Read Online Fidelity Files by Jessica Brody - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Brody
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sense.
God bless the Internet.
He slowly turned his attention back to the TV screen, the look of bewilderment never leaving his face. It was as if he couldn't even believe women like this actually exist, let alone sit next to him in a bar. Only in his wildest fantasies.
I continued to concentrate solely on the game, managing to successfully order a beer from the bartender without ever altering the direction of my eye line.
The timer on my cell phone went off at 7:15 P.M. Exactly when I had scheduled it. And to anyone else, namely Andrew Thompson, the tone I had programmed as the alarm would sound exactly like a phone ring. Without turning my head away from the TV, I fumbled in my purse, pulled it out, and brought it to my ear. "Yeah, I saw it," I said informally, as if I didn't even have to look at the caller ID to know exactly who was calling me at this moment in time.
This is what happens when there's a Michigan football game on. I watch it, and whoever this person is calls to commentate.
I listened to the silent earpiece. "I fucking told you Grady was incapable of making plays like that." I paused to listen again, keeping my eyes straight ahead. "No, no, no," I argued with the phantom caller. "He's a fucking freshman. What did you expect? Four hundred sixty-six yards in one season is nothing to brag about."
I heard a small chuckle come from Andrew's direction. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and flashed a knowing smile, as if we were sharing a mutual annoyance with anyone who has faith in a player like Grady (whoever the hell he was).
He smiled back, and I knew that my research was paying off.
"Look, I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" I waited for a response and then quickly added, "Yeah, whatever, bye." And hung up the phone.
I let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the phone onto the bar. "Fucking loser," I mumbled under my breath.
A commercial break came on, and I suddenly noticed the beer sitting in front of me. I picked it up gratefully and took a long, refreshing gulp. "God, what a day."
"So you had to have gone to Michigan," Andrew said, watching me intently.
I turned and grinned. "Hell, yeah!"
"Class of '85," he said proudly.
"'Ninety-nine," I shot back competitively.
"Ouch! Do I feel old?"
I looked him up and down in a mock assessment and then shrugged. "You don't look it," I said matter-of-factly.
"Thanks. So you're a flight attendant?"
I eyed him skeptically. "No, I just like to wear this outfit to pick up guys in bars."
He laughed.
Tonight I was a hard-ass and according to Andrew, quite an intriguing one at that. So far my "analysis" was right on course.
I chugged down the rest of my beer, and he rushed to order me another one. "A girl who likes football and knows how to drink beer. I can certainly appreciate that."
"If every woman had to be sweet and cheerful to the assholes I deal with on a daily basis, they'd chug beer, too."
He laughed again. "That bad, huh?"
"It's like fucking sugar and spice up there. Makes my teeth hurt."
The bartender brought my beer and we clinked glasses, offering a hopeful toast to the doomed fate of our beloved Michigan Wolverines, just in time to turn our attention back to the screen as the commercial break ended.
TWO HOURS and seven beers later, Andrew and I were wasted. Well, actually,
Andrew and Ashlyn were wasted. I was fine. I never allow myself to
get drunk on an assignment. I've spent the last two years building up my level
of tolerance to alcohol for specifically that reason. Alcohol makes you lose
focus, makes you do stupid things. Case in point: seventy-five percent of
the men who have failed my inspection were under the influence of at least some amount of alcohol, if not a very large amount. Some people might
try to argue the legitimacy of the inspection because of this factor. My public,
professional opinion: The legitimacy decision is entirely up to the client.
But my own private, personal,
God bless the Internet.
He slowly turned his attention back to the TV screen, the look of bewilderment never leaving his face. It was as if he couldn't even believe women like this actually exist, let alone sit next to him in a bar. Only in his wildest fantasies.
I continued to concentrate solely on the game, managing to successfully order a beer from the bartender without ever altering the direction of my eye line.
The timer on my cell phone went off at 7:15 P.M. Exactly when I had scheduled it. And to anyone else, namely Andrew Thompson, the tone I had programmed as the alarm would sound exactly like a phone ring. Without turning my head away from the TV, I fumbled in my purse, pulled it out, and brought it to my ear. "Yeah, I saw it," I said informally, as if I didn't even have to look at the caller ID to know exactly who was calling me at this moment in time.
This is what happens when there's a Michigan football game on. I watch it, and whoever this person is calls to commentate.
I listened to the silent earpiece. "I fucking told you Grady was incapable of making plays like that." I paused to listen again, keeping my eyes straight ahead. "No, no, no," I argued with the phantom caller. "He's a fucking freshman. What did you expect? Four hundred sixty-six yards in one season is nothing to brag about."
I heard a small chuckle come from Andrew's direction. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and flashed a knowing smile, as if we were sharing a mutual annoyance with anyone who has faith in a player like Grady (whoever the hell he was).
He smiled back, and I knew that my research was paying off.
"Look, I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" I waited for a response and then quickly added, "Yeah, whatever, bye." And hung up the phone.
I let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the phone onto the bar. "Fucking loser," I mumbled under my breath.
A commercial break came on, and I suddenly noticed the beer sitting in front of me. I picked it up gratefully and took a long, refreshing gulp. "God, what a day."
"So you had to have gone to Michigan," Andrew said, watching me intently.
I turned and grinned. "Hell, yeah!"
"Class of '85," he said proudly.
"'Ninety-nine," I shot back competitively.
"Ouch! Do I feel old?"
I looked him up and down in a mock assessment and then shrugged. "You don't look it," I said matter-of-factly.
"Thanks. So you're a flight attendant?"
I eyed him skeptically. "No, I just like to wear this outfit to pick up guys in bars."
He laughed.
Tonight I was a hard-ass and according to Andrew, quite an intriguing one at that. So far my "analysis" was right on course.
I chugged down the rest of my beer, and he rushed to order me another one. "A girl who likes football and knows how to drink beer. I can certainly appreciate that."
"If every woman had to be sweet and cheerful to the assholes I deal with on a daily basis, they'd chug beer, too."
He laughed again. "That bad, huh?"
"It's like fucking sugar and spice up there. Makes my teeth hurt."
The bartender brought my beer and we clinked glasses, offering a hopeful toast to the doomed fate of our beloved Michigan Wolverines, just in time to turn our attention back to the screen as the commercial break ended.
TWO HOURS and seven beers later, Andrew and I were wasted. Well, actually,
Andrew and Ashlyn were wasted. I was fine. I never allow myself to
get drunk on an assignment. I've spent the last two years building up my level
of tolerance to alcohol for specifically that reason. Alcohol makes you lose
focus, makes you do stupid things. Case in point: seventy-five percent of
the men who have failed my inspection were under the influence of at least some amount of alcohol, if not a very large amount. Some people might
try to argue the legitimacy of the inspection because of this factor. My public,
professional opinion: The legitimacy decision is entirely up to the client.
But my own private, personal,
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