by Tara Oakes
I nearly spit out my own mouthful of drink.
Boring? I’m most definitely NOT boring!
I try to defend myself nonchalantly. “I’m sure she’s not that bad. I saw a picture of her once. She’s gorgeous.”
I might as well toot my own horn pretty loudly if I’m gonna do it at all, right?
“Ah, she’s alright, I guess. Boring as hell though. I mean, she majored in Ancient Mythology in college. Who does that --”
I freeze.
“Wait a minute.” She sits back, and studies me. Her eyes squint as she inspects my red wig, my glasses. “Didn’t you say you majored in Ancient Mythology, Brenda?”
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
I bite my lip. “Sure. I think a lot of people do.”
I try to brush it off but she’s not buying it.
“No, actually, they don’t. I thought it was weird when you said your family made a donation directly to me. I don’t remember any Carsons.” I can feel an imaginary wall go up between us. “Who are you, really?”
My heart is racing a mile a minute, my skin is feeling flushed. “Maybe we should go someplace al little more private and talk?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tasha closes the door harshly behind her. “Spill it. Who are you and why are you pretending to be someone else?”
I turn to face her in the small private office she’s brought me to. From what I can see, it must be hers, judging from the Greek Goddess poster on her wall and mini Greek Acropolis paper weight on her desk.
At a time like this, I think the best position is an offensive one. “I think you already know who I am. And maybe a better question would be why you’re trying to blackmail my father?”
The first part of my statement didn’t seem to faze her. She put the pieces together and she must have been fairly confident in my true identity. The second half of my answer has thrown her for a loop, though.
“What are you talking about? Who’s blackmailing your father? I certainly am not. Why would you even accuse me of something like that?” She’s a damn good actress.
My shaking head signals my disbelief. “Because I have a flash drive with emails from your email address, sent from an IP address registered to one of the computers in this building, that contains some pretty damning evidence, Tasha.”
My allegation is getting a pretty strong reaction from her. “Impossible. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Not that I owe you anything, but I can prove you’re mistaken.” She steps aside me to take a seat at her desk, engaging her computer and typing furiously.
I move my position to get a better view of her screen.
“Trust me, your father has plenty of people to blackmail him, but I wouldn’t risk my job and my reputation to do it.” She brings up her email.
There she goes again with a comment like that. She has no idea who my father is, and I would know better than she if my dad were hiding anything.
“Oh, really?” I question her credibility. “I think you’ve been drinking a little too much of the Donaldson campaign cool-aid, Tasha.”
Her fingers slow on the keys at my comment. “If you say so. Hey, don’t you have a maid by the name of Esperanza? From Tijuana? A pretty little thing about, oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty or so?”
My breathing hitches. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, Tasha, but—“
“Oh my God,” she whispers, staring at her screen. I lean forward, over her shoulder, to inspect the outbox of her account, where a collection of emails directly match the ones we have stored on the flash drive from Benny. “I-I-I didn’t send these, Jessica. I swear. I didn’t do this.”
I roll my eyes. “Give me a break, Natasha. It’s right there in black and white. And it’s a crime. It’s called extortion.”
She backs away from her desk quickly, as if putting distance between herself and the incriminating evidence will somehow change the facts. “Something’s going on here. I didn’t write those, I didn’t send those. Somebody’s setting me up!”
Oh please! That shit happens in movies, in books. This is real life, not an episode of CSI! I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling.
“And I suppose someone else hacked into your email and sent these? Do you think I’m an idiot?” I cross my arms at her ridiculous theory.
She begins to look around wildly. “Wait! There’s one thing. It must be it. What date were those emails sent?”
Whatever she’s trying to do won’t work. “You know what day you sent them, Tasha. So do I.”
Natasha walks briskly over to check the screen, to confirm the timestamp on the emails. “Seriously. I didn’t send them. And I can prove it.”
She picks up the receiver of the phone on her desk and dials. Part of me thinks she might be calling security.
“Thomas?” She asks into the receiver. “Do we still have the incident report on that kid, that volunteer who got food poisoning from the chicken salad?” She pauses. “Great. Can you email it to me, please. Thanks.”
The plastic clicks and rattles against its holder as she slams the phone down, looking triumphant.
“Regardless of what you think, I didn’t send those emails, but I think I know who did.” She types on her keyboard, refreshing her screen and clicking on the new incoming email along with its attachment.
“The day those emails were sent, I was crazy busy. I delegated some pretty easy tasks to this volunteer we had. He needed to reply to a bunch of emails for me. He must have sent those other emails while he was in my account.”
Her tale is outlandish, and a far stretch for anyone’s imagination. “He probably gave us a bogus name when he signed in, just like you did,” Her eyes roll over to me, calling me out on my dishonesty, “but, he had a really unlucky day. He ate the chicken salad at lunch and got really sick. He was taken to the walk-in clinic around the corner, where I’m sure they have his correct information. He never came back to volunteer again. I though it was just because of the whole food poisoning thing, but it was probably because he’d already done what he’d come here to do.”
My eyes squint at her as I process the information.
“Someone’s setting me up. Someone’s setting Donaldson up. Someone’s playing you and I both, Ms. Leary, trying to sabotage both campaigns.”
I’m not sure if I believe her. Part of me can’t help but consider what she’s saying might actually be the truth. But, then again, she’s already lied to me twice today. First, about my dad having some secret pact with his opponent, neither one of them willing to out the other out of fear for being outed themselves. Second, insinuating something fishy is going on with the new maid dad’s hired over at the mansion.
This could just be one more lie in her pile, aimed to point me in the wrong direction, to cover-up her tracks.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I speak out more to myself than to her. “The friend who came here with me today? Who Heather is trying to molest? He’s an FBI agent assigned to this case. We’ll take a copy of that incident report and he’ll follow up on it.” She nods as she’s listening to me, printing up a copy of the report for me.
I take it from her eagerly outstretched fingers as she hands it over willingly. “If what you say is true, then we’ve both got a big problem. If we find out that this is bullshit, Tasha — then you’ve got a big problem.”
~*~
CHRIS
“What do you mean you have to leave?” Heather whines.
This bitch has been getting on my nerves all day. I understand I’m playing a part, but, seriously? Do guys really fall for this shit?
It’s clear as day that she screws anything with two legs and a dick around here. I’m not the kind of guy that goes for sloppy seconds. Well, not anymore, anyway.
“I’m Brenda’s ride, and she’s gotta bounce. Sorry, maybe some other time?”
I blame my imaginary friend Brenda for having to break out of this hell hole early. I’m not cutout for a desk job, to be c
ooped up indoors all day. That’s one of the reasons I love my job so much. It keeps me from having to sit in a cubicle.
“Ready?” A familiar voice calls from behind me. Saved by the bell, or in this case, the sexy little red head. Damn, that wig is cute.
I stand. “Yup. Just saying goodbye to Heather, here. Thanking her for helping me out today.
The two women stare at each other adversarily. They’ve been dancing around this, trading little jabs at each other all day.
“Well, why don’t I give you my number?” The blonde wanna-be temptress offers. “You can give me a call if you want to volunteer again, or we can talk politics, or … whatever.”
I can practically feel Jess, AKA Brenda, stifling her laugh. I know her well enough to know exactly what’s running through her head. Thank God she’s not saying any of it, though. I don’t need to break up a chick fight, although I’m sure my girl could take her.
“Heather?” Oh, fuck. I thanked the Gods too early. Jess is about to lay it down. “He won’t be calling you today. He won’t be calling you tomorrow. He won’t be calling you ever. I’m sure you don’t get turned down often and this may come as a bit of a shock to you, but I have no doubt you’ll get right back on the horse and jump on the next ten inch dick that walks through the door; but this one’s mine.”
I stand back and watch it all unfold.
“T-t-ten inch?” She stutters in surprise. I can’t help but feel like a piece of meat as she drops her eyes down to my cock in wonder. Damn, I like it.
“I’m sure you’re a smart girl, deep down,” Jess continues. “Finish school. Get a degree. Make something of yourself on your own merit and not as a direct result of fucking someone else who has.”
The overly made-up girl stands in shock and embarrassment as Jess finishes her astute observation of her.
Now that’s what I call en exit. I follow my woman to the door as a round of applause breaks out around us. I have a feeling these people have been dying to tell off the blonde little dictator, like Jess just did, for a long, long, time.
When the situation calls for it, my girl’s got balls of steel, knowing just how to handle another chick that’s getting a little too close to her man. Fuck it turns me on somethin’ fierce and I can’t wait to see how she handles my balls tonight.
~*~
“They’re not going to give us any confidential information, Chris. It’s against the law.” Jess, no longer pretending to be Brenda is starting to get cold feet.
Taking hold of the door handle to the clinic, I protect my reputation as a top-notch field agent who’s never left a case unsolved. “Oh, ye of little faith. You think just because you got the scoop on the emails before I did, that I can’t get the job done?”
She rolls her eyes and walks through the door as I hold it for her. “Alright Casanova. Let’s see you in action.”
I walk past her close enough to whisper in her ear. “You’re gonna see me in action, Princess. But for now, why don’t you sit that tight little ass of yours down over there and wait for me to finish this up before we get to that part.”
There’s no doubt in my mind right now that her panties are becoming drenched just thinking about it. She takes one of the vacant seats in the mildly crowded waiting room as I proceed to the counter.
I ditched the campaign shirt as soon as we left Donaldson’s headquarters. That cheap cotton was making me itch, so I stopped back at the car to change back into my shirt, tie and jacket. I feel naked without these, as they’ve become like a second skin.
I spend a small fortune on the perfectly tailored imported suits to make sure that I look anything but drabby in them. It’s pretty ironic that I’m all business on the outside, meeting the bureau’s dress code perfectly, yet as bad-ass as they come once the clothes are off, with my few well thought-out and strategically placed tats.
It makes me smile, knowing people look at me one way and have no idea what I’m really like under the designer label.
“Can I help you?” A striking nurse in a tight ponytail and even tighter scrubs asks me as I step to the counter.
I flip my jacket aside, showing my badge while simultaneously holding my I.D. in the other hand.
“Agent Gibson, FBI.” My voice takes on the air of authority I’m used to giving. “I’m looking for some information on a possible poisoning case.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my!”
“We’ve recently gotten a tip that a threat was made against Mr. Donaldson, the Senate hopeful. His campaign headquarters are right around the corner. I was told a young man who fell ill there was taken here for treatment. I was hoping you could help me verify some information.”
The nurse looks interested in the tale of intrigue. “That’s horrible. Do you have authorization or a court order to see the records?”
Damn, she’s a stickler for rules, this one.
“No, no. Nothing like that. I already have the information; I just need to verify the spelling, the address, and the treatment date.
She looks skeptical, I continue quickly without giving her time to really think about what I’m asking, as it still breaks all kinds of medical confidentiality laws.
Opening my little black pocket-sized notebook that I carry for random information and notes, I open to a random page that has writing on it that most-definitely has nothing to do with this case, but it makes what I’m about to say look legit.
“I have one Brian Macpherson, spelled B-R-I-A-N not B-R-Y-A-N, born September 3, 1984, requesting treatment from your clinic the Monday before last at approximately one-fifteen in the afternoon, complaining of nausea, vomiting and severe stomach cramping.” I spew out a handful of bullshit facts from the incident report to the woman.
She begins to type into her computer and I can tell at once when she’s found the information on my perp, because her forehead burrows and she takes on a look of confusion as I’m sure as shit the information she reads on her screen does not match what I‘ve given her.
“I’m sorry, Agent Gibson. I think you might be mistaken.” She’s all business.
“Oh, man. I knew they spelled the name wrong,” I blame an imaginary person at the campaign headquarters for my lie. “Could you correct me then. It’s B-R-Y-A-N, isn’t it?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry, but you’re way off about all the facts.”
I sigh. “I’m gonna get my ass chewed out for this one. You know what it’s like to have a boss who’s a stickler about paperwork and forms?” I ask, knowing full well thanks my younger sister who’s a nurse, that they are constantly under pressure to fill charts out correctly, compensating for Doctors who haphazardly write up charts, and more often than not, it’s the nurse who takes the blame.
There’s a glimmer of empathy in her eyes and so I play on her sense of compassion for my situation. “One person gives me the wrong information, and now I have to spend half my day getting a Judge to give me an order to clear it all up, just because the first person was too lazy to actually do their job and take an extra minute to verify what they were doing before speaking to me.”
The nurse probably doesn’t realize it, but she’s nodding slightly in agreement.
“I’m so sorry to waste your valuable time. I know how busy nurses are and how much they do without being recognized or given credit for. Thank you for all your help, though.” I click my pen and close my notepad, giving her a megawatt smile before turning on my heel to leave.
“Wait!” she calls behind me. I can see Jess watching the whole situation unfold from across the room and I give her a wink as the nurse calls me back. I do, however, make sure that grin is completely wiped off my face before I return to face the nurse who’s now leaning forward secretively.
Her tone is lowered. “I’d hate for you to have to do all that extra work and possibly get in trouble for someone else’s laziness. What was the date again?”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.
~*~
I w
ait outside the front of the clinic for Jess to exit the building, resting up against the wall casually. She walks outside into the late afternoon sun and looks around into the parking lot, not noticing that I’m behind her.
“Hey,” I call to her, jokingly as I make a high-pitched cat-call whistle. “Tell me, does the carpet match the drapes?”
She hears me perfectly and turns on her heel, hands angrily fisted on her hips.
“I think you know the answer to that,” she’s curt.
I laugh to myself and walk forward, leaving my perch. “You’re right, I do.”
She looks like she could bite my head off right now. “Tell me, do you make a habit of using your sexuality and charm to solve cases all the time? Or is today just an exception? First Heather, now that nurse --”
I flash her the same smile I bestowed upon the nurse. “I was trained to use every tool at my disposal. I can’t help it if women find me irresistible. It warrants an extra touch of sensitivity when dealing with them.”
“You’re so pompous.” She’s right. I am. It’s served me well. Makes for one hell of a poker face when I need it.
I hold the folded piece of paper in my hand up like a trophy. “Ah, but it works every time, Princess. Every. Time.”
Even in the small little heels she’s wearing she’s nowhere near tall enough to take the printed sheet of paper from me, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. She hops up and down, fervently reaching for the bait as I dangle it before her.
“Give it to me!” She squeals.
I’m having too much fun to give up just yet. “What’ll you give me for it?”
She scrunches her nose up as if she’s just tasted something bitter, not liking my innuendo. “Let’s phrase that a little differently. How about what I won’t give you for it. I’ll put on the sexiest little piece of lingerie I can find and watch you drool as you beg to touch, but I won’t let you. You’ll finally have no choice other than to give up and take care of yourself, knowing that you’ll beg again the next night, too.”
