JACK
The bar last night had seemed like such a good idea. Get
out, have a few beers, start to forget. Smile at a flashy brunette and make
jokes with a curvaceous redhead. Buy a beer for a woman with hair as dark as
midnight. Ignore any blonde that walked through the door, because that was just
asking for trouble. Tell himself that he was a single man now, with an empty
calendar and no obligations. His girls were in Chicago, the divorce papers
would soon be signed, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted to.
Except that what he wanted had nothing to do with a smoky
bar. Or beer that tasted like horse piss, or music that hurt his ears, or salty
pretzels that tasted stale and vaguely odd. What he wanted had nothing to do
with brunettes or redheads or anything other than blonde women. One blonde
woman.
What he wanted was Samantha.
Moody all the more so because he was aware how goddamned
juvenile it was to think like this, to act like this he kicked his car’s
tyres before he got in. He knew they weren’t flat, but he wanted to sharp,
stinging pain singing up his leg. Just because. He sped to work for much the
same reason. He wasn’t late, it wasn’t urgent, he just bloody well felt like
it.
And, he vowed, if any half-pint cop dared pulled him over,
he’d shoot the bastard.
He screeched into the FBI building’s underground parking
lot, and jogged up six flights of steps instead of taking the lift. His lungs
burned and his heart pounded, and the scowl on his face deepened with every
step. It was very satisfying.
He was early though not as early as he would have been
if he’d taken the lift but Vivian was there before him. She looked at him
curiously when, panting and red, he stormed down the corridor, but she didn’t
say a word.
He wished she would, just so he could have the
satisfaction of telling her to mind her own damn business.
He slammed his office door behind him, threw his briefcase
on the visitor’s chair and, suddenly drained, sat down on the corner of his
desk.
What the hell was he doing? Stomping around like a sulky
child? He was an FBI agent, for Christ’s sake. A supervisor. Right now, there
was someone out there who was missing, whose life might well depend on his
expertise and his ability to do his job. Quickly. Correctly. Without bias.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. He wanted coffee, he
decided. Or maybe water would be better. Actually, he had no idea what the hell
he wanted, except that one thing, that one person, that he couldn’t have.
Slowly, wearily, he climbed to his feet and walked around behind his desk.
Tilted his chin in the air, thinking I will get through this. Picked up the
phone, listened to his messages. Tried not calculate that the one voice he most
wanted to hear had not left a message, even a work-related on, for him for
seventeen days. Scribbled notes and
ignored the burning behind his eyes.
He set the phone back down in its cradle, proud of himself
for not slamming it down as he wanted to. A noise made him look up, even though
he knew pretty much what he would see.
Vivian stood in the doorway, shoulder propped against the
door jamb. ‘You’re in a bad mood this morning, Jack.’
He shrugged, bad temperedly. ‘I didn’t sleep so well last
night.’
‘Worried about the girls?’
Not really. ‘Yeah, I guess you could say that.’ Maria
hadn’t turned out to be his dream wife, but she had always been a good
mother. Competent. Kind. Organised.
‘I’ll be fine.’
Vivian straightened, and he was surprised to see a touch
of annoyance around her eyes. ‘Of course you will be, Jack.’ She turned to go,
then paused and looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell
you that working yourself into a tantrum won’t make anything better. I’m sure,
as a parent, you’ve had occasion to point that out yourself.’
He said nothing, partly because he could recognise the
truth in what she said, and partly because he didn’t trust himself to speak
civilly if he spoke at all. He watched her walk away, and breathed deeply.
God, he needed to settle down. Focus. Prepare for the day
ahead. Take a solemn internal vow to get Martin out in the field today, with
Danny or Viv.
But he didn’t want to. He wanted to sit and stew, just
because he could. Because he felt like it.
Because anything was better than facing the knowledge that
it was time to concede defeat.
SAMANTHA
She went to her own apartment the night before, mostly
because she wanted nothing more than to go to Martin’s. But she’d stayed with
him three nights in a row, which made her vaguely uneasy. Or, at least, it
should have. The fact that it didn’t made her even uneasier than she should
have felt in the first place.
And logic of that kind was exactly why she needed some
time to herself. To think. To clear her head. To assert her independence, even
though she wasn’t entirely sure who she was asserting it from. So she ordered Chinese, finished some
paperwork, cleaned out her refrigerator, surfed the web for some sites that
might tell her what some of Martin’s weird-ass philosophy books were about.
And felt proud of herself, because she only called him
once, to say goodnight.
Amused at herself, she grinned as she strolled across the
car park and pressed the button for the lift. From now on, she decided, she
wasn’t going to stew over anything, or tie herself in knots trying to decide
how she should feel about the way she suspected she felt about Martin. She was
just going to go with the flow, and enjoy it. No more analysing every emotion,
every thought, every expression. If she felt like smiling, she’d smile, just
because she felt like it. Because lately her life was good, and surprisingly
settled, and, even more surprisingly, fun.
After all, she had a stimulating job which she absolutely
loved (most days, at least), good health, and a man in her life who was
perfectly content eating blueberry pancakes at the Hummingbird Café on a Sunday
morning.
She stood in the lift, felt the floor surging under her,
and hummed under her breath. In a few moments, she’d need to settle down. Pull
professionalism around her like a protective cloak, and slide her FBI agent
persona on like a pair of latex gloves. But for the moment, she let herself
indulge in the unfamiliar sensation of being happy, for no particular reason.
The lift jerked to a halt, and the doors slid open. She
rolled her shoulders, and mentally strapped on a focused attitude much as she
had, earlier that morning, strapped on her gun. Then she stepped out into the
carpeted corridor and felt herself lapsing into her G-woman stride. Head up,
eyes alert, ready for anything.
If a small part of her mind still found the time to wonder
if Martin was in yet or if he was running late, she figured that was her
business.
She walked down the corridor, still smiling slightly, and
wondered what the day would bring.
End.
