Page 35 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)
She clasps her hands together, and the bangles on her arm jiggle as she bounces on her toes.
“Oh, I’d just love it if you found something today that you’ll want to wear while you’re here in Madison.
My customers would go crazy if they saw me tagged in one of your posts.
” She pauses and turns to Cal, who’s standing closest to us.
“She can tag me, right? I mean, I know I can’t post anything saying she’s here, but if she wears something from my store, I’ll get some kind of credit online, right? ”
Amusement swims in the pools of copper and brass that search my face for a clue as to what he’s supposed to say, and I take pity on him by supplying my own answer.
“Of course, you’ll be tagged. Would you mind grabbing your business card for me, so I can make sure I get your information exactly right if I need to post?”
Dana squeals. “Yes! I can absolutely do that. I just need to make a business card first.”
We watch her disappear into the back of the store, and the room instantly feels calmer once she’s gone.
Cal even steps back, leaving me to browse the racks while he and Agent Beckham watch from their respective posts in the small space.
By the time Dana is back—with a makeshift business card printed on regular paper, I have several pieces in my hand that I want to try on.
She takes them from me and nods approvingly. “You’ve picked some great pieces. Would you like to try them on?”
Since my sensory issues don’t allow me to buy a piece of clothing without knowing exactly how the fabric lies and feels against my skin, I nod. “Yes, please.”
“The fitting room is just through there.” She tips her chin in the direction of a gauzy, lavender curtain to the right of the checkout area, which is where Agent Beckham is standing. “Come with me. I’ll get you set up.”
I follow her determined steps, but we both stop short when Agent Beckham steps into our path. His expression is severe but not unkind as he says, “I need to clear the area first.”
Dana glances at me and then back at him, her brows folded in confusion. “But the other agents already cleared the store. There’s no one back there. I would never put Mrs. Taylor in any danger, I swear.”
“It’s protocol, Dana,” I explain, sparing her the speech I’m sure she was about to get because the last thing I need is Aubrey and Jordan on my ass because some young, white girl is crying on the internet about getting yelled at by a Black Secret Service agent on behalf of the most hated Black woman in America.
Dana nods as if she actually had a say in the matter. “Okay, that’s fine. I guess.”
I swear I catch Agent Beckham rolling his eyes at her as he turns to go through the curtain, but I can’t be sure.
It takes him all of five seconds to give the all clear, and less than that for Dana to hang all the pieces I chose in the dressing room and shut the door, giving me the illusion of being alone even though I can still hear her trying to pull Agent Beckham into conversation he clearly doesn’t want to have.
Dana’s endless chatter and his reluctant hums of acknowledgment become the soundtrack to my outfit changes, making the process feel less harrowing.
Somewhere between the third and fourth piece, the energy in the boutique changes. I don’t notice it at first, the stillness and the quiet that seems to take over, but then, as I’m standing in the dressing room in nothing but my bra and panties, I hear Cal’s voice, loud and urgent.
“BECKHAM! GET EYES ON HER NOW!”
At first, I think the her in question is Dana, and I immediately begin questioning where she’s gone and what she’s doing, but then the door to my dressing room bursts open, and I’m not alone anymore.
Agent Beckham slams the door closed behind him, and there’s a moment where we just stare at each other.
Onyx eyes slide down my frame, taking in the sheer lace of my bra and the thin lines of my thong that rest high on my hipbones.
It’s not a creepy, leering kind of study, but I wouldn’t call it indifferent either.
I’m searching for a word to accurately describe it when Cal comes back on the comms, asking for confirmation that I’m safe. That seems to snap Agent Beckham out of his trance, and he turns towards the door to give me some belated semblance of privacy while he assures his partner that I’m fine.
“What’s going on?” I ask, voice shaking as thoughts of the erratic cars and faceless bikers in Atlanta take over my mind. Fear rolls through my body, gripping me with long skeletal fingers that tighten when he glances at me, his face grim.
“Anderson and Harris heard gunshots. Get dressed, so we can move when it’s time.”
There’s a command to his voice that all but forbids me from disobeying him, but I still can’t bring myself to move. “Who’s shooting? Why are they shooting?”
Are those bullets for me?
The silent inquiry steals all the breath from my lungs, meaning I’m not even able to gasp when the gunshots go from a distant concept to a reality that’s far too close for comfort.
Three loud pops pierce the air, and my body quakes with each one.
I back myself into a corner, while my brain uses my terrified state to conjure more questions like: Is this how AJ felt when he heard those first shots echoing in the halls of the school we told him he’d be safe at?
Did his heart stop beating altogether for just an instant and then kick into overdrive, sending adrenaline and cortisol through his system and forcing him into action?
Or was he like me? Paralyzed, wishing like hell he could be anywhere else?
“He must have been so afraid,” I murmur, covering my ears with my hands when the sound of gunfire and the constant stream of voices over the comms gets to be too much.
My mind is racing, flitting between the present and the final moments of my son’s life, and I’m mumbling incoherently, unable to understand or process anything that’s not horror and pain.
“Mrs. Taylor,” Agent Beckham calls, rounding on me with wild eyes. “You have to get dressed.”
“I’ve never heard gunshots before, Beck.”
Tears blur my vision, hiding his reaction to my use of his nickname, and I’m too afraid to care if it’s inappropriate to call him that.
“I don’t think AJ had ever even seen a real gun before the day he died,” I continue, my voice muffled in my ears.
“ He must have been so scared.” My heart squeezes, and my throat constricts.
I’m crumbling under the weight of it, the thought of how wrong gunshots must have sounded in a space meant to hold laughter and the unique brand of hope associated with youth and forming friendships, of how wrong it sounds here, and Beck’s voice is growing more urgent.
His ‘Mrs. Taylors’ getting louder and louder until finally he shouts, “ SELENE! ”
The use of my first name jars me, pulling me out of my head just long enough to bring his face into focus.
He’s mere inches away from me, patience and calm radiating off of him in soft waves, even as evidence of the escalating situation outside fills the air.
I hear one of the agents say that police are still eight minutes out as glass shatters somewhere in the store, and the small bit of solace I’d found in the sharp bite of Beck’s tone when he said my name dissolves because now all I can see is my son laying face down in a pool of blood littered with the shattered glass of his classroom window.
A lot of the images and sounds I associate with AJ’s death originate in my mind, but this one is real.
I saw it with my own eyes when Aubrey secured me access to the crime scene photos.
And my perfect recollection of every detail in the picture sends me to my knees with my lost child’s name on my lips.
Beck sinks with me.
His hands are on my elbows so I don’t go down too fast.
His long legs bracketing my body, offering support to my trembling form when it hits the floor.
His arms wrap around me, tentatively at first, and then more firmly when I don’t pull away.
“Tighter,” I beg, and I don’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed or ashamed at the need evident in my voice. “Squeeze me tighter, please.”
He obliges without hesitation, using all of his strength to reset my overactive nervous system while he instructs me to breathe and tells me we’ll be fine in the same deep, rough timbre he used in my dream. When I’m no longer struggling to breathe, he loosens his grip, but doesn’t let me go.
“I had a son too,” he says, the confession a delicate whisper against my temple that makes me afraid to breathe for fear that he won’t say more.
“I lost a son, too, in the most horrific way. I never got to know him, not like you got to know Aubrey, but I loved him. I still love him so much, it makes it hard to breathe. You know?”
“Yeah,” I gasp, fresh tears falling from my eyes as I remember Cal’s words on the plane about all the loss Beck has endured. “What was his name?”
“Cameron.” His lips curve slightly, a result of a small, involuntary smile. “Diana.” He swallows hard. “My wife. She, uh, she liked the name, pulled it out of some baby book, and never even considered another. She said it felt like him, so that’s the name I put on his gravestone.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s using the past tense when talking about his wife, which suggests that she’s also gone. And because he said he never got to know his son, I’m left with no choice but to believe he lost them at the same time.
“I’m so sorry, Beck. I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone.”
He sighs and begins to pull away, signaling the end of this moment. I want to thank him for talking, for bearing a piece of his tattered soul in an attempt to soothe mine, but there’s no space for gratitude in the quiet I hadn’t even noticed settling around us.
“Is it over?” I ask, watching him push to his feet, taking his hands when he reaches for me. He pulls me up with little to no effort and nods.
“The cops just arrived on the scene. Cal, Anderson, and Harris apprehended the suspects. They’re giving their statements now. Get dressed, so we can get you back home.”
I’m so out of sorts, so shocked by what we’ve just shared and impressed by his ability to be present with me while actively collecting the pertinent details of what was happening with his teammates that I don’t even think to argue with him.
I just slip back into my clothes and follow him out of the dressing room, allowing him to guide me through the empty store with his fingers linked in mine.