“I'm an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am not a prostitute.”
6
Isabelle
One month later. . .
“Stupid, arrogant, pompous prick. He probably already has a plastic groin, and that's why he is always so cranky. You can’t have sex if you don’t have a dick,” I grumble under my breath.
The gentleman at the front of the line pivots around to eye me curiously.I really need to learn to mumble more quietly.I smile at him civilly before returning my eyes to scrutinize the menu boards above his head. I’m once again doing the team’s early morning coffee run. It has been the primary focus of my position the past month—that and filing.
The instant I refused to put on a skimpy dress and sashay myself in front of Isaac, Alex put me on desk duty. I spend my days twiddling my thumbs, filing useless reports and doing coffee runs. Who would have thought years of grueling training in the Bureau would land me a job as a glorified coffee girl?
I place my order with the coffee barista before collecting the mountain load of sugar packets the agents' request.
“Do you have any Splenda?” I ask a staff member named Harlow, who has been preparing my coffee order every morning the past month.
Harlow is a ball of mischief bundled into a bakery uniform. Her humor is a little crude and dry, but she has kept me on my toes the past month with her wittiness.
“Sugar wouldn’t kill you.” Harlow hands me a handful of Splenda.
I try to think of a sharp comeback, but I’m left a little speechless. I have a slender build, but I wouldn’t say I’m skinny. I have a runner’s body, although I have more boobs than Olympic athletes have. I work hard to maintain my body shape. By skipping the sugar in my coffee, I won’t feel guilty devouring the blueberry and chocolate chip muffin I ordered with it. It’s all about getting the balance right.
Instead of giving an appropriate comeback to Harlow’s taunt, I stick my tongue out.
“Earlier this morning, I licked the muffins.”
She sticks out her tongue before moving away from the coffee machine to hand some customers their orders.
I tug open the white paper bag holding my muffin to inspect it for lick marks. It doesn’t appear to have been licked, and with how hungry I am, I’ll still eat it even if she did lick it.
Harlow’s rowdy chuckle echoes around the bakery when she notices me inspecting my muffin. “I was joking about licking the muffins.” She hand me the two crates of coffee I ordered. “Same time tomorrow?”
Rolling my eyes, I nod. Although I have no doubt I’ll be revisiting this bakery this afternoon.
Upon exiting the bakery, a black Mercedes Benz S Class halts my hasty departure. I don’t need to see the occupant to know who is inside. The number plate is all the indication I need.Isaac.
Stepping back into the nook, I stalk the car that has come to a stop at the corner of First Avenue and Welsh Boulevard. My chest thrusts up and down when Isaac glides out of the back passenger door of his shiny black car. Just the authoritative way he walks adds an exciting visual to my nightly routine. It's been over a month since our flight, yet he still invades my dreams every night.
My eyes dart up and down the street, anticipating to see the blue surveillance van that tails Isaac’s every move. I’m surprised when I fail to locate it in the street.
This is it: the opportunity I’ve been waiting for to prove my worth to Alex.
Dumping the coffees into a waste bin, I creep closer to Isaac. My years of training activate in an instant. I maintain a safe distance and stay on the opposite side of the road to ensure my pursuit goes unnoticed.
Today, Isaac is wearing a tailored fitted dark blue business suit with a light blue dress shirt underneath. He is minus the tie he usually wears in most surveillance photos. His black dress shoes are so polished, they gleam in the sunlight, and his gray eyes are covered with a pair of expensive-looking aviator sunglasses.
When he enters a flamboyant-looking restaurant, I cross the street. As I dart between a steady line of cars, my eyes once again scan my surroundings. There is still no blue surveillance van in sight.
I stroll up to the restaurant, expecting the doorman to welcome me with open arms. He doesn’t. He snubs me, and the door remains closed. I eye him peculiarly, wordlessly demanding an explanation for his rudeness. With quirked lips, his eyes roam my trousers, fitted ribbed shirt, and black ballet flats. Grinning, he nudges his head to the patrons seated inside the restaurant. They’re dressed more elegantly than me.
“There is a public restroom one block over,” the doorman announces, his tone snobbish.
Masking the urge to stick my tongue out at the pretentious man, I smile sweetly before heading to the far corner of the restaurant.Peering through the paned glass windows won’t cost me a cent.
I spot Isaac in the restaurant, smooching the cheek of a lady with shiny black hair. He removes his suit jacket and hooks it on the back of the chair before sitting across from her. She smiles an evil grin when he hands her a sealed white envelope.
Come on, where the hell are you?I silently question when my third scan of the street still fails to locate the surveillance team that’s been tailing Isaac for months.
