by Clara Stone
I cough, downing the drink in my hand and slamming it on the table before me.
One thing at a time, I tell myself.
“Let’s talk . . .”
THE METAL DETECTOR beeps three times. I back up as the security guard raises his hand to stop me and give him an exasperated look.
“Your wallet, too,” he says, glancing at his partner, who’s watching the monitor of the x-ray machine with a look that screams boredom. Probably not a lot of action to be had at an FBI field office
I roll my eyes, pull out my wallet, and drop it into a container before placing it on the belt. Then I walk through the metal detector again—this time, without incident.
Picking up my stuff, I shove everything back into the appropriate pocket and walk toward the receptionist.
“Good morning, Sin. Looking lovely as always.”
She gives me one of her signature smiles, the one that promises a whole lot of fun in the future. Fun I’ve happily been the recipient of in the past, though interoffice fraternizing is frowned upon. That doesn’t stop any of us newbies from living on the edge, though.
FBI or not, lust has no bounds. Whether it’s the receptionist I nailed my second day in Florida or . . . or Jessica Owens, the girl full of contradictions and tats.
“Good morning, Harr—Agent Lovelly.” Sin successfully brings me back to the moment.
Agent. Right.
I better remember that if I know what’s good for me. “I’m here to see SAC Wilson,” I tell her, clearing my throat and standing straighter.
She nods. “He’s been expecting you.” She checks a note on her desk. “He’s on level three.”
I tap the counter twice. “Thanks.”
“Hey, Agent Lovelly,” Sin calls after me. I stop before I reach the elevator and turn around, my eyebrows raised in question.
“I’d watch myself if I were you. SAC Wilson is pissed.”
“Thanks for the heads up.” I wink as the elevator dings behind me. Then I step inside and take a deep breath as the doors close.
I’ve made my bed, now it’s time to see just how fucked I am.
“Come in,” Wilson’s voice barks as I approach his office. Sin must have alerted him that I was on my way up. She never admits to it, but it’s the only way he can possibly do that every single time—invite me in before I’ve even knocked on the door.
I slowly push it open and put on my best smile. “I still don’t know how you do that, sir.”
He looks at me, his fingers pausing over the keyboard. He looks like he’s aged since the I last saw him, a few days back.
“Do what, Agent Lovelly?” he asks.
“That thing you do.” I wiggle my fingers by my temple. “Know things before they happen, like how you knew I was at the door.”
He gently moves the keyboard out of the way and swivels his chair in my direction, his full—and glowering—attention on me. “If I did, I’d have used that power to kick you out of the academy the day you set foot on campus. You’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass, Lovelly.”
I sober immediately. Sin was right. He’s pissed as hell.
“The only reason you even survived being a NAT is because you showed aptitude for solving issues and leading others. But don’t think that made you any better than the other New Agent Trainees. You’re all a pain in my ass, even after you graduate.” He stands up, comes around his desk and sits on the edge, his hands crossed at the wrists. “Now tell me why the hell you, a probationary agent, would go and fuck up a federal investigation by getting yourself involved without authorization?”
I bring my hands to the back and widen my stance, trying my best to look serious and respectful. “I certainly didn’t know there was an on-going investigation; and it was definitely not intentional, sir.”
“Then tell me how the hell you ended up getting involved with Stamos? Maybe I can still save both of our necks.”
So I tell him the shortened version of the whole story. When he asks me how I knew about the fights, I tell him I received a tip from my “anonymous” informant—Analyst Neil Harris, top of the NIAT class when we graduated and who was adamant about keeping his assistance on the DL—and how one of Stamos’s guys contacted me after I won my last fight.
“One thing led to another, and I ended up sitting across from the man himself,” I finish.
He sighs heavily and stands. “You need to get out and let the senior agents do their thing.”
“But sir, I’ve already done what the previous agents couldn’t. I got a face-to-face with Stamos. Why waste that opportunity? This could be our chance to finally put him away. Think of all the lives we could be saving by getting rid of that scumbag.”
He slaps his hand on the table. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s at stake here. I do. But I can’t let you get more involved.”
“Why the hell not?” I blurt, feeling pissed that he can’t see how much progress I was able to make in just few short weeks. But when I see him look at me, unimpressed by my outburst, I rephrase my question. “Why the heck not, sir?”
“Look, Harrington. I like you and appreciate your enthusiasm. Really, I do.” He sighs, pushing away from the desk. His eyes grow softer. “I know this is about Fisher. I’ve had a close eye on him since he left the academy. And I know you want to help find closure for your friend, but I can’t allow you to move forward with this. You’re personally invested in this case, Lovelly. You need to back off and let the senior agents do their job.”
“I am—”
“Yes, Agent Lovelly, you are. I know Fisher’s ties to this case, and I’m afraid you’ve been emotionally compromised.”
“I’m not compromised.” I narrow my gaze and fight to keep my anger in check. I don’t get emotionally invested in anything. Not the way he means, anyway. “I’m only three months away from becoming a special agent,” I say with utter control. “I’m certain I can do this, sir. And Stamos likes me. A lot. He thinks I’m lively.”
Wilson’s eyebrows shoot up. But before he can voice another round of “You’re done with this case,” his speaker phone buzzes. He presses a button. “Yes, Sin.”
“Sir, the Assistant Director is here to see you. She’s on her way up. And she wants Agent Lovelly present.”
“Thank you, Sin.” He sighs again, exasperated, and turns to me. “Whatever you do, keep your mouth shut and let me deal with this.”
I gesture that my lips are locked and even throw away the key, just as the door swings open and Assistant Director Benson walks in. She’s a short lady in her late fifties, but she can pull off a pencil skirt and heels like she’s in her thirties. Her bun is pulled up in a tight knot and her eyes stay on me as she walks over to stand next to Wilson. “Wilson, Lovelly.”
She looks at me, and I feel like a teenager in the principal’s office under her scrutiny. She shakes her head, but the corners of her lips twitch like she’s trying to hold back a smile. I wonder what she’s up to . . .
“I should’ve kicked you out the moment you started flirting with me, Agent Lovelly.”
I grin widely. “In my defense, ma’am, you didn’t look a day older than thirty. You still don’t.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Flattery doesn’t get you places, Agent.”
I stand a little taller and school my face back into seriousness. “No, ma’am, it doesn’t.” But it sure as hell gets me out of trouble. Whatever she’s here for, it won’t hurt to butter her up a little first.
“And you,” she says, turning to Wilson. “I want him out of there. We already have an agent ready to jump back in on the case.”
“Back in?” I ask, and Wilson shoots me a look. Right, shutting up.
She nods. “Our previous agent was made, so we had to pull him out. But we’re confident this new agent can take his place. His profile is more of a fit with Stamos’s business than the last agent.”
I scoff. Is she for real? Hello! I’m right here. I’m on the in with Stamos. Use me! But befo
re I can utter a single thought, Wilson glares at me. I put my hands up, frowning.
“Actually, ma’am,” Wilson says, keeping an eye on me as I fume quietly on the sidelines, “Lovelly and I were just talking about our current situation before you arrived.”
“Is that so?” Benson leans back on the desk, looking a little bored.
“I’m certainly not trying to encourage his radical behavior, but he does have a point. He’s already gotten Stamos’s attention. I don’t think it’s a good idea to pull him out now,” Wilson says and my heart beats hard in my chest.
He’s actually taking my side on this? I have no words. Truly, no words.
Benson scowls. “Keeping him there won’t do us any good either. He’ll be a wasted resource and potentially threaten the success of any future investigation. Besides, you’ve said it yourself, Agent Lovelly isn’t exactly known to follow orders.”
I flinch. There’s truth to her statement. Fisher was the one who had dreams of becoming an FBI agent. Not me. The only thing I wanted was to break free of the restraints that were holding me back, escape the expectations and judgment of my father.
But Fisher didn’t want to do it alone. And, like so many other times, I joined him, abandoning my law degree midstream and applying to the FBI recruitment program out of fun. I never thought they’d actually accept me. But one thing led to another, and before I could figure out what the hell happened, I was a NAT, moving a few hundred miles away from my family in Georgia and setting up shop in Quantico, Virginia. I wanted to quit several times, but Fisher always managed to change my mind. We both graduated with flying colors, and were assigned to different field offices.
And then, fourteen months later, I suddenly received a call from Fisher telling me that he’d been kicked out for not following protocol. I should have known then that it had something to do with his family, because Fisher always followed rules, while I thrived on bending them.
As if on cue, Wilson says, “You’re absolutely right, ma’am. He’s an uncontrollable variable.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss. Wilson doesn’t see me cringe and continues talking about me like I’m not here.
“But Agent Lovelly did graduate with the Director’s Leadership Award, which speaks highly of his capabilities. He may be a pain in the ass, but he has always proven to be one of our best students.”
Benson doesn’t look impressed. “And, as you know, Wilson, experience in the classroom doesn’t always translate to experience in the field. I’ve known plenty of agents who failed miserably on their first few assignments. And I’m not about to risk the chance to put away someone like Stamos by assigning the case to someone who can’t follow direction.”
“With all due respect, Assistant Director, Agent Lovelly has already achieved what the previous agent couldn’t.” He actually sounds pissed, or maybe it’s losing patience. I can’t tell. “For better or worse, he’s already in position, and I say we use him to take Stamos down once and for all. It’d be foolish not to.”
Assistant Director Benson crosses her arms, thinking on it. Her jaw clenches and unclenches several times.
All this waiting has me coiled up in a bundle of nerves. I grind my teeth so hard, I might have heard a molar pop. Assistant Director Benson stares at me, assessing, and I fidget, shifting my weight from foot to foot.
A few more painful seconds pass before she turns to Wilson and finally, finally, says, “Get him debriefed. Then, if everything checks out, give him a team and arm him with whatever he needs. . . . And make sure Neil Harris is on it. He and Lovelly worked well together at Quantico, if memory serves.” Then she walks over to me and levels a pointed gaze at mine. “Don’t fuck this up, Lovelly.”
“I won’t, ma’am.” I can barely contain my excitement. I can’t believe this worked.
Benson nods once and then leaves. When the door shuts behind me, Wilson smiles. “Well, Lovelly, I guess you got yourself your first undercover assignment.”
I guess I did.
I’M NERVOUS AS hell. Today is my final audition with The Torque, and I couldn’t sleep all night. I think I slept for maybe an hour, two tops, before I gave up and decided to down a whole lot of shots instead. Espresso shots, that is. My brain is wired so tight, I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked like an axe murderer.
Hell, I’ll fit right in, I think as I stare up at the location Tom texted me a few days ago—a barn, of all places. Scene of countless horror movies, ghost stories, and all things creepy. Oh well. Here goes nothing. I rub the goosebumps on my arms as I walk up the steps and around the corner of the huge-ass barn.
I knock on the big red door and wait, patting my thigh in nervous rhythm. Loud talking and sporadic laughter seeps through to the outside, along with the light strumming of an acoustic guitar.
I recognize it as one of their songs, a tune I’ve taken a liking to, and the pattern of my hand changes to match. I jump slightly when the door suddenly opens, having gotten temporarily lost in the music.
“Jessica!” Jarod, the band’s lead singer, grins at me and opens his arms wide. “Welcome home.” His eyes look a bit glassy, and I can’t tell if he’s drunk or high. Or both.
“Thank you,” I reply, eyeing him warily.
“Come here, come here. You’re as good as family now.” He pulls me into a tight hug and I stiffen. I have one huge rule about hugging: I don’t do it. There’s never a need to let my privates get that close to someone if I have no intention of sleeping with them. And I have no plans to sleep with Jarod.
“Ah, yeah,” I say and give him an awkward pat on the back.
“What’s taking so long?” I recognize Tom’s grating tone.
Jarod lets go of the full-body hug, but keeps his arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me into him as he turns. “Look who I found?” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
Tom’s face is the picture of displeased indifference. “About time. Are you always this late?”
“I was here on time,” I want to tell him. But I bite my tongue and smile sweetly instead. If I want to nail this final audition, I probably shouldn’t start it by arguing with the band’s manager.
“What’s your fucking prob, man? She’s right on time.” Jarod laughs, loud and obnoxious. He squeezes my shoulder harder. I wince. Tom narrows his eyes as his gaze flicks to Jarod’s hand.
“All right. All right,” Jarod says, finally letting go of me and clapping his hands together as he walks toward Tom. “Let’s get started, bro.”
He gives Tom a high-five—which Tom grudgingly returns— and then disappears back into the barn.
A muscle in Tom’s jaw clenches. “You heard him. Let’s get this over with.”
If I have any chance of making it, I need to find out why he hates me so much. “Look, Tom—”
He crosses his arms. “Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not in the clear, and if it were up to me, you’d never be. Unfortunately, the guys have the final say, so I’ll just have to live with it. Now, if you can leave your lady hormones and drama at the door, the guys are ready to get started. Got it?”
Then, without another word, he turns around and walks away.
I fight the urge to stomp my foot. Why is he being so mean? It’s like he’s deliberately going the extra mile to show me I’m not welcome. I look back at the exit. I could leave, just put all of this behind me and go back to a life of bartending. There will be other opportunities to drum. Right? I clutch my wrist, running my thumb over the words inscribed there.
Born to drum.
I lived through hell back home, and the only thing that let me feel alive was music. So if I have to endure some band manager’s personal vendetta against me for no apparent reason in order to feel that way again, so be it. Straightening my spine, I shove my insecurities out the door and step toward the future I want.
Joel and Jackson are standing around talking, their electric guitars around their necks as they wait for me to take my place. Jarod is off to the side, lo
cked in some sort of heated conversation with Tom. They fall silent when they spot me, and I can’t help but think they were talking about me. Tom turns away abruptly, walking toward the sofa to the left as Jarod makes his way to the center of the barn, where the equipment is set up.
He claps his hands and everyone’s attention goes to him. “All right, boys, let’s see if we have our last bandmate.”
“Hey!” Joel says, the same time Jackson says, “Glad you made it.”
And suddenly, I take a liking to them. I grin, feeling my nerves fade a little at their warm welcome. As I make my way over to the drum set, I notice Tom is sitting on the arm of the couch, and realize there’s someone else in the room. I pause, taking in the sight.
A large guy is passed out on the cushions, taking up the whole of the couch, a bunch of empty chip bags, candy wrappers, and beer bottles littering the floor under his loosely hanging arm. A half-used homemade cigarette rests precariously between his index and middle finger.
Jarod notices my hesitation and turns to follow my gaze. “Oh, that’s just Tony,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about him. He swings by now and then to hook us up with stuff, if you know what I mean.” He winks and walks over to take his place behind the mic.
I grew up with a mother who used drugs and alcohol as easily as air and water, so I definitely know a thing or two about what he’s referring to. I look again at the big lump on the couch. He looks so familiar, like I’ve seen him somewhere but can’t clearly put my finger on it.
I swallow the uneasiness forming a rock-sized lump in my throat and tear my gaze away. I glance quickly at Tom, who now has his laptop drawn over him as he clicks and types away, and then continue over to the drum set.
I feel a sort of thrill come alive in my blood as I look at the most gorgeous set of drums I’ve ever laid eyes on. Black, swirled with a blood red color on the sides. I run my hand over the crash cymbal, feeling the cool metal against my skin, before going to the snare drum. Not even Heaven can compare to the kind of emotions that rage inside me as I take a seat.
