Emotionally Compromised (Emotionally Compromised Series)

by Rosa, A.

  Jeremy does something I would have never expected. His hands come up to my stomach, and he runs his fingers down my abdomen. "How often do you go to the gym?" He sounds impressed.

  The question throws me, and I am not sure what he is asking. "What do you mean?"

  "I have never known a girl to be so toned. I can see your muscles everywhere, especially here." He caresses my torso. "You must not have any body fat. It's impressive, really."

  I sit back on him and tilt my head. "Oh ... yeah, I do go to the gym a lot. Um, I do a lot of kickboxing." It’s kind of the truth if you consider kicking and boxing trained male agents.

  "Noted. Didn't know kickboxing could make you look like a mean machine."

  I laugh. Mean machine? Oh, Jeremy, you have no idea.

  "Well, you aren't so bad yourself." I run my hands down his six-pack, and then hop off him and head inside. I can feel Jeremy's penetrating gaze following me. I never realized my physique could be a giveaway, but then again, I rarely let anyone see me naked. Oh, jeez.

  I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl—at least, what I imagine most sixteen-year-olds feel like. I didn't feel like this at sixteen. When I was sixteen, I was too busy finding ways to ditch school and running away from my foster parents.

  Who knew taking a chance on a guy could be so … fun? Fun is another unfamiliar concept. My kind of fun involved finding ways to pin Derek to the ground while in the sparring room, or fine-tuning my aim with a gun. My version of Girls Just Want to Have Fun always takes on a twisted meaning.

  For the first time, my life feels fresh. Each approaching moment is like unknown territory. I have to admit it frightens me, but fear tends to be something that drives me. Adrenaline rushes push me forward. However, this adrenaline rush is entirely different. I trust my aim more than I trust my emotional decision-making.

  As if on cue, a knock sounds on the front door. I can't wipe the grin off my face as I skip to the door, giddy beyond words. Noticing there is a twenty-dollar bill on the table, I help myself to it to pay the pizza guy, and note to tell Jeremy I took it.

  I approach the fog-tinted glass front door and see someone waiting, but the blurry shape doesn't look like it is holding a pizza.

  I tense for a moment as I make my way to the door. I have been trained to mistrust the unexpected. I debate whether I should run and grab the gun in my backpack, but that would expose me to Jeremy. Maybe I could spin it as self-defense for a serious waitress. I snicker at the thought.

  I take in a deep breath, and open the front door, trying to seem normal and not like a cop.

  The worst person I can imagine is standing there, and trust me, I wish it were an assassin or a burglar instead. At least then I would have known how to deal with it.

  But no, Marcus Gibbs stands there, looking dumbfounded. I think we have matching expressions.

  I take a moment to peer down at my clothes, and reflexively I begin cracking my knuckles knowing exactly how this looks. Good grief. My appearance is all sorts of incriminating.

  Before I can stutter a response, Marcus beats me to it. "Well, this explains a lot." He is matter-of-fact and sounds wounded. Good job, Turner.

  I open my mouth to respond, but Jeremy, with the worst timing ever, comes in from the kitchen and kisses me on top of my head before making eye contact with whom he thinks is the pizza boy. It doesn't help that Jeremy is still only in his underwear as well. His eyebrows shoot up in shock as soon as he grasps the situation.

  Jeremy fills the void before I do. "M-Marcus, oh, hey."

  His tone is shaky. I don't know their dynamics well, but if I am not mistaken, this breaks bro code.

  Marcus answers, but it's obvious he is beyond pissed off. "I should have guessed." He sighs. "Well, I wanted to see if you wanted to hit up a game of ball, but I can see you are indisposed." His tone is bitter cold.

  "Marcus, please. I—"

  "Don't, Jeremy. In a way, I am used to it. It's cool, whatever. I am going to go now." He rolls his eyes before heading toward the elevator.

  Jeremy shouts down the hall, "Marcus, wait!"

  "No, Jeremy, forget it! I'll get over it. I always do. Just add it to the list, bro."

  With that, Jeremy stops and turns around to look at me. His face falls with some unknown emotion, and I wonder what Marcus means about adding it to the list, but Jeremy's stricken expression tells me he needs me. I grab his hand, pull him back inside his apartment, close the door behind him, and do the only thing that I think can make this better.

  I take his face between my hands, and kiss him long and hard. He wraps his arms around me in our first warm, endearing embrace. He hugs me tighter as if he doesn't want to let me go, and he is so sincere that I don't want to let go either. I just need to be there for him.

  Reluctantly, I pull away and lead him back down the hall to his bedroom. We crawl into bed to wait for the pizza guy, wrapping ourselves around each other. This is the only way I know to calm his busy mind, and even still, it's only a guess.

  "I'm sorry for getting between you and Marcus." I have to say the only thing that is on my mind.

  He shakes the statement off, and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear. "Don't be sorry. It's not you. It's the timing. It's just that, in general, I have been a shitty friend to Marcus. He deserves better, ya know?"

  No, Jeremy, you're wrong. Your best friend wants to wipe out populations of people for money, and is doing it right under your nose.

  I nod as if I understand, and I think a series of different thoughts and questions as I gaze into Jeremy's glacier blue eyes:

  I need to call Derek to set up a meeting to discuss my current predicament.

  I am falling for Jeremy hard, and I can't understand how it is happening.

  Can I care for Jeremy and at the same time use him as an angle for this assignment? Is that fair?

  Will he still look at me the same way when, or if, I reveal the truth?

  Can I turn this all around?

  Where is the damn pizza?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Losing Control

  MARCUS GIBBS

  I let my knee wobble up and down as I sit on this lumpy leather couch taking in the surroundings. I am in some kid's dump of an apartment in Southie. Shitty movie posters plaster the walls. The carpet looks stained from repeated bong water spills, mixed with cigarette burns. The air reeks of stale smoke and incense.

  "Care for a line?"

  "Huh?" Is he talking?

  "I said, do you want to hit this?"

  My eyes bounce up and meet Steve Wilkinson's spry, crisp stare. I watch him bob his cigarette between his smug lips. I always have the urge to beat the shit out of this guy, but I don't turn down his offer. I am on edge from my withdrawal, even though it’s only been around eight hours.

  "Yeah, sure. Thanks." I grab the rolled up twenty-dollar bill.

  I lean down and use it to inhale the crystal white line off his clean coffee table. It's the only clean surface in the apartment. It's obvious what he finds most important.

  His eyes are a sky blue, and between that and his attitude problem, he reminds me of Jeremy. I think that is what annoys me most about him. He gets a lot of ass. Most days when I pick up, there is a new blonde leaving his apartment. Must be nice, douchebag. Although, maybe they're drug addicts too.

  Steve is young, younger than I am at twenty-three. He's built like a linebacker, but his wit is as sharp as a knife. This kid has done every drug from marijuana and acid to cocaine and DMT. He is a nut job. He dropped out of Tufts University because he figured he could make more money, and get more girls, selling drugs. He's smart as hell with numbers, but dumb as fuck. His deep, cocky voice always irks me, because he acts as if he has it all, but it’s all a matter of his stupid perspective. His apartment is a shithole, but his pride and joy is that bright red Corvette in the driveway.

  He has the same dominating presence as Jeremy too, which fucking bothers me about the guy, but at least he can be funny as hell, and
I think if he didn't remind me so much of my back-stabbing best friend he might be a fun replacement. Besides being a drug-addicted college dropout, of course.

  Today though, I am aching for more coke and to get into some trouble.

  "What's eating you, man? You seem on edge."

  On edge? On edge? You have no fucking idea, asshole.

  "A girl twist ya' balls or somethin'? A broad break ya' hea't?"

  Steve's thick Bostonian accent mixed with his smug assumption makes me think horrible, terrible things. I look at the table, see his pocketknife, and consider teaching this kid a lesson by running the blade across his arrogant face.

  Did I just think that? I shake my head and try to focus.

  "No. Just a lot of work issues." In a manner of speaking.

  "Wo'k is ova'rated, trust me." He snickers. "That'll be fifty bones, buddy."

  Buddy? The urge to strangle him is mounting with each passing moment. I hand him two twenties and a ten in exchange for my new bag of snow.

  As I tuck the baggie into my pocket, I get a flashing image of that whore in Jeremy's doorway. My heart wrenches at the memory, and I think, No, she is not a whore. It's Jeremy who is the whore!

  Jeremy always gets what he wants, and takes it when he wants it. Prick. He always wants what I want, and guess who ends up with the short end of the stick? I wanted that girl wearing my boxers. I wanted her smile to be because of me. It. Is. All. Jeremy's. Fault!

  Sweat forms on my brow as anger overwhelms me and sets my heart racing.

  "Take these, bro."

  I look up at Steve. His blue eyes make me want to break his face. Stop staring at me! "Take what?" Asshole.

  "It’s on me." He tosses me a baggie of white pills as I rise from the couch.

  "What are these?" I ask, shaking the bag. Pills are not my thing.

  "It's Xanax. You look like you could use 'em. Consider them a gift. Take a couple now and you'll be feelin' good, my friend. And hell, you a loyal customa' so if you want mo'e come on back." He snickers, which, I think, is just the way this guy laughs.

  I shrug and make my way out.

  "Thanks."

  I make it to my car, and all I can think is, You fucking prick. I have had enough—enough is enough dammit! Jeremy, you are a fucking asshole, and you will pay.

  I decide to pop two Xanax and head to my lab.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Meeting

  ALEX TURNER

  I stir the coffee in front of me as I wait for Unit Chief Alvarado to arrive for our impromptu nine o'clock meeting this Monday morning.

  I can't believe I am doing this. Is this all really because of some guy?

  It's a silly thought, but Jeremy's lips on mine have left a searing memory. They have tingled with desire ever since I left his place yesterday evening.

  I have to confess: I think I miss that arrogant bastard. I don't believe in that bullshit—love at first sight—but I do know that I don't want to throw this one away. Is that enough of a reason to do what I'm about to do?

  I want a cigarette, but under Derek's watchful, judgmental eye, I can't. I am trying to quit, really I am. This past weekend was such a wonderful distraction that nicotine didn't even cross my mind, but sitting in this sterile conference room at headquarters, I want that fix so badly.

  "What the hell is going on, Turner?" Derek practically shouts at me, slicing the thick silence. He knows it is out of character for me not to tell him things. I used to tell him everything.

  I turn my head toward him. "What?"

  "What the hell is going on? Why won't you tell me?" His eyebrows scrunch up as he says it, and for a moment, I see it as a familiar, endearing facial expression. Derek has only ever been annoyed with me, but that is how we are. We piss each other off to keep each other in line.

  Derek is a distractingly good-looking man, and he is a man. At 6'2”, built broad with striking emerald eyes and short brown hair, he’s hard to miss. His looks get him into a lot of trouble too. He is thirty, old enough to know better, but I think he enjoys it. Mental and physical scars mar his body and soul, just like my own. He's been my partner since I got out of the academy. I would say we make a perfect team, but lately, we've had a hard time grappling with our domestic issues.

  Maybe it wasn't him kissing his ex that ended us. Maybe it was because we are both so bad at dealing with real emotional shit. We couldn't manage our personal and professional lives so we (he) slipped up. In a way, I am not even mad anymore.

  I notice he didn't shave this morning, and the stubble on his strong jaw distracts me. Shaking myself from the inappropriate analysis of his features, I snap back, "Because it's complicated."

  "You think I don't know how to do complicated?"

  He is on the verge of being angry, because if anyone knows complicated, it's Derek. I roll my eyes even though I know I shouldn't.

  "Dammit, Turner!" His tone makes me jump.

  I look into his piercing green eyes, and guilt teases my insides. He is not going to want to hear the truth.

  "I'm sorry," I sputter, because underneath it all, I really am.

  "That's it? All I get is an I'm sorry?"

  I let my lips set into a hard line. "For now, yes."

  He sighs, running his hand through his dark brown hair, exasperated with me.

  "We used to talk. We used to be close. I wish you'd tell me. You were so cryptic on the phone about why you called this meeting."

  "Things haven't changed. I just have to handle this a bit differently. Trust me, dammit."

  This time Derek rolls his eyes, and tosses his hands up in frustration. "You've either really fucked up, or have something really big to tell ... or both!” He knows me too well.

  The door swings open, and Chief George Alvarado struts into the room holding a mug of coffee and a notepad. Alvarado is a burly man in his mid-fifties, with a worn face and a permanent five o'clock shadow. He has watched over me since I entered the academy at eighteen, and has always been the father-figure type. He, along with Derek, taught me a lot while I was in the academy, as well as out in the field. In a way, I owe him more than I am giving him now. My guts clench at the thought.

  "Good morning, sir," I stutter. His nose twitches at my politeness. He knows something is coming too.

  "So, what's happening? Why the meeting? Give me news. Have we made any progress with Gibbs? Time is of the essence, people." He lifts his coffee mug to his lips. His tone is brusque, and I wince at the mention of Marcus Gibbs.

  Well, here goes.

  "I think we should take another angle on this case, sir."

  I don't turn my head to see it, but can sense Derek's whole body twitch toward me in response. "You what?" he says in an accusing tone.

  I square my shoulders, getting annoyed at him. "I said, I think we should go another direction."

  Alvarado continues to sip, stoically searching my face for answers. "Go on, Agent Turner, I'm listening."

  I decide to go for it. Alvarado is not a man to dick around. I take a deep breath. "I think we should use Jeremy Hunt for this case."

  "His father, William, was specific about not involving him."

  I know this, but I also know I have to be honest with him. Deep breath.

  "Jeremy Hunt has kind of gotten in the way, and because of this, going directly for Marcus Gibbs has been compromised. I think Hunt would be the better angle, and a better use of our time than trailing Gibbs. We can use all of his security access, making things much easier for us to get the evidence we need. He could physically get us into Gibbs's lab with no questions asked. Gibbs is not going to take the bait; he’s already being too difficult. Jeremy would be easy to convince too." I exhale.

  Not bad. I don't need to mention the fact that Marcus caught me in the act and won't be answering any of my texts anytime soon.

  Before Alvarado can respond, Derek's hand comes down on the table with a loud slap. I whip my head around to stare at him.

  "Security, so what?" he
scoffs. "There has got to be more to what you’re saying." He acts repulsed, as if he suspects something. Shit.

  Alvarado cuts in, "More? How can you assume that, Agent Matthews? We do need more security access, and maybe we have put the option off for too long. At some point, you have to look at the more obvious options. William Hunt cannot put stipulations on a terrorist issue." Wow, thank you, Chief. You did half the work for me.

  Derek's eyes burn with frustration. I know it is because of me, but he shoots the heated stare at the chief, which I think is a bold move—and in a way stupid.

  He clenches his jaw before he begins again. "Sir, with all due respect, don't you think it's a little suspicious that all of sudden Agent Turner wants to switch objectives? I agree, yes! More security access may be necessary, but I think she might have more to her story."

  Derek raises his brows as he looks at me, and I get the sinking feeling that he may know my secret. My whole body tenses as if I have been struck by lightning as I wait for him to continue.

  "I think Hunt is getting in the way because Turner let him. She missed two of my phone calls this weekend when I gave her direct orders to call me with an update. With an assignment like this, she shouldn't be missing phone calls. There is shit on the line, and I thought, this isn't like her, and then it hit me." Acting as if Alvarado isn't sitting there, he turns to talk to me, those emerald eyes searing me with anger. "Maybe Agent Turner feels guilty. When she feels guilty, she gets evasive. Also, if there’s one thing I do know, it's that Turner has a weakness for fast-talking guys."

  What? Like you, Derek?

  And just like that, my cheeks heat and my remorse evaporates. The void pools with a rush of anger, because even if what he is saying holds some merit—whatever—his tone is insulting. I stare daggers at him. How can he say things like that? We are supposed to be professionals, God dammit. Hell, we are supposed to be friends.

  Before I can get a hold of my anger, Alvarado barks, "Is this true, Agent Turner? You didn't answer your phone?"