Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC)

by Colleen Masters

  “It’s alright. Agent Jones’ office will do just fine,” he replies. “I’ve already confirmed as much with him.”

  “Chuck knew you were coming?” I ask, trailing Mitchell inside.

  “Sure,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “didn’t he mention it to you?”

  “Like I said, unique sense of humor,” I grumble.

  Plenty of heads turn my way now that a high-ranking agent accompanies me. Looks of suspicion and jealousy cloud the faces of my mostly male coworkers. Many of them still haven’t gotten used to my presence in the office, especially since I found my sea legs and started doing well. For all its diversity initiatives, the FBI is still something of a boys’ club. But I’m not going to let their insecurities bother me today. It would seem I’ve got more important things to worry about.

  Chuck appears in the doorway of his office, beckoning us in to join him. “Get in here, Mitchell,” he barks good-naturally. “Good to see you again, sir.”

  “And you, Jones,” Mitchell replies, clapping Chuck on the shoulder.

  “Thanks for the heads up, Jones,” I mutter, closing the door behind me.

  “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Chuck grins, winking theatrically at me.

  “Have a seat, Quinn,” Mitchell says, as he and Chuck settle into their places. I perch on the edge of the unforgiving foam chair, anxious to know what’s behind this surprise meeting. “First of all,” he begins, lacing his fingers over his knee, “let me congratulate you on completing your first two years here at the Bureau. From what I understand, it’s been a very successful time, indeed.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I smile, looking back and forth between Chuck and Mitchell.

  “Oh, don’t be modest,” Chuck says. “It’s not as endearing as your finishing school teachers would have you believe. You’ve been kicking ass here, Collins. Best addition to the cyber division I’ve seen come out of Quantico in years.”

  “You feeling OK, Jones?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at my surly mentor. “Outright praise isn’t exactly your thing.”

  “Just ‘cause I’m not made of rainbows and butterscotch, doesn’t mean I’m not proud of everything you’ve done here,” Chuck says, granting me a rare, sincere smile.

  “Well, thanks. But I started at the FBI Academy with a bit of an advantage, technology-wise,” I allow. “I got my BA—”

  “In computer science and journalism from Pace University,” Mitchell rattles off from memory, baffling me further. “It’s not the most typical background for an FBI agent, I’ll admit, but extremely useful all the same. And you proved yourself a physical force to be reckoned with at Quantico.”

  I allow myself a smug smile, remembering how shocked my fellow FBI trainees had been at the Academy when I was able to outrun them all, not to mention beat many of them in a good old fashioned arm wrestle. I may be small, but I’ve been using exercise as a natural antidepressant since I was fifteen. When it comes to physical stamina, I can certainly keep up with the boys.

  “Let me cut to the chase, Quinn,” Mitchell goes on, leaning toward me in his chair. “I’ve got a tricky case underway in Las Vegas, and you’re perfectly suited to work on it. This opportunity is practically tailor made for your expertise.”

  I stare back at the senior agent, floored by his confidence in me. I’m good at my job, sure, but there are plenty of other cyber-savvy agents working in the FBI. He’s probably got ten of me at the Las Vegas field office alone. What makes me so special that Mitchell would come all this way to recruit me?

  “You’re wondering why I’m asking you, specifically, to come on board here, right?” Mitchell smiles.

  “That I am,” I reply. “There must be other agents—”

  “None as perfect for this job as you are,” he cuts me off. “This is a one-of-a-kind assignment, a chance for you to distinguish yourself. You must be dying for a new challenge, after two years stuck behind a desk.”

  “I really am,” I admit. “Not that I don’t enjoy my work—”

  “Save it,” Chuck says. “We’re not going to report you for being a little bored. You need to take this assignment, Quinn. You’ll be happier working from the Vegas field office.”

  “Trying to get rid of me, Jones?” I tease.

  “Since the day you got here,” he winks. “Come on, Collins. You’re destined for bigger things than that cubicle of yours can hold.”

  “This sounds like an amazing opportunity,” I say to Mitchell, “but can you tell me a little bit about the case?”

  “There’ll be plenty of time to discuss the details after you’ve transferred to Nevada,” he replies. “We’ll get you set up with an apartment, introduce you to the other agents—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupt him, “a transfer is no small thing. California has been my home for two years. My whole life is here now.”

  “Collins, what life? You practically sleep here,” Chuck quips.

  “Is there any time for me to think this over?” I go on, ignoring his all-too-true jibe.

  “You can think all you like,” Mitchell replies, “but I’m sure you know that the FBI has the authority to transfer agents at any time, regardless of their preferences?”

  “Right, of course,” I say, “I was just hoping to talk this over with someone first.”

  “Not that sad sack boyfriend of yours?” Chuck groans, rolling his eyes. “Do yourself a favor, Quinn, and take this chance to leave his sorry ass in the dust.”

  “Gee, Chuck,” I drawl, “tell me how you really feel.”

  “Your options, Quinn, are to transfer or leave the Bureau,” Mitchell says shortly. “I’m sure your, uh, boyfriend will understand the importance of this opportunity.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” I mumble. My boyfriend, Milo Beckett, is many things. Brilliant, cultured, well-off, stubborn, and mightily arrogant for someone so physically slight. But understanding, he is not.

  “Why don’t you head home a little early and think this over?” Mitchell suggests, standing to see me out. “Call me this evening when you’ve made your decision.”

  “Will do,” I say, shaking his hand once more. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Trust me,” he says, meeting my gaze with pointed interest, “the pleasure is all mine.”

  Chuck walks me to the door of his office. He leans close as I skirt across the threshold and hisses, “don’t you dare blow this, Collins.”

  I shoot him an exasperated look and hurry across the buzzing office. Dozens of eyes follow my exit. The entire office is wondering what a senior FBI agent could possibly want to talk to me about—little old me, with my nerdy education and rosy cheeks. If only these guys knew what I was being tapped for. If only I knew any details about this mysterious opportunity Mitchell’s offered—or rather insisted, that I take.

  Forget cupcakes, I think to myself, I need a beer and a burger to think this one through.

  Chapter Two

  I drag the thick-cut French fry through the pool of ketchup on my plate and happily pop it into my mouth. Glancing around the midcentury-style diner, my eyes alight on the sunburst clock on the wall. It’s nearly eight o’clock, which means that Milo is almost an hour late. In the early days of our on-again, off-again courtship, I would have tried to convince myself that his chronic flakiness didn’t bother me so much. But after the better part of a year, I no longer do. The dude is always blowing me off, and it’s getting old.

  As if sensing my displeasure from afar, Milo finally pulls up and parks his hybrid car outside the diner. I can see his nose wrinkle in distaste as he steps out into the fading sunlight. He’s not exactly a burger-and-fries kind of guy, and it shows. As tiny as I am, my sometimes-boyfriend is even tinier. He’s got a few inches on me, but his hips are certainly more narrow than mine. He is cute though, in a geeky sort of way. He’s all graphic tees, skinny jeans, and impeccable taste in bands no one’s ever heard of. Milo’s the kind of guy I’ve always ended up with: nonthreatening, brainy, a
nd more than a little condescending. In other words, someone I could beat in a push up contest with one hand tied behind my back.

  Milo works in Silicon Valley, making way too much money for his own good. He’s been trying to persuade me to ditch the FBI and come work for his creative agency ever since I moved to California. I can’t seem to make him understand that developing apps and branding websites would be the furthest thing from fulfilling for me. He’s been known to call my job at the Bureau “grunt work,” often when we’re in front of his pretentious, tech-sector friends. We’re not exactly the perfect pair, but we’ve known each other since our undergrad days at Pace, and he’s the only person I really know in LA. Like it or not, he’s all I’ve got out here, or anywhere, for that matter.

  I grew up on the other side of the country, in a little town outside of Allentown, Pennsylvania. It was just my parents, my little brother Brandon and I on a few acres of wooded land. The time I spent roaming around the woods with Brandon—shooting soda cans with our BB guns and climbing trees all the way to their flimsy top branches—was wonderful. But the hours we spent at home with our unhappily married, dismissive parents? Not so much. They drank, they fought, and they basically ignored us. But at least we had each other.

  Brandon and I were best friends. He was only a year younger than me, with the same red hair, slight build, and blue eyes. People always assumed that we were twins, and we may as well have been. Our school was tiny, and there weren’t many other kids who lived close enough to play with, but I hardly minded. I got to spend my childhood scraping up my knees and learning to spit instead of fussing with makeup and fretting over boys. I never had any close girlfriends. Still don’t. But that continued lack of sisterhood is the only thing that bums me out about having been attached to my brother at the hip. Especially given what happened when we grew up and left home.

  We both escaped our toxic parents and went to college in big cities. I left for New York to study at Pace, and Brandon headed for Philly to attend Temple University. It was there that he lost his life to a stray bullet, loosed during a shootout between cops and local gang members. He was a junior when it happened. Twenty-one years old. I was picking up my graduation cap and gown when my mother called to bluntly tell me the news. I haven’t spoken to my parents much since the memorial service, to which they both showed up belligerently drunk. Not that I imagine they’ve noticed.

  “I don’t know why you insist on putting that crap into your body,” Milo says crisply, yanking my mind back to the present as he slides into the booth across from me.

  “‘This ‘crap’ is delicious,” I remind him, taking a deep swig from my beer bottle. “Hello to you too, by the way.”

  “If by delicious you mean processed, loaded with salt, and bound to kill you someday,” Milo shoots back, skeptically flipping through the menu while ignoring my greeting.

  “We’ve all got to go someday, Beckett,” I growl, doing my best hard-boiled cop impression, “and no amount of spelt flour or free-trade, organic kale is going to change that.”

  “Your wit never fails to astound me,” Milo mutters, shaking his head. “Is there anything they serve here that isn’t beer-battered?”

  “God, I hope not,” I reply brightly.

  “I’ll have to pass, then. Tempted though I am,” he says, nudging the menu away as if it were diseased and crossing his skinny arms.

  “It’s almost eight,” I observe, picking at the remains of my cheeseburger bun, long since devoured while I waited for Milo to arrive.

  “Couldn’t get here any sooner,” he shrugs. “Important meeting with a client.”

  “Aren’t you surgically attached to your iPhone by now?” I ask, choosing not to point out that most of his clients are frivolous corporations with all the time in the world to kill. Saving lives, arresting child pornographers, quashing domestic terrorism—that’s my idea of important. “Just shoot me a text if you’re going to be late so I don’t—”

  “Did you really drag me here to berate me about my texting habits?” he snaps, rubbing his red eyes under the thick-rimmed glasses that obscure his face.

  “I’m not berating you. And no, as a matter of fact,” I reply, refusing to let his attitude bring me down, “something happened at work today that I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “We were scheduled for a coffee date tomorrow. This couldn’t have waited?” he asks.

  “We’re dating, Milo,” I remind him. “I didn’t realize I needed to pencil in my interactions with you.”

  “You know how busy I am, Quinn,” he says testily.

  “Then I’ll make this real quick,” I tell him, leaning my elbows on the checkered tablecloth. “I’m being assigned to a new case.”

  “OK.”

  “In Las Vegas.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which means I’m going to be transferred to a new field office. In Nevada,” I spell it out for him.

  Milo blinks his big, watery eyes at me, his entire demeanor transforming in an instant.

  “Transferred?” he repeats, the fight entirely gone from his voice. “As in, away from LA?”

  “That is what transferred means, yes,” I confirm.

  “But...What about me?” he croaks.

  “Thanks, babe. This is a great opportunity, and it’s quite an honor to be singled out for my awesome work,” I say sarcastically. Of course the first thing he thinks about upon hearing my good news is himself. Not me. Not us. Himself.

  “The FBI can’t just ship you off wherever they like,” Milo insists, ignoring me.

  “They can, actually.”

  “Well then...tell them you quit. You can come work at my agency—”

  “Why would I do that? I love my job,” I remind him for the thousandth time. “I want to work this case, Milo.”

  “So you’re just going to pack up and leave me for the sake of your job?” Milo scoffs.

  “Would you have noticed I’d gone if I hadn’t announced it to you first?” I shoot back.

  “You know full well that there are hundreds of other agents who could do your job,” Milo says meanly. “You’re endlessly expendable there, Quinn. You’re a worker bee. You’re not special. I don’t know why you’re bending over backward for these people.”

  “Actually, the special agent in charge of the Las Vegas field office personally recruited me to—”

  “Oh, please,” he laughs, “that’s how they keep you feeling wanted, Quinn. Are you really too naive to understand that? You’re totally brainwashed, and you can’t even see it. I won’t allow this transfer to happen.”

  “You won’t...allow it?” I say flatly, staring at the man-child across the table.

  “That’s right,” he sniffs.

  “Milo...are you under the impression that I give a single shit about what you will and will not allow?” I ask evenly.

  “I’m your boyfriend,” he whines, “I get a say in what you do.”

  “Two corrections there, sweetie,” I reply. “One, you don’t get a say in anything I do. And two, you were my boyfriend.”

  “What?!” he cries, reaching for my hand as I stand to go. “You’re breaking up with me because of one stupid fight?”

  “Not at all,” I say, amazed by how little his antics move me, “I’m breaking up with you because you are a pedantic, superior, mean-spirited little man who has never once supported me. You are constantly trying to make me feel stupid and unimportant, we share none of the same values or aspirations, and—” I lean in close and lower my voice, “—the sex is pretty mediocre.”

  I turn on my heel and march out of the diner as Milo’s jaw hits the tabletop. This breakup isn’t our first, but I know in my gut that it will be our last. I’ve been too afraid to stray from Milo’s company, because doing so would mean totally cutting myself off from my past. But I finally feel brave enough to do just that. Chuck is right. My life here is no life at all. I’ve got no friends of my own, no family. Absolutely no strings.

  Peelin
g away from the diner in my beloved black Mustang, I feel lighter than I have in years. More hopeful than I’ve been since Brandon passed away. I can feel my entire life swiveling to reorient itself around this wild new path that’s unfurling before me.

  “I guess I’m Vegas bound,” I smile to myself, setting off into the gathering twilight en route to Sin City.

  Chapter Three

  Mitchell is pleased, but unsurprised, when I call to accept the job.

  “I knew you were too bright to pass this up,” he says over the line. “Take the weekend to tie up loose ends in California, we’ve already got your housing taken care of. Report to the Las Vegas field office on Monday. Welcome to the team, Agent Collins, I’m glad to have you.”

  Saying goodbye to Los Angeles is more sweet than bitter. With Milo out of the picture, and no friends to speak of that weren’t his first, the only person I want to bid farewell to is Chuck. And he’s not exactly one for sentimental reminiscing. He agrees to have a beer with me the night before my departure, at least. We meet up at a dusty, old-man bar in San Bernardino, one of the joints frequented by the guys in our office. It’s practically deserted on this Sunday night, leaving the two of us to drink our beers alone at the sticky bar.

  “Any words of wisdom, before I ship out?” I ask.

  “Don’t get shot,” he suggests, knocking back the last of his Budweiser.

  “Your insight is invaluable,” I smile. “I’ll miss that charming bark of yours.”

  “In all seriousness,” Chuck goes on, leveling his no-nonsense gaze at me, “there may be some elements of this case that throw you. It won’t be like anything you’ve done before. There are going to be times when you’re unsure, or overwhelmed. Just remember to trust your gut. Your head and heart will lie, but your gut won’t let you down.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I say, staring pointedly at Chuck’s impressive beer belly.

  “Ha-fucking-ha,” Chuck mumbles, “I’m just saying take care of yourself.”