Page 62 of Dirty As Puck
She leans forward, her hand brushing mine on the table. “Kai. What’s wrong?”
The question rattles me more than I want to admit. I want to tell her. About Derek, the texts, the threats circling us both like sharks. I want to put it all out there, let her decide what it means for us. But then I see her in my mind the way Derek sees her, through a camera lens, as an object for blacklist and the words die in my throat.
Instead, I reach across the table and kiss her. Desperate, and almost clumsy, my lips pressing against hers with a need that feels more like a shield than affection. She stiffens at first, caughtoff guard, but then she kisses me back, her fingers curling into the sleeve of my hoodie.
When we break apart, her eyes search mine. “That wasn’t an answer,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say, voice rough. I manage a small smile, trying to deflect, to lighten the atmosphere. “But it’s better than talking about playoff stats, right?”
She huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She knows. Of course she knows. Rochelle’s whole career is about peeling back masks and finding the story underneath. And here I am, building another wall around her.
We talk after that, but it’s surface-level conversation. She asks about practice, I give half-answers. I ask about her article, she shrugs and says she’s still drafting. It feels like we’re both circling the truth, orbiting it without daring to touch it.
An hour later, I push back my chair, the weight in my chest heavier than when I arrived. “I should get going. I have an early day’s schedule tomorrow.”
She nods, but her eyes linger on me, full of questions I can’t let her ask. “Kai…” she says, like she’s on the verge of prying.
I lean down, kiss her forehead, and murmur, “Later.”
As I walk out of the café, the guilt stabs at me. My silence is supposed to protect her, to keep Derek’s shadow away from her life. But every step feels like I’m breaking something fragile between us, something I might not be able to piece back together once the truth finally comes out.
And the worst part is, I know that moment’s coming. Sooner than either of us is ready for.
23
My room feels smaller than usual, as it’s cluttered with stacks of papers, countless open tabs on my laptop, and my phone buzzing every few minutes with updates from public records databases.
I pull my chair closer to the desk, my shoulders tight from sitting for too long, and eyes scanning Derek Delaunay’s social media profiles and court filings like a forensic investigator. Every post, every tagged photo, every old address. I make sure nothing escapes my scrutiny.
I pause at a picture Derek posted two months ago at some flashy downtown bar. He’s smiling, holding a cocktail like he’s untouchable. But in correlation with the court documents I dug up, the story is different. I’ve traced his past evictions, unpaid loans, and gambling fines tucked, all tucked away in a neat folder.
The narrative his online presence paints is smooth, and deliberately controlled, but all I can see is desperation.
My fingers start to fly all over the keyboard as I cross-reference addresses, taking notes of places visited repeatedly. One of his favorite haunts, according to a bartender I managed to get off-record, is notorious for loan sharks and underground poker games.
Another location, a visit to the public library at mid-afternoon, matches timestamps on social media posts, but witness accounts place him leaving with a man carrying a suspicious duffel bag. Every small detail adds a layer of clarity, and the pieces start forming a map of someone swaying towards the edge.
I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. Journalism ethics buzz like a warning alarm in my brain. It reminds me that I’m digging into private life, monitoring someone’s activities in public spaces, pushing boundaries I’ve sworn not to cross.
Yet the alternative of doing nothing feels impossible. Kai’s name flashes through my mind, the way his eyes had filled with worry when we were together earlier, the quiet trust he’s given me. I can’t let Derek touch him, not physically, and certainly not emotionally. Not when I have a chance to do something about it.
Opening a spreadsheet, I begin logging contacts into it. Public figures, bartenders, staff at gaming centers, anyone who can help corroborate Derek’s desperate moves.
Each cell I fill in feels like stacking a layer of protection around Kai, a buffer between him and Derek’s calculated cruelty. And yet, as meticulous as this work is, the weight of responsibility presses down on me, like holding a fragile vase over concrete. One wrong move and I could ruin someone’s life. Either Kai’s, or my own.
But the fear doesn’t stop me. It even motivates me to look further. Every note, every cross-reference, every screenshot becomes a weapon in a battle I never signed up for but can’t walk away from anymore. I glance at the clock, past midnight and my chest tightens. This investigation isn’t about a story anymore. It’s about keeping someone I really care about safe.
I take record of a few more stuff and make a decision that I won’t tell Kai yet. Not until I have enough evidence to neutralize Derek completely. Until then, I stay the course, chasing leads, piecing together the puzzle, and silently vowing that Derek will regret ever thinking he could corner Kai or me.
The late afternoon sky over Seattle is washed in a pale gray clouds, the kind that makes everything feel undercover. Perfect for disappearing into the background when I don’t want to be seen.
I keep my distance, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, and camera lens tucked under the flap of my bag. Derek moves fast for someone who looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
I follow him, moving closely behind him.
He weaves through Pike Street, breeze past storefronts, toward a dive bar with neon beer signs flickering even though it’s barely past two. The place smells like smoke and regret before I even step inside. I linger by the corner, pretending to scroll my phone, snapping a quick shot when Derek pushes through the door. My pulse spikes.
Inside, the room, there are several low conversations going on, with the occasional burst of laughter. Derek isn’t here to laugh. He heads straight for a booth in the back where two men already sit, one drumming his thick fingers against the table, while theother nurses a glass of whiskey at this hour like it’s water. I slide onto a barstool where I have a partial view of them, raising my phone as if I’m checking messages while the camera captures the scene.
