After wiping the annoyed expression from my face, I spin around. As the uncomfortable creep of my body hairs announced, Theresa is standing behind me. She is leaning on a dumpster, her lack of fanfare unsurprising.
Theresa is attractive; she just has a massive stick lodged up her ass. If you’re willing to set aside your morals for a couple of hours, you’ll be her new best friend. But if you aren’t fucking her, anticipate being handed every shit, underhanded project she can find. I was interim leader of my previous department. I’ve worked for the Bureau for over six years, and excluding my little blunder five years ago, I’ve never received a record of conversation or been reprimanded by my superiors.
Years of dedication means sweet fuck all to Theresa. She wants every agent under her licking her boots—or a few inches higher.Refuse that, refuse advancement. I can’t spell it out any simpler than that.
When Theresa glares at me, demanding an answer to her silent interrogation, I say, “He was there, then poof, next minute, he was gone.” My tone is as pathetic as my excuse.
I am a confident, alpha male who has no qualms being friendly with the ladies, but this is different. Theresa isn’t a woman you sleep with then sneak out while she’s napping. She’d pin your nuts to the noticeboard at headquarters if you so much as failed to seek permission to use the restroom. It isn’t just her ball-stringing demeanor informing me of this; it is many painstakingly detailed stories. Not rumors. True life stories from reliable sources.
My focus snaps back into place when Theresa pushes off her feet to stalk my way. She has the bloodsucker walk down pat, lithe and soundless. “So what distracted you this time? Or should I ask, ‘whodistracted you this time?’”
Her penciled brows shoot up high when I remain quiet. I have a million thoughts streaming through my head. None are suitable for my superior.
The chances of holding back my retaliation are lost when Theresa advises, “I’m assigning you a new target.”
I try to speak, but she continues talking, beating me to the task, “Don’t fret; your time will bewelloccupied. I’ll even let you have first pick.” She throws three color-coded folders into my chest. “Barbie. The Hulk. Or Harvey Dent? What’s your flavor?”
The reason for her superhero nicknames comes to light when I open the folders. The Hulk reference is for the man we’ve surveilled with Isaac numerous times the past few months. His name is Hugo Jones. He’s practically a ghost, his file as scarce as mine. He doesn’t even have a Facebook page.
Harvey Dent is the man often referenced as Isaac’s college roommate/best friend, Cormack McGregor. His file is significantly more established than his roommate’s. His wealth is as substantial as Isaac’s, but his family lineage has saved him from the FBI’s scrutiny.For now.
The last file—the Barbie one—belongs to Rae: aka Regan Myers. Her file has the standard information you’d expect to find in any all-American girl’s record. I read it with interest, acting as if I haven’t perused it before. Her parents have been married for decades. She went to a standard run-of-the-mill school, kept her grades up enough, and received numerous offers of attendance to various colleges. She chose NY State. She has two siblings. Raquel is twenty-six years old and has recently relocated to the Ravenshoe area, and her younger brother, Ayden, is set to graduate Lennington College in a few months’ time.
“Who’s priority?” I ask Theresa, pretending I haven’t already chosen my target.
When I attempt to hand her back the file, she slices her hand across her body. “I’ve had agents on all three for months. I doubt you’ll unearth anything useful.”
“Had or have?” I question.
When Theresa’s eyes snap to mine, I strive to wipe the riled expression from my face. My attempts are borderline.
"Had. Is that an issue for you, Agent Rogers?" Her snappy tone tells me she didn't miss my irritation.
I half-heartedly shrug. “Not at all. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t treading on anyone’s turf.”
She drags her aviator glasses off her razor-sharp nose. "I don't care if you stomp on their prize gerberas. You have a job to do. If that requires you to trim your pubic hair, launder a goddamn suit, and lie down in a bed of fleas, you do it! Do you understand me?!"
Her reply pisses me off, but I dip my chin all the same. “Yes, Ma’am,” I reply, acting like the good little soldier I am supposed to be.
Pleased with my cowardly ways, Theresa puts her sunglasses back on then saunters away from me. I wait until there is a good distance between us before yanking my receiver out of my ear and throwing it to the ground. I’m acting like a two-year-old, but it’s better than magnifying my anger with violence.
I stop kicking up dust with my dress shoes when a snarky voice shouts, “And Alex?” Theresa waits for our eyes to align before saying, “Her favorite flowers are sunflowers.”
She smirks, ensuring I can’t miss the words she didn’t produce. She knew which candidate I was going after without a word seeping from my lips. That’s why she called Rae “Barbie,” as everyone knows Barbie is defenseless to Ken’s charm.
Chapter Seven
“Hold the elevator.”
My Saint Laurent Opyum black pump darts out to stop the elevator doors snapping shut without a thought crossing my mind. Country girls are already quick-witted, but the hustle and bustle of city life the past decade has doubled my perceptiveness. If you snooze in a town like Ravenshoe, you lose. I’m not exactly sure what eludes you, but it must be significant for how finicky the locals are about staying on top of things.
I like Ravenshoe. Isaac is transforming it from an unknown town to a metropolis, but nothing can replace the smell of fresh cow dung in the morning. It is amazing the things you miss when you no longer have access to them. My mom’s southern cooking. My father’s fake rooster call when the rooster stopped waking me up.My cell phone.
I sigh loudly at my last one. While darting to an appointment, my heel got stuck in a grate. In my endeavor to keep up with the thousands of residents pounding the pavement, yanking my foot out made my cell phone fly from my grip. I fumbled, cursed, then fumbled some more to save it but to no avail. Even if it hadn’t slipped between the steam vents, its brutal connection with the ground rendered it a lost cause.
“Thanks,” my new riding partner praises before stepping into the confined space.
A peppery cologne filters through the air from his brisk spin to the control panels of the elevator. “What floor?”
