I would cave and drop it if it weren’t for Petrov. He’s the only reason I’m here, and if Harrison knew why, he’d stop trying to push me off the case, because he’d know there’s no way I’m ever backing down. But none of them know; I don’t want them to. I can’t let them know this is personal.
Jerry gives me a tight smile, and I can see a faint glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m standing next to this asshole and I don’t have a choice, or if it’s because he thinks I won’t make it.
I’m petite, I like the color pink, especially hot pink, and I’d rather smile and joke around than brood over something stupid. Or I used to, anyway. Now it seems like all I do is get pissed off. But that’s an exception. It’s because I’m forced to deal with an ass all day.
All of those girly touches I love so much make me seem young and naive. Everyone looks at me like I don’t belong, and maybe they’re right. Maybe I learned to like all of that girly stuff because it softened me up some. Maybe I just wanted to copy my sweet-as-sugar sister. I don’t know. I’m a tough girl, but I’m still a girl. I don’t understand why people don’t think I can be both, like they're mutually exclusive or something. Instead I’m judged and shunned, no matter how many times I prove I have what it takes.
I stopped wearing anything remotely fashionable to the social gatherings. Even though I have palettes upon palettes of eyeshadow, I keep my makeup simple, or I just don’t wear makeup at all. I don’t wear any jewelry or get my nails done anymore. I have to wear my hair up in a ponytail or a bun. When it’s down I look way too feminine. I do everything I can to look like I fit in, because apparently that’s a requirement here. It doesn’t matter that I graduated at the top of my class back at the academy. A girly girl can’t survive here. Or so they say behind my back.
The problem is that they don’t see my confidence and passion for what it is. My personality's misconstrued because of how I look. I’m a bad ass bitch when I need to be, but I don’t want to come off that way all the time. I haven’t proven myself to be strong in their eyes.
I’m pushing the bad bitch to the surface and repressing every other part of me. All that’s left after getting rid of the frilly shit I love is just a tough girl trying to fit in, so I can do what I came here to do. But I’m failing, and that fucking sucks, because I don’t fail at anything, and this is the only thing that matters anymore. I have to work twice as hard, to be considered half as good.
When I hear the guys talking shit about being tough, all I can think is that they're talking about tough actions, not appearances or words. Maybe they're just trying to convince themselves that a petite woman with a penchant for pink couldn’t kick their asses. I’m happy to prove them wrong though.
A part of me wants to prove them wrong. I want to show them I’m a bad ass bitch when I need to be. But another part of me is tired of fighting their prejudice. I didn’t come here to win their approval. They can talk shit about me. They can assume I’m going to fail. I don’t give a fuck. All I need is to be on this case. It’s the only reason I put up with this shit.
It hurts though. I’m woman enough to admit it. I want companionship. I want to feel like I belong. But right now, I have no one. I try to call my mom every once in awhile, but that’s just depressing as hell. I’m most concerned with the fact that I don’t know what happiness is anymore. I don’t know what I expected. But this isn’t it. I was so shortsighted with wanting to get here that I didn’t think things through all the way.
The reality is a swift kick in the ass.
Harrison pushes past me just as I get to the door to the interrogation room. Fucker holds it open for me though, like he’s a gentleman. I give him a tight smile and walk in first.
I almost stop when I see the hulking man in the metal chair. An air of power surrounds him. His hands are clasped in front of him and they're resting on the table. He doesn’t bother to look up at us. His dark, thick hair is longer on top than it is on the sides, just long enough to grip onto. It tempts me; it excites the wilder side of me that I usually keep suppressed.
He’s in a simple white t-shirt that stretches tight over his shoulders, and faded blue jeans. I’ve never seen a man who could make those casual clothes look so fucking hot. His arms are all thick, corded muscle, and they flex as Harrison walks in front of me and stands across from him. Dark tattoos scroll down his left arm. I find myself itching to touch them, and wonder how much of his body they cover.