the badge and gun on his desk and tell him where to shove them. Her tongue was locked, loaded, and ready to fire. But she’d put her yearning to verbally thrash Jack aside. An insubordination complaint would pit his word against hers. And the words of a woman, especially a black woman, meant a little bit of nothing in this man’s FBI.
Too crackbrained to know when to quit while he was behind, Sabin-ski continued his rant. “As your E.E.O. rep, I’d advise you to report me. But I don’t feel like entertaining any reports against me,” he chuckled, his teeth as yellow as a tub of I Can’t Believe This is Butter.
She failed to see the humor.
How she longed for it, the day when she could slap the handcuffs on him and drag him to jail by the lone strand of hair left on his watermelon-sized nugget.
She bolted up from her seat and started toward the door. Attempted to leave before choice four- and five-letter words spewed past her lips. Why give him the satisfaction of knowing he could make her completely lose her composure. She did, however, leave him with one final thought.
“If you ever spit those hateful comments or utter a single syllable about my father again, I promise you an E.E.O. complaint will look like the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland compared to the nightmare I’ll bring to your doorstep!”
She strutted to his desk, her breath heavy and fingers trembling with fury as she reached toward him. Jack’s eyes bulged and his countenance lit with panic. There was no question. He wanted to scream at her, but the sound locked in his throat.
J.J. proceeded to knock over every OCD-arranged knick-knack she could reach. She then dry washed her hands and threw them up in victory. With his bottom jaw scraping the floor, she turned to leave.
Jack sat back hard against his seat. This was a different J.J. and she could see he was caught off guard. She’d never jumped down his throat heels first; rather she’d normally grin and bear his verbal vitriol. He paused, unsure of how heavily to tread. “I won’t tolerate your insubordination! Touch my desk or speak to me that way again, and I’ll you have fired.”
He had no idea how much she wanted to dare him. No sooner than the words passed his lips, a slight sensation emerged in her earlobe.
Bluffing, as usual.
Emboldened, J.J. shot a glare over her shoulder. “You promise?”
Chapter 8
J .J. burned with angry fire. As she raced from Jack’s office, her feet pounded hard against the floor. She charged toward the vault entrance, frustrated. Pissed off. Thirsty. She hadn’t planned to walk into the vault except for the fact that she could take a swig without everyone staring down her throat. J.J. had been teetering on a thin line for years and Jack had managed to push her over. Now she didn’t want a drink, she needed it.
“What’s going on, J.J.?” Tony asked, concerned. He hurried his pace to catch up with her. Once he was out of earshot of their nosy colleagues, she stopped and turned to him.
“Refresh my memory. What’s the penalty for first-degree murder?”
J.J. badged into the vault, placing her index finger into the new biometric scanners, the most hi-tech security used in the Bureau outside of the labs at Quantico. She waved her badge in front of the infrared reader until the lock clicked and then entered; Tony followed close on her heels.
“What happened? What did he say?”
She collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her hands, tried to shake off the disastrous meeting. Then she pulled her spare flask from a desk drawer and opened it in front of Tony. He bit his lip; his neck stiffened.
“J.J.”
She took a short gulp and twisted the cap shut. She never took more than a sip or two at a time. A slow drizzle. “Trust me, when I tell you what happened you’re going to want some too.” She handed the flask to him. “What do you want first, the bad news or the worse news?”
“Gimme the worst first,” he said, sitting at
Too crackbrained to know when to quit while he was behind, Sabin-ski continued his rant. “As your E.E.O. rep, I’d advise you to report me. But I don’t feel like entertaining any reports against me,” he chuckled, his teeth as yellow as a tub of I Can’t Believe This is Butter.
She failed to see the humor.
How she longed for it, the day when she could slap the handcuffs on him and drag him to jail by the lone strand of hair left on his watermelon-sized nugget.
She bolted up from her seat and started toward the door. Attempted to leave before choice four- and five-letter words spewed past her lips. Why give him the satisfaction of knowing he could make her completely lose her composure. She did, however, leave him with one final thought.
“If you ever spit those hateful comments or utter a single syllable about my father again, I promise you an E.E.O. complaint will look like the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland compared to the nightmare I’ll bring to your doorstep!”
She strutted to his desk, her breath heavy and fingers trembling with fury as she reached toward him. Jack’s eyes bulged and his countenance lit with panic. There was no question. He wanted to scream at her, but the sound locked in his throat.
J.J. proceeded to knock over every OCD-arranged knick-knack she could reach. She then dry washed her hands and threw them up in victory. With his bottom jaw scraping the floor, she turned to leave.
Jack sat back hard against his seat. This was a different J.J. and she could see he was caught off guard. She’d never jumped down his throat heels first; rather she’d normally grin and bear his verbal vitriol. He paused, unsure of how heavily to tread. “I won’t tolerate your insubordination! Touch my desk or speak to me that way again, and I’ll you have fired.”
He had no idea how much she wanted to dare him. No sooner than the words passed his lips, a slight sensation emerged in her earlobe.
Bluffing, as usual.
Emboldened, J.J. shot a glare over her shoulder. “You promise?”
Chapter 8
J .J. burned with angry fire. As she raced from Jack’s office, her feet pounded hard against the floor. She charged toward the vault entrance, frustrated. Pissed off. Thirsty. She hadn’t planned to walk into the vault except for the fact that she could take a swig without everyone staring down her throat. J.J. had been teetering on a thin line for years and Jack had managed to push her over. Now she didn’t want a drink, she needed it.
“What’s going on, J.J.?” Tony asked, concerned. He hurried his pace to catch up with her. Once he was out of earshot of their nosy colleagues, she stopped and turned to him.
“Refresh my memory. What’s the penalty for first-degree murder?”
J.J. badged into the vault, placing her index finger into the new biometric scanners, the most hi-tech security used in the Bureau outside of the labs at Quantico. She waved her badge in front of the infrared reader until the lock clicked and then entered; Tony followed close on her heels.
“What happened? What did he say?”
She collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her hands, tried to shake off the disastrous meeting. Then she pulled her spare flask from a desk drawer and opened it in front of Tony. He bit his lip; his neck stiffened.
“J.J.”
She took a short gulp and twisted the cap shut. She never took more than a sip or two at a time. A slow drizzle. “Trust me, when I tell you what happened you’re going to want some too.” She handed the flask to him. “What do you want first, the bad news or the worse news?”
“Gimme the worst first,” he said, sitting at
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