There aren’t many photos of us together, because he died when I was just six months old.
Dropping the photos to the floor, I reach into the box, pull out the leather bound wallet, and flip it open.
Special Agent James Somerville.
I smooth my thumb over his picture, proud of the strong resemblance I have to him. Same golden-blond hair and crooked smile with a dimple in the right cheek but not the left. Kyle looks just the same.
My father became an FBI agent after he completed six years in the Navy after graduating from Annapolis. He was killed in the line of duty when he and the rest of his team closed in on a suspected serial killer who went out in a spray of bullets. He was a member of the BRIU, although it was called the Behavioral Science Unit at that time.
I place the mementos back in the box and issue up a silent prayer to my dad. “Watch over me, Daddy. Shit’s about to get real.”
Dusting my pants off, I rummage through my law school box and grab up the pile of sequined bras and thongs, as well as my only pair of hooker heels that may be a bit outdated but would work well toward my cover. If I’m supposed to be a girl down and out on her luck who has to resort to stripping, the clothing I show up with has to look secondhand.
As I walk back over to the folding staircase, a small, stray shoebox sitting just to the side of it catches my eye. It’s not labeled, but I know what’s in it. I reach down, pick it up, and bring it with me.
In the kitchen, I set the box and clothing on the counter and make myself a sandwich. I eat it with swift efficiency while standing at my Formica kitchen counter, looking out of the front window of my little bungalow house. I don’t make much money as an FBI agent but enough that I was able to buy this little abode. Besides, it’s not like I have anything else to spend my money on. I’m without close friends because I work all the time, so there’s no drink budget for girls’ nights out. Dating is out of the question because my heart is still too bruised since David broke up with me almost three weeks ago. And, even if I was ready to get back into the game, I have found most men’s egos can’t handle the fact I’m an FBI agent, so no need to spend my money on pretty clothes and silky lingerie. I don’t even have a dog to keep me company because I’m never home, so there’s no kibble or bones to buy. I have a modest clothing budget that keeps me in black dress slacks, French blue dress shirts, and fitted, black blazers. Add in professional yet sensible black shoes, and you have the standard FBI uniform.
Rinsing my plate off and grabbing a beer from the fridge, I grab the stripper gear and box, heading into my bedroom. I pull my small suitcase from the closet and throw it on the bed. Dale told me this operation will be for an indefinite period of time and to pack lots of clothes. Sadly, what I have won’t fill my large suitcase so it takes me no time whatsoever to get packed, and then I have nothing to do but wait for the next day to arrive.
I take a quick shower in my tiny bathroom, noticing a small area of rust at the base of the faucet. Fingering it lightly, I add a mental note to get that fixed when I get back. So many plans to update this house, yet I keep putting it off. I suppose that’s because of my continued hope I’ll get transferred to the BRIU, and that I’ll be buying another house in Quantico, Virginia.
After donning a clean pair of underwear and an old Old Miss Law School t-shirt—a product of a short but failed love affair with a fellow FBI agent who also had graduated from law school there—I park myself on my faded brown couch with my beer and pull up the Contact list on my iPhone. A tap of my thumb to the screen and I’m dialing Kyle’s cell.
“What’s up, LPA?” Kyle says gruffly into the phone after the second ring.
LPA stands for Little Pain in the Ass. A bigger brother’s prerogative, I guess.
“Not much, BPA,” I say with a grin as I kick my bare feet up on the coffee table. And yeah… that stands for Big Pain in the Ass.
Kyle and I are fairly close, despite the physical distance that separates us. Strangely, I haven’t told Kyle yet that David and I are no longer together. Maybe I’m hoping David will have a change of mind, or maybe I’m scared that the minute I tell Kyle, it will be real. Regardless, I have more important things with him to discuss right now, so my broken engagement will have to remain on the back burner.
“Catch any bad guys today?” he asks. I can hear ESPN’s Sports Center on in the background, and I can envision Kyle sitting on his couch with a beer in his hand as well, booted feet kicked up on the coffee table, alone in his bachelor pad. He’s three years older than me at age thirty and in many ways, we are eerily similar.