Page 2 of Caught in His Sights
As I walk down the grimy hall, noises from my neighbors drift out, their TVs too loud and the arguments too passionate. The door to the trash room stands ajar, the stink of spoiled food and baby diapers spilling out.
At my door, I unlock the four deadbolts and slip into the relative quiet, the blankets I hung on the walls acting as sound dampeners so I can sleep.
I close and lock the door behind me, drop my keys on a table by the entry, and take a deep breath filled with the astringent scent of pine cleaner. Sadness at another week of failure bubbles, then dies. After so many trips with the same result, I’m just numb.
Only one thing cuts through the dead feeling inside me.
Steps quick, I pass through the cramped living room and walk into the dining room, which I had converted to my office.
“I’m home,” I tell the dozens of photos taped to the walls that I’ve collected from newspapers, magazine covers, and printed from the internet.
Caleb Rockford. My obsession and my favorite target.
Even in print, his dark-brown eyes hold an intensity that demands attention. An Alpha in every fiber of his being.
To the world, he’s a rich and entitled playboy who loves casinos, racetracks, and models.
But that’s just a public mask he wears
The Rockfords pretend to be a family-run conglomerate, but they have their hands in too many businesses that dip into the underbelly of black market dealings to be as squeaky clean as they want people to think.
I trace a finger over the reddish-gold scruff on a candid shot of him leaving a dry cleaner’s shop that is known to be a front for an illegal fight club.
“What secrets will you tell me today, Caleb Rockford?”
Stretching my fingers, I slide into my chair and boot up my laptop.
The glare of my screen washes over me, bright in the dimness of my office. The heavy drapes over the slider and windows block the streetlamps, and the low-wattage bulb in my overhead light saves my energy bill but not my eyes.
I squint until I adjust to the brightness and open my email app, skimming through the messages piling up in my inbox. One from Lili, my editor at Nexus News, catches my attention with a subject line of Confirming Photos for Caleb Rockford Column.
It piques my interest, since I was working on an article for their gossip channel, DynastyDish, before I left for the police precinct earlier.
I click on the message and the attached picture to see Caleb Rockford dressed in a custom-tailored suit, surrounded by the opulence of a high-end casino. The navy-blue material flatters his complexion, and the pop of his yellow tie draws attention first, followed by his red hair.
In his element, the petite, doe-eyed blond who clings to his arm compliments his masculine perfection. Her short, tight dress molds around full breasts and curvy hips, and a thick, diamond choker graces her slender neck. I recognize the necklace as a Rockford heirloom.
She’s the epitome of fragile, Omega beauty.
“Figures,” I huff, annoyed over Caleb only ever being spotted with fair-haired female Omegas like this one.
How are male Omegas supposed to dream of catching the eye of someone like Caleb Rockford when he’s so consistent in his preferences?
I zoom in far enough to remove the woman from the picture, then lean forward with the rush of a story. Almost hidden by the slight curl of his red hair around his ears, I spot the empty holes in his pierced lobe.
This isn’t Caleb. It’s his twin brother, Damien.
A strange sense of relief washes over me, and I snatch up my phone to dial Lily’s number.
She picks up after two rings, her voice raspy from too many cigarettes. “What do you want at this time of night, Kent?”
“Like you’re not still working.” Lily is a confirmed bachelorette and lives at her desk. “The files you sent over are mixed up. The photo isn’t Caleb, it’s Damien. We need to change the names in the piece I emailed earlier.”
“Really? Oh, well.” Indifference flattens her tone. “We’ll run it as is. Caleb’s more sensational, which gets us more clicks. If he reads the story and objects, we can print a correction after it brings in money.”
Annoyance pickles through me, but I let it go. Years of working for her have proven that arguing with her is futile. “Did you read my other article? The one about the dock officials taking bribes?”
Her long sigh fills my ear. “Like I’ve told you before, if it doesn’t have the Rockford name attached, I’m not running it. People love clicking on your columns about their family. That’s where I want you focused.”