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Jenn clasped her hands together and laid them on her stomach.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
My chest tightened, and I forced myself to remain calm. Jenn knew nothing about my unhealthy fixation with Bastian.
My unhealthy, unprofessional fixation, which all but screamed inexperience.
And since the bureau was usually inclined to encourage a honeypot scheme, I wanted to keep it that way.
But Jenn was an expert at reading human body language. It sucked to have a psychologist as a best friend.
It sucked even more when you wanted to tell your psychologist best friend about the man giving you problems, but she was also your FBI handler, and that man was one of your targets.
For someone who preferred simplicity, my life could be pretty damned complicated.
I drew out my next breath, taking extra time to answer.
“The girls are kind of catty.”
Truth.
“The boys are overly flirtatious.”
Double truth.
“The work is… tiring. I swear, I can’t feel my arms.”
Triple truth.
In fact, my back was killing me, my feet ached from being on them all day, and I hadn’t been able to feel my arms since yesterday during training, when I was asked for the second time that day to carry one hundred and fifty pounds of ice up the steepest set of stairs I had ever seen in my life.
Not so fun fact: The average American bar sells five hundred drinks a night.
L’Oscurità sells five thousand.
Ask me how much ice that is.
Ask me.
I. Fucking. Dare. You.
“There’s a nice massage spa on fifth.”
“You mean the one that charges four hundred dollars an hour?” I looked around Jenn’s fancy office. “I’m supposed to be on a bartender’s salary, and even if I wasn’t, my FBI salary combined with my L’Oscurità salary isn’t that pretty either.” I sat up, winced at the sharp ache in my back, dug through my purse, and tossed my new insurance card her way. “Speaking of keeping up my cover, you can start charging these sessions to my fancy new insurance, courtesy of L’Oscurità’s health plan.”
She looked down at the card, and her posture sagged a bit.
“I can’t believe they had you go under with your real name.”
I stared at the framed doctorate degree on the wall behind her, the picture of her and her mom below it, then the row of thick psychology encyclopedias on her bookshelf.
My eyes continued to travel across the room, darting everywhere that wasn’t Jenn.
“Well, they did. Too late now.”
Translation: Why didn’t you give me a heads up? Did you know? Did you oppose their decision? Did you fight for me?
Why didn’t you say anything to me? Why?
