Don't Go by L.J. Breedlove (series like harry potter txt) 📕

it. Corey stuck his head into the room as it was sending. “Give me the camera,” he said. “I’m headed in, I’ll upload everything else for the live feed.”

Cage gestured with his head toward the camera, and Corey took it. Cage kept typing. “Sarah!” he called out. “Queuing Bianca’s piece.”

“Got it!”

He took a deep breath. OK, first deadline was done. His stomach grumbled, and he realized he hadn’t had supper. He foraged in the kitchen and found the makings for a roast-beef sandwich. He had to admit the quality of food had improved with Sarah’s arrival at the apartment. He would be sorry when she left. Really sorry, he realized. And for more reasons than food.

“Make a sandwich for me, too,” Sarah called from the living room where she was sitting working on her laptop. “The piece looks good. I sent it in.”

“Thanks.” He made a second sandwich. Put it on a plate and took it to her, while eating his with the other hand. Then he went back into his cave, that’s what he should call it, he thought. His cave. A bed. A closet and the finest computer setup he and Corey could afford. He tackled the straight news story next, sorting through the images of the evening. But there was no both sides way to write it, he thought. A bunch of thin-skinned ICE agents had torn down children’s protest posters on their playground fence. And when protesters had gone to replace them, the agents had come out in full-riot gear, and filled the playground with teargas, and then arrested everyone.

Well, not arrested, if they didn’t file charges, he guessed. Rounded them up? He typed what he saw. The editors could figure out if it was unbiased enough. It was reality. That would have to do.

Sarah took a bite of her sandwich and chewed it slowly. She liked this living room with its corner fireplace and wood-framed windows. So what if the windows looked out to a freeway abutment? They let in light, and the view could be filtered with the blinds. Not that the guys had bothered. They’d added a big comfortable couch and a chair, both in black leather. She wondered if they’d scored it from the university’s surplus sales like most of the newsroom furniture. And of course, they had a big screen TV. It was a guy pad, after all. On the other side of the front door was a dining space. They had a table and chairs there. But she’d never seen them sit down for a meal; they ate in the living room with the TV on. Behind the dining area was the kitchen. Small, but modern. She’d made herself at home there. And her two roommates seemed to appreciate it. Even in three days it felt comfortable to feed them. And when she’d left out a grocery list? The items on the list appeared in the refrigerator.

She snorted. She was grateful Cage had taken her home. Her doctor had been firm, she was not to be alone while on these latest pain meds, especially when she was sleeping. Sure, someone in the residence hall was there, but she felt safe here. She wasn’t looking forward to going back to her residence hall room. She’d see what the doc said on Monday, but she was feeling good. She’d thought about trying her sticks, but there was no rush. And Cage was good about getting her in and out of his car and getting her to classes. He’d just asked for her schedule the day he’d brought her home and that had been the end of it.

But Jesus, coming face-to-face with him and his towel? He was built, tall, broad-shouldered, well-developed pecs, six-pack abs, and that white towel against his Black skin? With water drops? Even a lesbian had to take notice of that, right? Didn’t mean anything. It didn’t.

“Main story is in the queue,” Cage called out. “Ryan wants a first-person piece too. I’ll give it a try. What I did on my trip to the jail.”

She smiled. She knew he’d been freaked out by getting hauled into jail. Who wouldn’t be? He’d had a gas mask with him, but she’d seen enough of the footage to know it had been bad. No wonder he’d come home and headed for the shower.  Which reminded her of him in a towel. Let’s admit it, girl, she said to herself. He was pretty hot.

She read the story. Someday she’d teach him about commas, but other than that, it was good. He had an interesting style. He wrote as if he was describing the shots he could see in his head. Whereas she looked at the world and saw it in words which she used to tell herself stories. Hell, she even dreamt in words.

“Sending it on. Good piece, Cage,” she said.

She heard Cage grunt, and she smiled. He had been right; she’d lived in an Army barracks and she liked it. Men were different to live with. She might not want to have sex with them, but there was an earthiness to how they lived that she enjoyed. And buff men in towels seemed to be a thing for her. Who knew? As she’d told Emily, humans were voyeurs, or romance movies wouldn’t be so popular.

She refused to think about Cage’s physical reaction to her gaze. She had just pretended she hadn’t noticed, because otherwise it opened dangerous doors — doors she wasn’t going to open. Adrenaline highs and then the drop off. She knew about those. And about the sex — with anybody that was handy — that could result. For good or for ill. And with her and Cage? That would be an ill-done thing. Wouldn’t that just add a layer of fuck-up to the situation between her, Cage and Emily? Jesus.

“Piece is in the queue,” Cage said. He padded over behind her. “I dunno. I haven’t written things like that much.”

“Well don’t loom over me while I read it,” she