Chapter 8
EIGHT
I'll pass on the salsa
REED
Andrews rhythmically taps his ring finger on the steering wheel, the metal clicking along in time with the song.
Tap, tap, tap.
If he knew how close to losing a hand he was, he’d stop. Perhaps I should warn him.
He cocks an accusatory brow at me. “You know what I just realized about you?”
I don’t answer, not wanting to engage in more of his pointless chit-chat. Unfortunately, he either doesn’t get the hint or doesn’t care.
Tap, tap, tap.
“I’ve never seen you smile. And I’ve never seen you drink coffee. Coincidence?”
I roll my eyes. “Ha.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“I’m just saying, you might be less grumpy if you were properly caffeinated.”
“No thanks.”
“It’s worth a try. I mean, it’s not like you could get crustier than you already are.”
“Only the weak need vices to survive. I’ll stick to water.”
“Wow. That was extra pompous. Even for you, which is saying something.”
Hard to believe I was once thrilled to be assigned to the Violent Crimes unit with him as my mentor.
About two months ago, I got called up from my grunt assignment in the white-collar division and put on the dream team.
Since I’ve only been at the FBI for a little over a year, Andrews was assigned to help me settle in.
He might be a knowledgeable agent who’s taught me quite a bit, but he’s nosy as hell.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told him that I don’t discuss my private life. He keeps trying to offer fatherly advice and butt in where he isn’t wanted. I think he misunderstood his task as a mentor. He’s supposed to be a trainer, not a fucking life coach.
He shakes his head at me and clicks his tongue. “Did you reply to my friend yet?”
Propping my elbow at the base of the passenger window, I make a point of looking out my side of the car. Away from him.
Under my breath, I mutter, “None of your business, Andrews.”
He grunts, which I hope is a sign that he’s getting tired of trying to talk to me about this shit. “So you honestly have no interest in meeting your biological brother?”
Fucking hell. Turns out, his grunt was not a sign of forthcoming silence.
Sadly.
“None at all.” My jaw aches from the prolonged clenching. “And for the last time, I don’t want to talk about it with you.”
Or with anyone.
My family is not a topic worth discussing. And I have no plans of changing my position on the matter.
Tap, tap, tap.
I cast a sharp glare at the source of the offending sound, and my teeth scrape together as my frustration reaches new heights. After rolling out my shoulders, I readjust the knot on my necktie.
Fortunately, the light turns green. The sooner we get there, the sooner I can get out of this confined space and away from his incessant needling.
“Look, Reed, I know it’s none of my business. But I—”
“If you know it’s none of your business, why are you still talking?”
“This is a lonely job, kid. Long hours, constant stress, and worries that will control your life if you let them.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I quip with a hearty eye roll. “They should have you writing the recruitment pamphlets for the bureau with gems of wisdom like this.”
“I’m only trying to help. What do you think life will be like in fifteen years if you keep pushing away people who want to help you?”
“Hopefully quieter,” I retort, the words masking a frustrated growl.
Ironically, that sounds very similar to something I texted Lila the other night after she felt me up and stole my keys. She is quite good at pushing people away too. One of the many things we have in common.
Fucking Lila. Still can’t believe she did that.
I was tempted to wait at her apartment until she returned. But as soon as I found my keys, I left with my head hung in shame. Nothing like getting outsmarted and played by a femme fatale to check your ego.
You know what? Fuck Lila. If she got herself in trouble, that’s too damn bad. I gave her a chance, and she didn’t take it.
She’s on her own.
Kenzie finally texted me the next day, claiming she was fine. Then she asked me to stop hounding her friends.
Whatever. Fuck her too.
Our team was assigned a big case this morning, so I’ll let that shit with Lila fizzle.
For now.
Still not done with his lecture, Andrews recaptures my wayward thoughts.
“Trust me on this, kid. If you don’t have family or friends, you don’t have anything.
Do yourself a favor and spend less time worrying about work and find some balance in your life.
You’ll be glad you did when you get to my age and have something to look forward to in retirement. ”
“If you’re auditioning for the role of my father, I’m sorry to tell you I won’t be filling the position.”
Every other parental figure I’ve had—by blood or by paper—has been a colossal fucking disappointment. I’m better off without one. Period.
He gives me a morose chuckle. “I already have a pain-in-the-ass kid, Reed. I don’t need another one.
I’m merely sharing some of what I’ve learned in my long and glorious life.
In the weeks we’ve been working together, it’s become clear you’ll be a great agent.
It’s everything else you need to work on.
I’d be remiss if I ended our training time without giving you some perspective on the importance of things outside of our nine-to-five. ”
I’m torn between feeling a twinge of pride at his appraisal of my work and fiery shards of annoyance at the rest of his commentary.
“Let’s just keep our conversations about the job, okay? I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not in the market for a friend or a father figure. I’m focused on my career. That’s it.”
“And that’s exactly my point.”
He lets that hang between us like it’s some profound statement. Newsflash, it isn’t.
A few moments later, he says, “I’ll be playing poker with Alan Lancaster again this weekend. Should I tell him anything for you? Ask him to pass a message to your brother?”
Why the fuck would I want him to do that?
I miss who I was before this car ride.
Refusing to be baited into this discussion, I remain silent. In my periphery, I notice him continuously glancing my way. He can look at me all he wants, but he’s not getting a fucking answer.
I don’t want to talk about Alan Lancaster. And I damn sure don’t want to discuss the mutual connection I have with him—my bio brother.
After weeks of Andrews badgering me to join him for his standing poker night, I finally caved. Since it was a friendly game and not high-stakes gambling, I figured it would be a good test of my resolve. More exposure therapy.
Then I walked in, and Lancaster thought I was my brother, Perry. Yeah, we look alike. Happens when you share a womb.
Needless to say, I left without touching the cards, which was probably for the best.
Andrews prattles on some more. “I met him, you know? Your brother. Goes by the name Sawyer. Not Perry.”
Don’t care. Don’t fucking care.
He continues his one-sided conversation. One I’m unable to avoid eavesdropping on due to my shitty luck of being stuck in a car with him for another five minutes. “Nice guy. Funny as hell. Way more personable than you. Clearly, he got all the charisma in the family.”
This is maddening. Why is it that people can close their eyes if they don’t want to see something, but closing their ears isn’t possible? Flaw in our design.
“Speaking of family, he became a father recently.”
To drown him out, I turn up the radio. I only hope he doesn’t tap louder with that fucking ring finger on the wheel.
“Twins. You believe that? What are the odds, huh?”
Still don’t care.
“He’s got a beautiful wife. He showed me pictures of her and the babies. He was never adopted. Aged out of foster care. Did you know that?”
Yes. Don’t fucking care, though.
“Yep, he’s done quite well for himself. Lots of friends.
Owns a nice house. He’s a bodyguard at Redleg Security.
That’s my buddy Big Al’s company. Not sure if I mentioned that before.
Well, Al’s retired, but he still owns Redleg.
Before that, they served together in the Army.
He’s known your brother for many years. Nothing but good things to say about him. ”
How nice for them. Don’t recall asking, though.
Andrews prattles on without taking a breath.
“You’d probably like him if you gave him a chance.
No offense, but your brother has way nicer skin than you do.
I’m surprised you’re twins. I mean, you look the same, but he’s clearly taken better care of himself.
Perhaps he could teach you a few things. ”
That does it. Not because I’m vain—I’m not.
But because I can’t stand this shit for another second longer. It’s like trying to sleep in the middle of a drum line rehearsal.
My inside thoughts come out in a barely restrained roar. “Read my lips, Andrews. I don’t fucking care. I. Do. Not. Care. Not one fucking bit. How else can I spell it out for you? Do you need to hear it in French? Should I tattoo it across my forehead?”
“Easy, kid. I just—” he starts.
“I don’t care about my brother, his lovely family, or his job.
I don’t care that he’s a father. Or that his wife is beautiful.
She could be a model or a freaking blow-up doll, and I still wouldn’t care.
He could have twins, triplets, or a herd of goats, and guess what .
. . I still wouldn’t care. No, I don’t want to meet him.
No, I don’t want to talk to him. And no, I don’t give a fuck to learn about his life or tell him about mine. Not. Interested. So shut the hell up.”
“So that’s a no on sending him a message, then?”
“It’s a big fucking no. Keep your dick out of my salsa.”
Dammit. Now I’m thinking about Lila again since that quip was straight out of her playbook. Only she wouldn’t have said dick. She’d probably say willy. I hate that I like that almost as much as I hate how she’s never more than a single thought away.