by Rosa, A.
He backs away, hands in the air defensively as he leads me onto the mat in the center of the room. "I'm glad to see you are still the spitfire that you were this morning. Come on; don't forget that I'm the one who taught you everything you know."
An unfortunate truth.
I walk up to him, hands raised to block a potential blow. I sigh, unsure of what this is all about. "What are we doing, Derek?" Sometimes I think we have too much history.
Predictably, he jabs with his right fist, signaling the start of the fight. "We are settling our differences right here, right now."
I smile and fake left, jabbing his shoulder. My first hit. "You really want to settle this like old times? Do you think that's such a good idea?" I goad.
He catches me off guard and jabs me in the gut, causing me to gasp. "I think it's a great idea.” He smirks. It makes me angry.
I swing toward his face, and miss as he backs out of the way.
"Ugh!" I shout.
"Don't fight angry, Turner. How many times do I have to tell you that? Have you learned nothing?" He is teasing me.
"But you like to make me angry, like everybody else."
"Well you look so damn cute when you're mad."
The patronizing statement frustrates me, and I swing again, surprising him. My hand playfully grazes his chin. I smile, appreciating the look of shock on his face. "See what happens when you make me mad though?"
He bites his lip to show his frustration. "This is how we are playing, then?" I nod, confirming that the game is on.
We circle each other on the mat, arms raised. I don't like to play defensive so I propel myself forward, but my fist goes rushing past his abdomen as he steps out of the way. Argh!
"Patience, Turner, have I taught you nothing?" he repeats, and punches me hard in the shoulder. I gasp, getting angrier by the second.
"Are we going to talk about our issues? Or are we just going to beat the shit out of each other?" I fling myself forward and punch him in the gut. He stumbles, but for some reason, he still smiles. "You sound like you have something you want to say, Derek. I thought we had said it all?"
Derek laughs but lunges at me, wrapping his arm around my neck, putting me in a headlock. "With you I always have tons to say, but you never let me get a word in edgewise." He playfully knocks me across my face to show how easy it would be to punch me. I yelp in surprise, and he releases me.
"Well shoot, Matthews, I'm all ears."
I block a quick left hook as he says, "How do you expect your relationship with Hunt to work? He can never protect you. What about your job? It can't be the money with what Alvarado has us salaried on, so what is it?"
His remarks sting. "My relationship is not open for your judgmental, high-handed questions," I hiss. I swing, nailing him in the lower abdomen and knocking the wind out of him again.
"Obviously, this isn't the best topic." He grips his stomach as he leans over his legs, while his lips curve wryly. He is enjoying this, the sicko. "Can't we just be friends? This is me being your friend."
I huff with laughter. "I would believe you, but you are the one going back and forth. You can't tell me you want me, and then stroll in here all jokes and jabs, expecting us to be best friends again. It is your fault we are in this predicament. I am the one who wants us to be OK. I need you there as a friend right now, don't you get that?"
His eyebrows furrow with frustration, and he swings, nailing me right in the boob. Ow. "How many fucking times do I have to say I'm sorry, Turner? I fucked up; I get it. I regret it every day. I'm fumbling here, Alex. I'm just doing what I know."
Confused, I raise an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"Beating the shit out of you." He laughs and kicks my feet from under me. I slam onto the floor, the wind rushing out of my lungs. "It's the only way we know, Alex," he finishes.
Ain't that the truth?
Lying flat on my back, I try to get up but Derek straddles me, pinning my arms above my head. I thrash my legs, trying to move his iron body off me. My muscles tense as I growl. "Derek, stop it!"
"I win!" He smirks.
"No," I shout. I still my body for a moment, looking up at him.
His strong arms pin mine, showing his power and skill. "You are still just a girl."
The statement pierces my body. I fume.
I am not just a girl, and I can kick this guy's ass.
The adrenaline in my veins spikes, and I catch him off guard by swinging my legs behind him. He loses his grip on my arms, and I fling him backward. He lands on his back. I swing over, landing on top of him. The air leaves his lungs. Nice.
I am the one smiling this time. "And you are obviously still just a boy."
I lightly slap his face, toying with him. He grins, and for some reason, so do I. He's not even close to being a man, and this boy needs to mature. He may look the part, but he sure as hell doesn't act it.
"I want you." That was the last thing I expected to hear. He says it like an errant child. As if he doesn't get his way, he might throw a tantrum. What is it with men thinking they can demand things?
"Ugh!" I shout and get off him. "Derek, please stop this! I meant it. Grow the fuck up." I turn on my heels and make my way out of the gym, feeling defeated and unproductive.
How am I supposed to fix my friendship with Derek if he won't even try? I don't want Alvarado to do anything drastic. I need Derek.
I won the physical battle, but it feels like I lost the overall war. Nothing resolved, of course.
On the other hand, how am I supposed to look up to him as my leader if he's going to act like this? He is right, he has taught me or at least had a hand in everything I know, but you fuck the boss and it all goes to hell.
I stop halfway to the locker room, lean against the wall, and sigh. He was my friend first, and that's what I miss more. The relationship was good when things were good, but I miss having someone to call for no apparent reason. Someone who would understand my silly ramblings—a best friend. Life with this job is lonely, and good friends are hard to find. I know he is struggling with it as much as I am, but ...
"How do we fix this?" I lift my head. Derek is standing there, and I am pleased we can at least count on being on the same mental wavelength, exhausting as it is.
I shrug. "I don't know. You make it difficult."
"Back at you, babe."
I shut my eyes, because the word babe is too endearing. It makes me think of Jeremy, and I am flooded with all my doubts and unknown emotions. I don't like Derek using that word with me.
I open my eyes, and Derek has taken two steps closer to me, his arm outstretched in a handshake. "Truce, Agent Turner?"
"Huh?"
"I need to make myself clear, and then maybe we can move on. We always get caught up in the miscellaneous details."
Are we really about to finally have a serious conversation about this?
He continues. "Maybe you're right. I am just a boy. It hurts to admit it, but, like you, I don't know how to deal with emotions. I see you struggling with them too, especially with Jeremy. It's all over your face. You like him, and I have to get it ... and I will. I just miss everything. Of course, a part of me regrets every day making that dumb mistake with Ashley—my fault! I know, doesn't mean I don't wish I couldn't change it."
"Derek, please." I want to stop him but I don't know why.
"Let me finish. … I miss us. It was fun. And when I say I miss us, I mean I miss us pre-everything. I miss beating you to a playful pulp in the gym, I miss calling you when Alvarado is at my throat for shit you did, and I miss thinking clearly around you. The sex was good." He pauses, grinning like a dumb teenager, reflecting on it. "Well, it was great actually." I roll my eyes at his statement, and he smiles but continues, "But I wish we could be how we were before all that. I don't like complicated. I don't want us to be complicated. It's exhausting."
His words are a relief, and I knock his outstretched hand out of the way and leap into a hug.
"Since whe
n do you hug?" he sputters, as he wraps his arms around me.
Maybe I've changed due to my touchy-feely weekend.
I pull away, smiling. "Thank you."
He snorts. "For what?"
"For telling me that. It's what I want too. If you mean it, then we can start now ... fresh."
He thinks for a moment, and it's almost as if he is deciding to say something but chooses not to, and instead goes with, "Fresh sounds perfect."
I nod and I am happy again. My frustration over this morning's encounter is slipping away. Kind of.
A smirk plays on my lips.
"What are you thinking?" he asks.
"Just be nice when he comes in."
"Who, Hunt? I'm always nice," he says.
"I know we are starting fresh, but I know you. Please don't be an ass."
"I'll be professional," he says, shrugging.
I laugh. "Professional is not your forte."
We laugh together for the first time in what feels like forever.
I feel better.
Next on the agenda: text/call Jeremy.
Hell, I'd rather go see him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cravings
MARCUS GIBBS
I can't stop rubbing my eyes as I perch on a stool in front of my microscope. I didn't go home last night. I would say I slept in my lab, but the truth is, I didn't sleep at all. I have been creating new samples for the extra batch, and I finally put in an order for the transportation supplies. My last task before heading out the door is to make sure these samples are progressing as planned. So far, most of them are OK, but I have come across three culture samples that didn't develop properly. Damn.
I'm not going to lie. Every time I came across a bad batch, I threw the glass dish across the room, letting it clatter to pieces in the corner. Those pieces still lie there now. I'll get David, my lab partner, to clean up the mess. It's the least he can do.
Out of fifteen, twelve were good enough to use in the second phase. I place them on the rack below the perfect, ready-to-go batch, and decide I will work on the extra three tomorrow. I can't be in here anymore; these white, sterile walls are driving me crazy.
I decide not to take any more of the Xanax Steve gave me, because they cloud my mind, so instead, every time I felt tired or my attention wandered, I did a line. Considering the progress I have made, doing coke was the right choice. Although, every time I threw a petri dish against the wall, I imagined Jeremy's face as it shattered.
I still can't get the image of him with Alex out of my head, and the more I allow myself to think about it, the angrier I get. I want him to suffer as I have. We've been friends since college, but you get to the point where you have had enough. How can I work my predicament to my advantage? How can I show these people they can't fuck with me whenever they want to?
I need to get out of here. I peer at my watch as I tuck my drugs inside my jacket pocket, and realize it is nearly 2 p.m. On principle, I guess I should get some food in me.
Before I head out, I decide to call that asshole, Luc, to let him know that everything is going according to plan, just in case he has any doubts. He answers on the second ring.
"Luc à l'appareil." Dumb French fuck.
"Luc, it's Marcus Gibbs." Now speak English, dammit.
"Ah, bonjour, Marcus Gibbs, how are you?"
I've been better.
"Great. I have some news. The new batch is coming along and should move according to schedule."
An oddly maniacal laugh bellows through the phone. "Fantastic, see what a little pressure can amount to? Results!"
I swear to God, if he was standing in front of me, terrorist or not, I would have used my pen to stab him in his throat to get him to shut up.
Keep it together, Gibbs.
However, I'm not sure I want to anymore.
I gather my thoughts, trying not to explode with fake laughter.
Luckily, he continues, because if I had to speak I am not sure what I would say.
"Well, someone will be in at the end of the week to pay you a visit."
"OK." That's all I can manage.
"Always a pleasure, Mr. Gibbs," he says, as if to signal the end of the phone call.
For some reason, this arrogant fuck has me fuming, and I want nothing more than to lash out at these people who think they can dick me around, pointing fingers, telling me what to do. Then it hits me.
I pull my bag of coke out, setting it on the counter of my desk, deciding one more line wouldn't hurt. "Wait, Luc, I have a request."
"Do you think you are in a position to be making requests?
"It's not what you think. … Do you have any men to hire?"
There is a confused silence at the other end of the phone. "What do you mean by men to hire?"
I spread out the white powder on the counter surface, using a business card from my desk to organize it. "Ya know: men who can do a dirty job without getting caught."
I can feel his joyful sneer as he says, almost giddy, "Whatever do you mean, Gibbs?"
"Let's say I need someone taken care of, or even just knocked around a bit."
"It'll cost you."
"I don't care. This isn't about money. This is personal."
"Then yes, I can arrange exactly what you need."
"Perfect. Call me with the details as soon as possible."
I hang up, and then lean down to do the line. My nose stings from its repeated use, but I feel good—better than good. The future looks promising, in more ways than one.
JEREMY HUNT
I left my office early today. I couldn't take the environment anymore. I wasn't getting anything done, and rather than looking like a fool ignoring my e-mails, and staring out my office windows, I decided to go home and make tomorrow a better day, with a more productive agenda. Right now, I want to be home.
I walk into my apartment and relax as I shut the front door behind me. I loosen my narrow tie, pull off my blazer, and drop my briefcase in the kitchen. I brought work home with the intention of doing some to distract me. Fat chance.
I take a seat on my couch, drawing in a deep breath in hopes it will calm my nerves. It doesn't. What I need is a beer. I wonder if it is in my personal assistant's job description to do a beer run. Would that sit under Microsoft Office, and excellent organization skills? I snicker.
Alex has not texted me back, nor has she called, and it makes me uneasy. It's already 4 p.m. Maybe it was just a fun weekend. I guess I had my fun too. Maybe I should prepare myself to get over it.
No!
I am flooded with the same frustration that has been plaguing me in waves all day in the office. This weird dichotomy of wanting and wishing for Alex to contact me, and then trying to figure out how some girl could even have me feeling this way is making me crazy. It's as if I am angry with her for having the ability to frustrate me. I want her; I miss her. Right now, I am at the mercy of my emotionalism and that is a sore realization.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my reverie. I answer without looking, expecting it to be my assistant with my schedule for tomorrow. "Go ahead."
"Jeremy?"
My breath catches in my throat. "Alex?"
Her laugh comes through the phone, and I immediately calm. I smile as she says, "Sounds like you were expecting someone else?"
"But you're the person I'd rather be talking to." Good one.
It's silent for a moment, but I can sense her smile. "Are you home?"
"Oddly enough, I am. What are you doing?"
"I was hoping you'd say that." I can tell she is still smiling. I like the idea that I make her smile.
She sounds calm and relaxed on the other end, which is drastically different from when she left yesterday afternoon.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Well, are you busy right now?"
My face heats. "Why?"
"Because ... I might be overstepping my boundaries."
The statement makes me grin. I stand up from the couch. "
What do you mean?"
"Don't be mad, all right?" There is a little hint of worry in her tone.
My stomach knots at her words. "Sure, but no promises. I'm told I can kind of be a dick sometimes."
She giggles again, and the knots in my stomach loosen. What a powerful and dangerous remedy.
"Open your front door," she commands, calm and collected.
This wave of anticipation mixed with excitement overwhelms me, as if it is Christmas morning, my birthday, and the New Year all in one.
I swivel around and walk toward my front door. Sure enough, I can see a blurry silhouette through the glass. I wonder how she got past security at the front desk.
Do I contain my grin? Do I pull myself together for her so I don't look like some dumbstruck kid? Naaahhhh. I close my phone and open the door.
A smitten feeling swallows me completely at the sight of her, as if I'm seeing her for the first time. She wears a weak smile, fiddles with her hands, and bobs back and forth. She is wearing a white tank top with a black leather jacket and skinny jeans, and her hair is windblown. She is exuding an edge that I never noticed before, almost dangerously mysterious, and I remember her odd words: I'm dangerous. I am doing this to keep you safe. I am no good for you. I can't help but think, You are so far from wrong, as my mouth waters at the sight of her, and my chest is barely able to contain the erratic thumping of my heart.
What the hell is happening to me?
We stand there like two dumb fools, staring. I want to wrap my arms around her, but that might be too much, so I try to contain myself. I don't want to be overwhelming and send her running—women don't like needy guys; they want them strong and confident, right?
She continues to bob back and forth, as she gnaws on her lip. Her eyes are darting all over my body, and I grin.
"Hi." It's barely a whisper. That's it? You idiot, Hunt!
"Hi." She smiles, but lucky for me she continues. "I'm sorry."
I'm still standing too far from her, and it's making me anxious. I ache to touch her, and now I am confused too. "What could you possibly be sorry about?"
"Not texting you back and coming here unannounced. I mi—" She slams her mouth shut.