by Rosa, A.
"Sounds great. I can't wait to see you. And, son?"
"Yeah, Dad?"
"I'm really sorry I didn't keep you in the loop with this one. I just didn't—"
"Don't worry about it for now. See you soon. Bye."
As I hang up, I realize that maybe if he had kept me in the loop, I could have saved myself from a whole lot of heartache. I might have been able to hit it off with Agent Turner in a more honest way. Or we may have never crossed paths like we did. Both scenarios are unsettling. What a debacle.
I press the speakerphone. "Rebecca?"
A disembodied voice echoes from the speaker. "Yes, Mr. Hunt?"
"Please clear my schedule until Friday. I will be out of town in Arizona."
"What about the budget forecasting meeting tomorrow, sir?"
"Reschedule it for when I get back. I want those numbers. And please make sure they include the amount of money in the Malaria project."
"Project 351, sir? Marcus Gibbs's budget?"
Fucking right I want those numbers. "Yes, exactly. Thank you."
"Will you be visiting Mr. Hunt Sr., sir?"
Her words almost offend me, verging on intrusive, but I choose to answer. "Yes."
"Would you like me to gather a gift basket or card of some sort?"
"Thank you, Rebecca, but that won't be necessary.” I feel guilty over my previous assumption, and I am proud of my assistant's initiative. “I will be reachable by e-mail while I am gone, but I would like to avoid phone calls if possible."
"No problem, sir. Have a good vacation. I will try to schedule the plane for tomorrow morning."
I almost want to correct her. This is going to be anything but a vacation. "Thank you, Rebecca"
What a fucking conundrum.
ALEX TURNER
I stumble into my apartment. It feels empty—more than empty, hollow. I wish I had a dog or a cat; hell, even a hamster would suffice right now. I just want something to snuggle.
See, secret agents have soft sides ... more like sad sides.
My stomach clenches as I go through another wave of nausea. Too much tequila. I wouldn't say I am wasted, but I definitely drank enough for a buzz, and all on Derek's dime. That's the least he could do.
I manage a weak smile in my lonely apartment as I drag my body to the living room. The tequila's easy-going euphoria drifts from me as all the unsettling thoughts I have been avoiding seep back into my brain.
I shake my head. I don't want to deal with these feelings right now. Derek was supportive during our tequila stupor. We told jokes, recounted good times working different assignments together, and talked about our brushes with death and saving each other's asses repeatedly. Derek and I did what we do best; we ignored our problems. He kept his promise too; he didn't once ask about Jeremy.
Even the thought of him makes my knees weak, and anguish overwhelms me. Why did Jeremy react the way he did? Why couldn't he rise to the occasion? Who am I kidding? A part of me worries that this is exactly how I am supposed to end up. How do I fix this?
It's not really up to you, now is it? my subconscious chimes in.
Sadness floods me again. I can't make it to my bed, and collapse onto my couch instead.
Maybe he reacted the right way. He is a smart man who knows what is important. He has his family and his career to put first. Who am I to say how important I am in the grand scheme of Jeremy's life?
I stretch out and lay my arm over my eyes. I worry that they will water and I won't have that. I draw a deep, exasperated breath. That feels a little better. The secret agent in me decides to make an appearance, and she whispers, you don't need him anyway.
I don't need him, but I want him.
Stick to what you know, Turner. You solve your problems with a fight and a gun. This emotional crap is not your style.
My life is nothing but unfortunate truths and that happens to be one of them. Love? Relationships? They are as foreign to me as quantum physics. How could I think I could get away with normality? My life has been, and will always be my job, which is the real love of my life. It's the truth. An agent's life is his or her job, end of story.
That last thought is oddly comforting. I close my eyes and focus on my heart rate, and the lingering silence of me, myself, and I. I will be OK. Whether he wants me or not.
My cell phone beeps, startling me. I look at the time before answering.
It's one thirty in the morning! Who the hell could this be? Maybe it's Derek with another drunken story to tell.
I slip my phone out and realize it's a text. I almost drop the phone onto the floor.
It's from Jeremy.
My heart launches into my throat.
Are you awake? Can we talk please?
Oh, you have to be kidding me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Problem Solving
ALEX TURNER
My skin itches, as if it is crawling with some unknown concern. How am I supposed to deal with this when I not only feel heartbroken, but angry at Jeremy's bad response to what is happening?
Don't be such a bitch; you tore down his world. The question you should be asking yourself is, how is he supposed to deal with his feelings for you?
I grunt at my inner monologue, but cannot help the tension rising in my shoulders. I hate that. That bitch of a subconscious is always right.
I take a stand in front of Jeremy's door, and think about it again. This is not a good idea. Anything that comes in the form of a 2 a.m. chitchat cannot possibly be good.
I gulp down air and adjust my jacket. Standing in this hallway without a peep or person in sight is making me anxious.
Only my guns against my ribs make me feel safe. When it is me, myself, and a weapon, I really have nothing to fear. When I was a troubled teen, I fed off the adrenaline rush of getting into bad situations. Yet, for reasons I still haven't figured out, the federal government plucked me out of my delinquency and gave me a license to cause trouble.
This feels like one of those old moments. I'd rather walk the sketchy streets of Boston luring an unsuspecting guy into a fight than confront the man beyond this door. How is anyone supposed to deal with my sick, twisted psyche when I have thoughts like that? As if it is my body’s response to my own ridiculousness, the knot in my gut only gets tighter, and I struggle to get a grip.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. I need to make everything clear to Jeremy. No more secrets, no more lies. I cannot let my heart steer this situation.
Stick to the facts, Agent Turner, and do what you need to protect yourself. It's the only way.
I nod my unspoken agreement and knock.
Through the foggy glass, I see the looming shadow of a person coming closer, and with every inch he takes, my heart beats faster. Just breathe.
The door swings open and memories of the last time I stood here flood my mind. It was a happy, spontaneous visit, which ended with his lips against mine. This one is not going to go that way; I can sense it.
Jeremy looks amazing as usual. Did today even phase him? He's wearing a worn pair of blue jeans that hang hypnotically from his hips and a white V-neck T-shirt. He isn't smiling when we make eye contact. I stare into the calm blue sea that is Jeremy's eyes, and I see it. There seems to be a storm brewing behind those depths. It's my fault, isn't it?
Do I look like a deer in the headlights? Because I feel like a deer in the headlights.
Get a hold of yourself.
I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip, and manage a few words. "Here I am."
You idiot, Turner. Why don't you just do a little dance and say, “Ta-da”?
I try to manage a smirk, but I fail. His face mirrors the blankness of mine. What are we doing?
He runs his hand through his messy blond hair. "Thank you for coming to talk to me." His formal tone hurts. Every word feels like a jab to my well-being.
"No problem," I sputter. "I am sure you have a lot of questions." I let the silence hang for a moment as I gather a thought.
"Jeremy, this doesn't have to be about us. This can just be business. I don't want to make this awkward for you. If you just want to talk about the issue at hand, I am perfectly all right with that." Liar.
He squints, and I can't tell if he is offended. "So, you'll just come out at two in the morning for any client?" His snarkiness surprises me.
I bite my lip, unsure what the appropriate response is. Do I have permission to smile? Should I be annoyed? What is happening? I return, with snark, "Well, it's a twenty-four-seven job."
He looks away to hide his smile, and I feel a glimmer of hope. Keep cool, Turner.
"Please come inside."
I hate this formality.
I follow him down the hall and into the kitchen.
"Do you want a cup of coffee or something?" he asks.
I'm still shaking the tequila out of my body, and aching for a cup of joe. "Sure."
He already has a pot made and he pours me a cup.
Has he been drinking coffee all night? Maybe that's why he is up so late. It has nothing to do with me.
He places the mug on the table, and I slip off my leather jacket without thinking, placing it on the chair before sitting. I feel his eyes on me like a weight. I look up and notice his eyes are wide. I don't understand why. My eyes dart around, trying to figure it out, and then it hits me.
My guns. I am wearing my guns.
"I'm sorry if these make you uncomfortable." I really do feel bad, but I don't regret it. This is who I am, whether he likes it or not.
He actually has the audacity to sneer at me. "Are those entirely necessary?" He acts as if I am some gypsy peasant and he is a regal king, and I disgusted him with my poor, gypsy ways.
Oh, fuck no. My temper boils, and my subconscious whispers, Calm down, Alex. Calm down.
I slip off my leather holsters, and then toss them onto the kitchen table with a loud clank to drive the message home. "I would really get used to those if I were you."
"And why is that?"
"Because, whether you like it or not, those things that you turn your nose up at might save your life. I know damn well that I have saved others with them, and they were grateful."
He chokes up at my words. The tension in his eyes evaporates, and it is replaced with concern and panic. He raises his hands to rub at his temples. The action makes me ache. My body swells with the need to touch him, to hug him, to comfort him. I have never had such a compulsion but I keep still, staring at him. I am not used to apologizing.
"I'm sorry, Jeremy." He jerks his head upward to make eye contact with me. "This is not how I want this to go."
His steely blue eyes dart over my face and my body. I wish I knew what he is thinking.
"I don't know what to say," he manages.
I shake my head and realize I have to be the strong one. He carried me emotionally all weekend, and now it is my turn to step up to the plate. I want to grab for his hand, but I don't.
"Let's take this slow, then. This doesn't have to be about us. Remember? What do you want to know? Ask me anything you want. How about I tell you that Mar—"
"Have you ever killed anyone?" He cuts me off sharply.
The statement throws me for a loop. I clench my jaw, and my eyes go wide. I am unsure if I heard him correctly. "What did you say?"
He sits up straight, as if he is about to barter a deal, but his look is pained. "You said I can ask anything I want, and I want to know that first. If you aren't a waitress, if you are some agent or whatever, have you ever killed anyone?"
I am not ready for this. I decide to take a sip of my coffee first, watching Jeremy's eyes watch me. I gulp down the delicious fix and say as crisply as possible, "Yes, I have."
"So that's your job? Killing people?"
I shake my head, dumbfounded by his assumption. "Not always. I'm not a professional killer, Jeremy. That is not what I do, but sometimes the situation calls for a little more action and I am prepared to do what is necessary. My job is to protect this country, our freedom, and the lives of civilians. If that means I have to kill someone, like a terrorist or a hit man, I will do it without hesitation." His brows twitch as he absorbs my words, and his tensing features give me a hint that it is a reluctant sense of understanding. "Jeremy, I'm sorry if this is overwhelming you."
"It's a little surreal, that's all." It's as if he is talking to himself. "And to think I wanted to protect you." Oh, Jeremy.
"Y-you do protect me, if that makes any sense," I stutter.
He lets out a mock laugh. "That is absurd of you to say." He gestures toward my guns.
"You don't get it, Jeremy!" My frustration with him brims and spills over into anger. "And that's fine. It is fine that you don't get it. We should talk about something else. Don't you want to talk about how you are supposed to help with this case? Aren't you even curious about what we are going to ask of you?"
He shakes his head, and his stoic gaze locks onto mine. My discipline slips, and my mouth sinks into a panicked frown.
"No," he barks.
"No? No what, Jeremy?"
"I want to talk about you. Tell me how I could possibly protect you? How am I supposed to think I can help or support someone whose job it is to keep me safe? Why me?"
His words sound insane. How can he have no idea that he is my breath of fresh air? I ramble like wildfire. "Why you? I should be asking you, why me? Do you have any idea how hard it is to be me? Doing the job I do? I have spent most of my life building walls to protect myself, and you have managed to fracture the very foundation they were built on—and that is terrifying to me! Don't you get it? Do you see now? I don't have friends. The only people who know me are Derek, my partner, and my boss, Chief Alvarado. Even in this short period of time you saw the little girl that I have been hiding." Embarrassment over my confession floods me. Little girl? I did not just say that. I cover my mouth to stop any more careless words.
His stark expression makes me feel like I’ve said too much. He doesn't want me, and why should I make myself vulnerable to him now?
I get up from my seat to regain some composure, and turn around to grab my jacket. "Jeremy, I am sorry. I really need to go. I don't think we should be talking about this. There are more important things we should be talking about."
"Stop it!" he shouts.
I face him. He is standing now too, tenser than I have ever seen him.
"Why are you doing this? All weekend, when you had to lie to me, you wanted to bail on every personal topic. Now everything is out in the open, which you said is what you wanted, you still want to run out on me?"
I bite my lip. I want to be mad. "I am not running!"
"Hell yes, you are! You'd think I would be the one running in the opposite direction. This is me trying to fix this, and you are making it damn difficult, Alex!"
"What do you want from me? I'm trying as hard as I can. This is all new for me," I shout.
"Don't you realize I am taking this moment by moment too? You drive me crazy!"
I stomp my foot and point my finger at him, fuming with anger. "You are driving me crazy!"
Before I realize what is happening, Jeremy rushes me, slamming me against the wall. He grabs my face, presses his hips against mine, and ravages my mouth with his. His rushing lips tell me he is as lost and angry as I am, but that the one thing we do know is that we can't help but want each other.
His lips command me, and I open mine, tangling his tongue with my tongue. Because I never go down without a fight, I try to push him away. He growls into my mouth, and everything below my waist clenches in response. He lets go of my face, grabs for my fighting arms, and pins them above my head, allowing his body free range against mine. His touch triggers a groan.
He owns me, body and soul. I revel in his ability to control me, and the fact I am even allowing it.
Using only one hand to keep mine above my head, he drags his other hand down my body, taking no prisoners as he caresses my breasts. Then, he moves down to my waist and takes a firm gr
asp of my behind, pulling me harder into him and forcing me to feel his growing erection against my hip. He slides his hand along my thigh, lifting it up around his waist, and I, fun struggle aside, relax in his grasp. As my shoulders calm, he lets go of my arms, and grabs for my other thigh. Both my legs wrap around his waist as he takes hold of me, pinning me against the wall.
Is this all I needed? Is this all I wanted?
He pulls away from my lips, and without a word, drags his stubbly cheek across my jaw, calling my whole body to attention before taking my ear between his teeth. I close my eyes, wrap my arms around his neck, and sigh in appreciation. It is scary how good he is at this. No more words. No more questions. No more explanations.
Our bodies heat as I twist my fingers in his hair, forcing his lips back to mine. We are all rushing breaths and tight grips. Rough. I like it rough.
As if he can read my mind, he lifts me away from the wall and carries me to the living room. He tosses me onto the couch, climbs over my body, and wastes no time pulling my shirt over my head and unhooking my bra, tossing it aside, revealing my bare body.
His lips start at the nape of my neck and move down. He nips, sucks, and licks his way to my breasts. He takes my nipple between his teeth, and I groan as I claw at the couch cushions, absorbing all the sensations.
He continues down my stomach, dipping his tongue into my navel, and my whole body clenches in anticipation. I want him so badly.
He sits up and takes off his shirt before beginning on my jeans
There is no time for appreciation, just carnal need as he yanks off my pants and my underwear in one swoop.
This is all because of today. The frustration, anger, and stress of the day has caused are being released right here, right now. I think I can deal with this type of problem solving.
Before I realize what is happening, he slams into me, and I let out a loud, appreciative gasp as his lips come down on mine, owning me with every kiss and every thrust.
The emotions I have for him are overwhelming. I meet him pulse for pulse.