“I really am,” I admit. “Not that I don’t enjoy my work—”
“Save it,” Chuck says. “We’re not going to report you for being a little bored. You need to take this assignment, Quinn. You’ll be happier working from the Vegas field office.”
“Trying to get rid of me, Jones?” I tease.
“Since the day you got here,” he winks. “Come on, Collins. You’re destined for bigger things than that cubicle of yours can hold.”
“This sounds like an amazing opportunity,” I say to Mitchell, “but can you tell me a little bit about the case?”
“There’ll be plenty of time to discuss the details after you’ve transferred to Nevada,” he replies. “We’ll get you set up with an apartment, introduce you to the other agents—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt him, “a transfer is no small thing. California has been my home for two years. My whole life is here now.”
“Collins, what life? You practically sleep here,” Chuck quips.
“Is there any time for me to think this over?” I go on, ignoring his all-too-true jibe.
“You can think all you like,” Mitchell replies, “but I’m sure you know that the FBI has the authority to transfer agents at any time, regardless of their preferences?”
“Right, of course,” I say, “I was just hoping to talk this over with someone first.”
“Not that sad sack boyfriend of yours?” Chuck groans, rolling his eyes. “Do yourself a favor, Quinn, and take this chance to leave his sorry ass in the dust.”
“Gee, Chuck,” I drawl, “tell me how you really feel.”
“Your options, Quinn, are to transfer or leave the Bureau,” Mitchell says shortly. “I’m sure your, uh, boyfriend will understand the importance of this opportunity.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I mumble. My boyfriend, Milo Beckett, is many things. Brilliant, cultured, well-off, stubborn, and mightily arrogant for someone so physically slight. But understanding, he is not.
“Why don’t you head home a little early and think this over?” Mitchell suggests, standing to see me out. “Call me this evening when you’ve made your decision.”
“Will do,” I say, shaking his hand once more. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Trust me,” he says, meeting my gaze with pointed interest, “the pleasure is all mine.”
Chuck walks me to the door of his office. He leans close as I skirt across the threshold and hisses, “don’t you dare blow this, Collins.”
I shoot him an exasperated look and hurry across the buzzing office. Dozens of eyes follow my exit. The entire office is wondering what a senior FBI agent could possibly want to talk to me about—little old me, with my nerdy education and rosy cheeks. If only these guys knew what I was being tapped for. If only I knew any details about this mysterious opportunity Mitchell’s offered—or rather insisted, that I take.
Forget cupcakes, I think to myself, I need a beer and a burger to think this one through.
Chapter Two
I drag the thick-cut French fry through the pool of ketchup on my plate and happily pop it into my mouth. Glancing around the midcentury-style diner, my eyes alight on the sunburst clock on the wall. It’s nearly eight o’clock, which means that Milo is almost an hour late. In the early days of our on-again, off-again courtship, I would have tried to convince myself that his chronic flakiness didn’t bother me so much. But after the better part of a year, I no longer do. The dude is always blowing me off, and it’s getting old.
As if sensing my displeasure from afar, Milo finally pulls up and parks his hybrid car outside the diner. I can see his nose wrinkle in distaste as he steps out into the fading sunlight. He’s not exactly a burger-and-fries kind of guy, and it shows. As tiny as I am, my sometimes-boyfriend is even tinier. He’s got a few inches on me, but his hips are certainly more narrow than mine. He is cute though, in a geeky sort of way. He’s all graphic tees, skinny jeans, and impeccable taste in bands no one’s ever heard of. Milo’s the kind of guy I’ve always ended up with: nonthreatening, brainy, and more than a little condescending. In other words, someone I could beat in a push up contest with one hand tied behind my back.
Milo works in Silicon Valley, making way too much money for his own good. He’s been trying to persuade me to ditch the FBI and come work for his creative agency ever since I moved to California. I can’t seem to make him understand that developing apps and branding websites would be the furthest thing from fulfilling for me. He’s been known to call my job at the Bureau “grunt work,” often when we’re in front of his pretentious, tech-sector friends. We’re not exactly the perfect pair, but we’ve known each other since our undergrad days at Pace, and he’s the only person I really know in LA. Like it or not, he’s all I’ve got out here, or anywhere, for that matter.
I grew up on the other side of the country, in a little town outside of Allentown, Pennsylvania. It was just my parents, my little brother Brandon and I on a few acres of wooded land. The time I spent roaming around the woods with Brandon—shooting soda cans with our BB guns and climbing trees all the way to their flimsy top branches—was wonderful. But the hours we spent at home with our unhappily married, dismissive parents? Not so much. They drank, they fought, and they basically ignored us. But at least we had each other.
Brandon and I were best friends. He was only a year younger than me, with the same red hair, slight build, and blue eyes. People always assumed that we were twins, and we may as well have been. Our school was tiny, and there weren’t many other kids who lived close enough to play with, but I hardly minded. I got to spend my childhood scraping up my knees and learning to spit instead of fussing with makeup and fretting over boys. I never had any close girlfriends. Still don’t. But that continued lack of sisterhood is the only thing that bums me out about having been attached to my brother at the hip. Especially given what happened when we grew up and left home.
We both escaped our toxic parents and went to college in big cities. I left for New York to study at Pace, and Brandon headed for Philly to attend Temple University. It was there that he lost his life to a stray bullet, loosed during a shootout between cops and local gang members. He was a junior when it happened. Twenty-one years old. I was picking up my graduation cap and gown when my mother called to bluntly tell me the news. I haven’t spoken to my parents much since the memorial service, to which they both showed up belligerently drunk. Not that I imagine they’ve noticed.