AVERY
Iwalk.
Away from her.
I knew I was right about what effect I have on her.
What I didn’t anticipate was the reaction she had to me.
I brush over my lips.
I haven’t kissed anyone since—
My head twitches slightly, and I roll my shoulders back to remove the sensation that tries to arise in me.
You gotta focus on what matters, I tell myself in my mind.
Shaw asking me to look into the Fullerton was the best thing that could have happened in a long time. That heist had been done by his ex-wife, Susie. She is a friend of mine.
Well, rather an acquaintance. I don’t have friends. I have Rossi, whom I declare as family, and then there are people I know but don’t trust because they’re as tricky as I am.
Unfortunately, Susie didn’t get to the most important thing in her ex-husband’s collection. A husband she only got because she wanted to access his collection and the circles he was in.
What she was after, amongst everyone else I know, is a golden bracelet from Cleopatra herself.
The very bracelet that now swings softly back and forth in my jacket pocket with every step I take, knowing that it’ll never land with anyone. Because Benjamin Fullerton told the authorities and the insurance company that Susie stole it, even though it was in his possession the entire time.
Now, it is gone.
And he can’t report anything, because he already got the insurance money.
I walk along 5th Avenue, all the way down. I pass Central Park, Bergdorf Goodman, and the Empire State Building until I reach Washington Square Park.
Do my feet hurt because I am always in High Heels? Yes. But I need to get my mind off everything that just happened.
While I provoked her to do it, I never thought she would. And when her lips touched mine, there was this moment where I felt desire.
I wanted her to do it.
And that fact frightens me.
It’s almost six in the morning when I reach my studio and fall into my bed with throbbing feet after I stored the golden bracelet in my vault. Just in case anyone comes looking—Shaw as much as other intruders.
Then, I fall into my bed to catch at least three hours of sleep.
I never have issues sleeping.
Today, however, I do.
I stare at the ceiling.
And while I am phenomenally good at directing my thoughts, they are like a herd of wild horses today.
After an hour, I get up, slip into my running clothes, bandage my throbbing feet, put on my running shoes, and get outside. If I can’t sleep, I can at least keep her from sleeping too.
So I run.
Fast.
She’ll go mad when she sees it, I think to myself.
I run from Downtown, over the Brooklyn Bridge, along the piers, back over the Manhattan Bridge, passing Chinatown, and end my run in Rockefeller Park after six miles of pure rage running with a burning chest and a head that’s radiating so much heat that it looks like I am fuming.
It’s rather cold this morning for October, with temperatures in the 40s.
I lean against the railing with my back to the Hudson River and look at the city, the sun lurking behind the buildings on the horizon underneath the clouds, dipping the city into a beautiful reddish-orange glow.
I enjoy the view for a moment, then walk back to my studio and grab a coffee on my way there at one of my favorite places around the corner.
My current Rossi-burner rings the moment I enter my studio.
“You have been active tonight,” Rossi says.
“Nosy prick,” I tell him as I close the door behind me with my foot.
“Did it work as planned?”
“Will you ever stop asking me? You know it did; otherwise I wouldn’t be running for fun.”
“You know what I really want,” he says, “Spill the tea.”
“There’s no tea,” I say.
“You call that kiss no tea?” he asks incredulously. I can literally hear him roll his eyes from his tone alone.
“Rossi,” I say sternly as I place the empty coffee cup into the waste bin in the kitchen I never use, because I don’t cook, nor do I have friends over other than Rossi, and Rossi only drinks wine. “I did what I had to do to get her off my back.”
“So the excruciating ordeal of running for an hour has nothing to do with that kiss?”
“Nothing,” I say coldly.
“Liar,” says Rossi.
“Professional one,” I retort. He sniggers, and I join him.
“And here I was, thinking you’d finally move on.”
My body becomes rigid, and I fall silent.
“Too early?” he asks.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I say and hang up.
I throw the phone onto my bed, remove my clothes, drop them on the floor where I stand, and get into the shower.
Two hours later, I walk into Federal Plaza through the front entrance, using my own card with an envelope in my hand.
Glorious, I think to myself. They gave a conwoman a card.
“Good morning,” I say when I walk into Shaw’s office without knocking, pretending nothing has happened.
She eyes me with dark circles under her eyes.
“You should use some eyepads,” I tell her as I place myself on a chair opposite her desk. “Helps with the puffy eyes from sleep deprivation.”
“Are you always this nice?” she snaps at me.
“I’m not nice,” I say. “Why would I? Nice brings you nowhere. Being what others consider an asshole, however, does. It makes you memorable, and I sleep quite well knowing others are losing sleep over me.”
Her deep breath tells me how much I vex her.
“I hope you choke on your arrogance one day,” she says.
“Mhhhmm,” I say and grin devilishly. “I love to be choked.”
It was the one thing too much.
“OUT!” she shouts at me as she jumps up, and small drops of spit fly all the way to me. She shouts so loud that the other people in the bullpen open-plan look at us.
“I don’t want to see your face, hear your voice, or be around your lying ass. Get the fuck out of my office and get lost where I don’t have to see you!”
I place myself complacently in the chair as I don’t do what she says.
“Breathe and sit down,” I tell her. “Losing control like this doesn’t help with the whole respect thing.”
She opens her mouth, looks at me as reproachfully as someone can, and closes her mouth again and sits down, her arms on the table, hands as fists.
“Where is the camera in my apartment?” she asks through gritted teeth, in a hissing tone so the colleagues can’t hear it.
“There aren’t any,” I say.
“I know there are!” she says with a rising voice. “You knew I searched for it last night.”
“I know, because you’re you. You’re a neurotic control freak who assumed the second I knew something about you, that I bugged your apartment, instead of thinking about all the other possibilities of how I could know things about you.”
“Oh yeah,” she snaps at me. “What possibilities? The tooth fairy whispered them to you at night?”
I snigger.
“Not the tooth fairy, no,” I say.
Her eyes narrow, and if looks could kill, I’d certainly drop dead.
While I do like to get on her very last nerve, I also understand when I have stretched things too much.
“When you took over my case…s…I followed you. Watched you. Studied you. Learned your routines,” I say.
“You buy your books at McNally, eat your bagels with cream cheese instead of butter, you hate tomatoes, and love avocado.
Coffee is always black; you are allergic to cow's milk but not to cheese. Your favorite book is Ways of Seeing by John Berger,” I say causally and add.
“Oh, and you train glutes wrong, open the legs more, and they will finally grow.”
The way she looks at me goes from murder to complete disbelief to rage to realization.
“You have been following me the entire time?”
“In extension, yes,” I say without thinking.
“What do you mean by extension?”
Shit, I should’ve shut my mouth.
I’m revealing too much.
“Can you think of nothing?”
She thinks for a second.
“Rossi,” she finally says, and I nod.
“Don’t even try,” I tell her. “You won’t find him; others have tried and failed.”
“But I am the FBI!”
“I am aware, and I can safely say that it doesn’t change a thing,” I say and add, “Now that we have been able to clear that up, I brought you something,” as I hand her the envelope.
She growls.
Things aren’t resolved for her at all. I can see it in her eyes; she is going to try and find Rossi, if it is the last thing she’ll do.
She is like a Doberman that doesn’t let go of its prey; at least she pretends to.
Because deep down in her heart, she is a Golden Retriever that dresses up as a Doberman so she doesn’t get hurt.
“What’s that?” she says as she opens the envelope and pulls out the photos and plans from inside.
“How Susie did it,” I say.
“How did you get that?” she asks incredulously.
“I helped her smuggle the pieces from her husband’s, well, ex-husbands’ collection.”
“Of course you did,” she says in a much too high voice as she skims through the picture.
“So you did a job with her, and now you’re selling her out,” she says when she is done.
“I am,” I say.
“Do you ever look in the mirror and feel bad for what you do to others?”
“No, why would I?” I say carelessly. “Our deal was that I would help her get the stuff out of the country; we didn’t agree on anything about what happens after the job. You wanted information; I have it.”
She sighs and puts the photos down.
“So you’re gonna rat me out for the right price, too?” she asks, and I finally understand where she’s driving the conversation.
“Not everything is a game to me,” I say.
“Hard to believe, when all that comes out of your mouth are non-answers, lies, and manipulations.”
I don’t know what it is, but a strangely hollow sensation appears in my chest.
I don’t break the gaze into her eyes, although I want to. I want to remove myself from the situation, but I can’t have her know that her words touched me.
I have this desire to punish her for seeing me, for calling me out.
“Did it ever occur to you that all of it might be a way for me to protect myself?” I say with a hardened voice. “Because yes, I am that arrogant. I don’t care what happens to Susie. Call me selfish, I don’t care. Please do, because my time on earth is much too valuable to be anyone’s bitch.”
With that, I get up and leave, even if I don’t want to give her the win. But I need a beat for myself.