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“Well, it…it means everything, John. Thank you.”
The airwaves deaden, the pregnant pause saying much—I’m unsure what. Everything? Kind of a loaded word there.
The recognizable sound of a chair squealing, probably a big, leather, executive-type chair, makes it to my ear. I picture him, reclined in a pseudo-casual posture that, knowing him, is anything but.
“I’m feeling much better about the situation, and the best news is that Jacob seems to have had a change of heart. Now that he’s taking things more seriously, ready to tell the truth like he needs to…oh, I’m so relieved.”
His chair needs a good dousing of oil. Leaning forward this time? Elbows on the desk? “That’s good, Hollie.”
There’s something in his tone. Just when we’re into a nice conversation, out comes the pessimism. He doesn’t believe Jacob has come around? Well, thanks, but I don’t need his cynicism killing my moment. "John, I—"
“I was thinking, Hollie—” He breaks off and mutters, the words indistinguishable. “Hold on a sec.” More squeaking and squealing, and his voice goes distant. I still make out,what do you want, Walker.He’s sharp, which seems to he his default.
Sometimes, with me, he’s…soft.
Grrr. At times, I have the stupidest thoughts. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you while you were working.”
“I’m always working, but—” The phone sounds fumbled. “Hey, I’m sorry. I gotta go, Hollie. Take care, alright.”
The line goes dead, and with it, the little puff cloud I was momentarily drifting on dissipates, dropping me back to earth.
John
“I repeat, what do you want, Walker?”
Walker’s dark eyebrows lift. Just because we’ve been friendlier lately does not mean I appreciate the interruption. I’ve been hoping for Hollie’s call for days, and Walker chooses this moment to annoy me?
He plants his hands on his waist. “Who was that?”
“None of your…business.” I censor the descriptor that first popped to my tongue. Why? Good question. I’m known for a few things around this place, and my colorful language has long been one of them. Recently, I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right.
My hand fists around the phone like it’s in the throes of rigor mortis. Walker and I are not buds enough for the annoying and misplaced humor that sparks in his eyes or spasms around his mouth. He’s like that with the others, and it’s at its worst when Gonzalez is around. Yes, he has a deep sarcastic streak I can appreciate from afar, but when he turns it on me, wobbling those eyebrows like he’s got something on me, I could knock him upside the head and not feel a moment’s guilt.
“You have something to say, agent?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
He drops into one of the two chairs—on the subordinate side of my desk, thank you—but sprawls like he owns the place. No respect, I say.
“Hollie. Pretty name.”
My finger comes up, pointing, wagging, like some sissified—
I fold my hands.
“That’s the woman you’re helping, right?”
“When did you get an invite into my personal life?”
With a head tilt, he paints on a puzzled frown. “Do you have a personal life, John?”
Most around here would call it a well-established fact that John Chavez does not have a life outside of this office. I’m also known for going by the book and not getting involved.
A weak moment shoves me forward with information that’s none of Walker’s stinkin’ business. “I hooked Hollie up with an attorney. An old buddy of mine.”
One eyebrow folds upward.
