicks’ chest, holding it there until the other man places his hands around the materials.

“You didn’t write it down,” Beck repeats. “You can’t make note of something you didn’t fucking bother to write down.”

Hicks looks past Beck, making eye contact with me.

His gaze is hard with the silent order for me to get Beck out of his face, but I don’t move a muscle.

Beck’s approach might differ from mine, but it’s still better than doing nothing when there’s a potential threat on the horizon.

Plus, me intervening now would only feel like a betrayal of my knowledge of Beck’s history with nonchalant supervisors and the lives they leave hanging in the balance. I would never do that to him.

Sensing that I will be of no assistance, Hick returns his attention to Beck. The large vein in the center of his forehead that indicates his emotional state pulses angrily as he takes the pen and paper and tosses them back onto the table.

“I’ll tell you what, Beckham,” he sneers, getting into his face.

“I’ll do a full report on this little incident, and it’ll go into the Taylors’ file, but it’ll also go in yours as an attachment to yet another write-up due to insubordination.

And when I’m done writing that, I’m going to grab my pen, go to the bulletin, and put you down as the cover agent for the next month.

” Hicks glances back at his snickering flunkies and grins. “Who needs a shift covered?”

Anderson’s hand flies up. “I need my shift for tonight covered, Beck. The Taylors are going on a date, and I’m still recovering from the second-hand embarrassment from the last time I had to watch them share a meal.”

My brows lift at the mention of a date. I guess it makes sense that I wouldn’t know anything about it since I’m off tonight, but it still strikes me as odd to think about Aubrey and Selene doing anything together that wasn’t mandated by Jordan St. James.

I guess things with them are better than I thought.

“Provide him with the details. He’ll take care of it.” Hicks swings his gaze back to Beck. “Won’t you, Beckham?”

Beck shrugs. “As long as you make note of the incident and put in the BOLO request with the locals, I’m happy to fill in where I’m needed.”

There’s a serenity to his response that fills me with pride I can’t let show.

Every time Beck pushes, Hicks pushes back, trying to hit him where it hurts.

It’s funny to me that he never learns, that in all these years, he’s yet to realize that for Beck, a win is a win.

It doesn’t matter if he gets punished or written up or never has another day off in his life because he got Hicks to fold.

The would-be standoff ends unceremoniously.

Hicks backs away from Beck, turning on his heel and storming out with his shoulders high around his ears.

Every member of our team follows behind him, leaving Beck and me alone.

When the door closes, I move to stand in front of him, reaching up to cup a hand at the back of his neck and pull him in close.

He’s stiff at first, railing against my touch because of where we are, but I need to touch him, to reassure him that even in the moments when he was standing against Hicks alone, I was in his corner.

It takes a minute, but eventually he gives, resting his head on my shoulder.

“You did good,” I tell him, eyes on the door in case someone doubles back.

“I fucking hate this. We shouldn’t have to fight tooth and nail to have our concerns acted on. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard, Cal.”

“You’re right. But we can’t focus on that now. You need to go home and get some rest, and I need to convince Ortega to let me work his shift tonight.”

Beck’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. “No, you don’t?—”

I silence him with a short, chaste kiss. “It’s already done, love.”

Ortega didn’t need convincing.

As soon as I approached him, he agreed and went to call his wife to tell her he’d be available to take her out to dinner for their anniversary after all.

And now, hours later, Beck and I are standing side by side in the Taylors’ circular driveway waiting for them to emerge so we can get this date night started.

Beside me, Beck is more relaxed than he’s been all day.

He leans against the car, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, and I smile to myself, knowing that relaxation is a direct result of the work I put in this afternoon after we left headquarters.

At first, he protested the idea of me coming to his place after I finished talking with Ortega, but then I promised to feed him and walk him through a recollection protocol to help him get back any details of the incident that might have been lost over the last few days.

That had resulted in him telling me the driver had his window down when he did his first perimeter check.

Only slightly, but enough for him to know something about the person felt familiar to him, like he’d seen him before, which pointed us to our old case files to figure out where their paths might have crossed.

After an hour of looking, we decided to call it quits for the day and try to get some sleep. That was a fruitless endeavor, but I don’t think either of us regrets it.

“Stop thinking about it,” Beck orders through clenched teeth just as the front door of the residence opens, and Selene steps out, wiping my brain clean for a moment.

She’s absolutely stunning, and I’m aware that I’m staring, conscious of the fact that I shouldn’t be. Still, I’m afraid that if I look away, then no one will appreciate the amalgamation of small details that come together to create one exquisite picture.

The form fitting black dress with a slit up her thigh.

The gold stilettos with straps that wrap up her calves and match the thin, diamond-encrusted gold chain at her throat.

The artfully messy bun at the top of her head with a few curled strands left out in several places. My favorites are the ones that frame her face, highlighting her cheekbones and the sharpness of her eyes.

Every piece is more captivating than the next, holding me in the painful space between reality and a possibility I can never entertain.

It takes me too long to realize that Beck is there too.

He’s gone still beside me, and I pull my gaze away from Selene just long enough to watch him watch her.

To see his eyes trail up her leg, swallowing hard as if every inch of smooth, sable skin exposed by the slit measures the difference between the buttoned up, reserved woman he claims he can’t stand to the distinctly sexual being standing in front of us.

I’ve never dated women, although I’ve been attracted to them, but Beck has.

Beck does, but I’ve never seen him with any of them before, so I’ve only ever theorized what attraction for the opposite sex might look like on his face.

I didn’t think I’d like to see it, fearing that it would only make me realize how fragile the thing between us is.

But when the subject of his focus is Selene, it only seems to amplify what I feel for him.

In this moment, with the thread of focus extending between Beck and me reaching out to envelop Selene, our bond feels stronger than ever.

Just as I’m growing used to the connection, it fractures under the weight of Aubrey’s sudden appearance at her side.

Selene smiles, a genuine smile that’s meant for him and no one else, but he doesn’t see it because he’s too preoccupied with his phone.

He breezes past her, heading to the car we’re standing in front of.

Beck jumps into action, opening the door for Aubrey while I move over to Selene.

She’s still standing in the same place, her expression a broken mix of hurt and annoyance because of her husband’s lack of attention.

“Mrs. Taylor, you look lovely tonight.” Aubrey’s last name tastes like ash on my tongue, but I fight the sensation to gag, choosing instead to extend my hand to Selene. She stares at it for a long moment before taking it, allowing me to help her down the steps and to the car.

The physical contact only lasts for a few seconds, but I relish every one, wondering if she feels it too—the electricity buzzing between the lines of our palms.

The regret that courses through my veins and causes my hands to shake when I have to let her go.