people. My space is
purposely sparse. No pictures. Nothing thumb-tacked to
the wall.
Which
makes it easy for me to notice that two paper clips are askew and the push-pins are not in the same pattern as when I left.
Who
the fuck would open my drawer?
I
look around. Nobody meets my eyes.
I
put my bag down on the floor, under the desk.
I
login to my computer and check email. I make a few replies, then pull out my Ops Folder.
But
before I go into my usual routine, I can’t help but be perplexed about
something. I look around before I click on Internet Explorer. I Google “Colton Stark,” then click on Images. Several
pictures pop up.
Zing!
Oh
God. What the fuck? There it is again. Another fucking moist spark down below,
as those gorgeous blue eyes look out at me.
Fuck, Sofia, get control of yourself!
I
take a deep breath and count backwards from 500... 499... 498. By the time I
get to 490, I’m usually centered again. All good.
Then
I return to the pictures. In one, he’s stepping out of his Bentley Continental
GT in front of his palatial Vizcaya -like estate. Shiny dark suit with a blue tie. Windsor knot. Handkerchief.
Again, looking up at something.
I
stare more intently, trying to figure him out. My head sinks into my cupped
left hand.
There’s
something about his face. Don’t know what it is. A symmetry .
Square jaw. Thick masculine lips. An
intensity that is all man. Most humans seem to be randomly thrown
together, but this guy looks like somebody designed him. I could study that
face for days. Maybe make a sculpture of it.
I
click the next image. Unshaven in a casual blue shirt with a
Latina girl leaning her head on his shoulder.
Zing !
Oh
my God! This can’t be happening. It’s so unlike me. I am not attracted to pasty, rich, white boys.
Not
at all.
“ Whatcha doing?” says a male voice.
I
make a throaty gasp as I nearly jump out of my skin. Simultaneously, I click
the window closed and look up at Mike Everly’s smirk.
“Scare
much?” Mike says.
“Don’t
fucking sneak up on people, asshole!” I say.
“ Ooooh , somebody’s in a mood. Time of month?”
I
extend my middle finger to his face.
Mike
is my former partner. We rode overnights in the Pit together before I moved up
to OCS. Six months later, LaTashia took him up too,
based on my recommendation.
“Suck
it, chica dura .” He
smiles and chews his gum. “Hey, want to do lunch?”
I
look up at him. Mike is a short, good-looking guy with slicked back black hair.
Wiry frame. Pale with bright red cheeks. Tougher than he
looks. We had sex once, while drunk, after busting an infamous coke
dealer.
Both
of us woke up knowing it was a huge mistake.
Huge.
Fucking. Mistake.
Now
I cringe every time I see his wife and kids.
“ Naw , I already ate,” I say. “But thanks.”
“Oh
yeah? Where?”
I’m
about to say The Betsy Hotel but stop myself.
“Checkers.”
“You
had a Checkerburger with Cheese without me? God, you
have no respect for Four-Victor-Eight anymore, do you?”
Four-Victor-Eight
was our old patrol car.
“Nope.
Just you, cabrón ,”
I say, checking my iPhone . Five
texts from Kristy. She wants to make dinner at my place. Shit.
“Oh,
come on!” Mike says. “You still think about me.”
“ Pfft . Was you that made me switch
teams.”
“Yeah,
right. You been playing for all teams since the first
tuft of hair on your infield. But seriously, what are you working on? Anything
good?”
“Couple
of leads. Some boring surveillance.”
My
eyes fall on the napkin protruding from my bag. The Betsy Hotel is emblazoned
in gold on it. Mike looks down at it.
I
send Kristy a text:
Fine
“How’s
it going with Miley Cyrus?” he says.
“Mike,
don’t you have fucking work to do?” I say as I sneak the napkin out of my bag
and into the wastebasket.
“I
do, but I have my priorities. It wouldn’t be Monday without getting a rise out of
my muñequita Sofia. But seriously, I think you and Kristy should send a
purposely sparse. No pictures. Nothing thumb-tacked to
the wall.
Which
makes it easy for me to notice that two paper clips are askew and the push-pins are not in the same pattern as when I left.
Who
the fuck would open my drawer?
I
look around. Nobody meets my eyes.
I
put my bag down on the floor, under the desk.
I
login to my computer and check email. I make a few replies, then pull out my Ops Folder.
But
before I go into my usual routine, I can’t help but be perplexed about
something. I look around before I click on Internet Explorer. I Google “Colton Stark,” then click on Images. Several
pictures pop up.
Zing!
Oh
God. What the fuck? There it is again. Another fucking moist spark down below,
as those gorgeous blue eyes look out at me.
Fuck, Sofia, get control of yourself!
I
take a deep breath and count backwards from 500... 499... 498. By the time I
get to 490, I’m usually centered again. All good.
Then
I return to the pictures. In one, he’s stepping out of his Bentley Continental
GT in front of his palatial Vizcaya -like estate. Shiny dark suit with a blue tie. Windsor knot. Handkerchief.
Again, looking up at something.
I
stare more intently, trying to figure him out. My head sinks into my cupped
left hand.
There’s
something about his face. Don’t know what it is. A symmetry .
Square jaw. Thick masculine lips. An
intensity that is all man. Most humans seem to be randomly thrown
together, but this guy looks like somebody designed him. I could study that
face for days. Maybe make a sculpture of it.
I
click the next image. Unshaven in a casual blue shirt with a
Latina girl leaning her head on his shoulder.
Zing !
Oh
my God! This can’t be happening. It’s so unlike me. I am not attracted to pasty, rich, white boys.
Not
at all.
“ Whatcha doing?” says a male voice.
I
make a throaty gasp as I nearly jump out of my skin. Simultaneously, I click
the window closed and look up at Mike Everly’s smirk.
“Scare
much?” Mike says.
“Don’t
fucking sneak up on people, asshole!” I say.
“ Ooooh , somebody’s in a mood. Time of month?”
I
extend my middle finger to his face.
Mike
is my former partner. We rode overnights in the Pit together before I moved up
to OCS. Six months later, LaTashia took him up too,
based on my recommendation.
“Suck
it, chica dura .” He
smiles and chews his gum. “Hey, want to do lunch?”
I
look up at him. Mike is a short, good-looking guy with slicked back black hair.
Wiry frame. Pale with bright red cheeks. Tougher than he
looks. We had sex once, while drunk, after busting an infamous coke
dealer.
Both
of us woke up knowing it was a huge mistake.
Huge.
Fucking. Mistake.
Now
I cringe every time I see his wife and kids.
“ Naw , I already ate,” I say. “But thanks.”
“Oh
yeah? Where?”
I’m
about to say The Betsy Hotel but stop myself.
“Checkers.”
“You
had a Checkerburger with Cheese without me? God, you
have no respect for Four-Victor-Eight anymore, do you?”
Four-Victor-Eight
was our old patrol car.
“Nope.
Just you, cabrón ,”
I say, checking my iPhone . Five
texts from Kristy. She wants to make dinner at my place. Shit.
“Oh,
come on!” Mike says. “You still think about me.”
“ Pfft . Was you that made me switch
teams.”
“Yeah,
right. You been playing for all teams since the first
tuft of hair on your infield. But seriously, what are you working on? Anything
good?”
“Couple
of leads. Some boring surveillance.”
My
eyes fall on the napkin protruding from my bag. The Betsy Hotel is emblazoned
in gold on it. Mike looks down at it.
I
send Kristy a text:
Fine
“How’s
it going with Miley Cyrus?” he says.
“Mike,
don’t you have fucking work to do?” I say as I sneak the napkin out of my bag
and into the wastebasket.
“I
do, but I have my priorities. It wouldn’t be Monday without getting a rise out of
my muñequita Sofia. But seriously, I think you and Kristy should send a
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