Chapter Text
“Hey, do you need a bartender? I’m quitting my job!” Bradley Jackson shouted at the tall, muscle-bound dude in the white t-shirt who served her a third cold can of Bud Light. He shook his head and smiled, obviously recognizing her. She was pretty fucking famous, it was true. A True Crime journalist, she’d provided actual evidence previously uncovered, putting away men who had done just heinous things. Had she made millions in book sales in the process, sure, sure. Whatever, she was quitting her job and becoming a bartender in a honky-tonk bar. She’d make up for her ethical issues by over-serving assholes.
Or something like that. Her mind was hazy, even after so few drinks. Heavy drinking ran in the family. She’d been trying to cut back, so two and a half drinks felt like a lot.
Across the bar, the most beautiful woman she’d ever laid eyes on suddenly slid onto a stool. How quickly she’d arrived there was a bit of a mystery. Bradley didn’t even see her come in the door.
Jeez, how long had it been since she’d hooked up with someone? Months. At least months.
The woman had long, dark hair. Her black leather jacket and torn blue jeans were deliberately curated. The woman was rich. Bradley felt intimidated enough to steer clear, but when those hazel-green eyes found her staring from across the bar, she shrugged and smiled and walked carefully over. It took her a few more minutes to realize that the other woman was also famous.
“Hi, I’m Bradley Jackson,” Bradley held out her hand for what was a surprisingly cool touch.
Laura Peterson, the superstar journalist, only shook her hand briefly but her skin was startlingly cold.
“Laura Peterson.” Laura said quietly. She avoided Bradley’s gaze but then, suddenly she was so focused on her. “Hey. I know you.”
“Oh. Yeah. I suppose. I know you, also.” Bradley chuckled.
“You’re the reason The Bronx Slasher was put away. He was killing kids.” Laura tilted her head appraisingly. “You did a great thing.”
Laura’s hands were lovely and shapely with long, strong fingers. That would be fun later, Bradley thought.
“Yeah, well…I’m glad but I wish I’d found him sooner.” Bradley nodded, remembering the fear but also the relief she’d felt, solving that case. She said, “the police were really stupid about that one. I ended up crawling into the guy’s living room window while they were off investigating men who had already been imprisoned.”
“Right. You got to him first.” When Laura smiled then, it was sort of enigmatic. Like was she happy or not so happy, that Bradley had gotten to the guy before the police? She added, quickly, “I mean your skillset is obviously very diverse.”
Stumbling ahead, Bradley defended herself. “It was self-defence, ok? I had to.”
“No, of course. You had to.” Laura looked her carefully up and down, sizing her up. “A small thing like you, taking down that guy and killing him with his own knife. Amazing.”
“Ummm…” Pursing her lips, Bradley shrugged. “Right.” Laura’s eyes were really oddly mesmerizing. She should have walked away, right then. Maybe she was just lonely, with Christmas right around the corner and all. Maybe that was why she stayed. “So—come here often?”
“What, to this bizarre chain of fake honky-tonk bars?” Laura smirked and sipped at her whiskey.
Bradley chuckled, looking around. The bar was warm, too warm, and the floor felt sticky and smelled of cheap beer. Otherwise, the place was a hilarious mimicry of a honky-tonk joint. The bar was also a chain. There were two others just like it in the state.
But it was fun—there were couples dancing in cowboy boots and she’d been able to wear a t-shirt and jeans without feeling self-conscious. Bradley liked it here. She said as much and Laura teased her some more, offering her something better to drink than skunky beer in a bottle.
They went back to Bradley’s place. Looking back on that decision, years later, Bradley felt a mix of emotions. She’d been hasty and a bit desperate and had missed so many signs that something was seriously amiss.
They didn’t sleep together, that first night. They just talked and had a couple more drinks. There was something mesmerizing about Laura. She told interesting stories, about being in Iraq as a journalist, and England as a CNN host of a show called Peterson 365. Bradley knew about some of it, the CNN show was famous of course, but she was confused about some of Laura’s stories. She’d been controversial at times, disagreeing with both Bush presidencies. Then, Laura threw in something about being shot in the neck, and Bradley, failing to see a scar, grew even more confused. Besides, she’d never heard that story. When Laura left, she winked and offered to buy drinks next time.
Waking up in alone in her apartment, Bradley spent hours staving off a hangover. Laura was gone, of course, having left at 4am. It took until the next morning for Bradley to realize something.
Laura Peterson had said she’d hated both Bush presidencies. Great, she’d been in her early twenties for the first one. But that put her in university, not out there as a fully-fledged accomplished journalist.
Bradley went online and googled the other woman. She was supposed to be in her mid-50s or so, that’s what she’d said. Online, Bradley could not find evidence of her age.
“What the actual fuck?” Bradley remembered a story Laura had told her, when she was so drunk the story should not have stuck. But Laura underestimated how functional Bradley could be whilst many sheets to the wind. Her online information showed that she had indeed been a fledgling journalist in 1990.
But…
…how on earth had she been a Vietnam war correspondent? Laura had explained, the night before, how she’d exposed war crimes at a time when Americans were seeing their own government in action in new and terrifying ways. Television had changed everything, they all knew.
It couldn’t be right.
Bradley was just confused. She went about her day studying more important and relevant things.
There was a biker gang in the midst of a local war upstate. She went to take pictures, write-up crime scenes, and start a piece about leadership who had been intensely secretive until now.
Until now, because Bradley herself was uncovering the real leadership of these groups. Two men, living in isolation in Maine, they were the ones who were pulling the strings. And like she always did, Bradley found her way to their homes, and crawled her way inside.
The truth was, Bradley was a CIA operative before she was ever a journalist. She had her ways. She was also fearless in a way that was probably foolish.
She spent a month in a safehouse, lent to her by old friends, watching those bikers and deciding on her next moves. Bradley was there watching these men, eating delicious snacks, drinking high-end whiskey, for weeks and weeks. It led to nothing. But then, her real story, the one she’d been chasing for years, finally showed itself.
Her brother’s friends, the ones who led him to take up actual arms against the government, were deeply involved in this otherwise insignificant little criminal ring. Craig and John, men she’d grown up with, were small-time drug dealers, but big-time members of the Oath Keepers.
On her fifth week watching them, she’d fed enough information to her FBI colleagues to earn herself a little time and space.
Her Glock was registered, but the guns she kept strapped to her legs were not.
She moved with darkness as her cloak at 3am, determined to get more than just intelligence from this group of people who had destroyed her brother. As her shoes crunched on a random pile of stones at the edge of her safehouse property, she heard her voice called.
“Hey. Brad. Psst. Don’t be such a lone wolf!”
It was Laura—swooping down from a tree like some assassin—calling her name, capturing her in the witching hour.