Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (17 page)

I clear my throat, though I can’t bring myself to meet anyone’s eyes when I answer. “They were clearly discussing shipments to ‘new markets,’ as Vladimir phrased it. I can’t think of any better way for them to make use of Sergei than the Eagles plane.” 

“Are we really going to trust her inexact recollection of events?” Jim/Steve asks. “She didn’t even manage to record her interaction with Vladimir Drakonov. How can we be sure it actually happened?” 

How about I swing a wrench right at your skull and see if you can inexactly recollect it?
I think, but wisely manage to keep my mouth shut. 

“It’s the best we have to go on,” Frederica says. 

“We’ll go through with the warrant, search the plane, and go from there.” Chief Ha glances toward Frederica. “Agent Monteverdi, will you handle . . . the matter we discussed?” 

“Yes, sir.” Frederica nods. 

“Excellent. Happy hunting.” 

Everyone gathers their notepads and heads out of the conference room. “Miss Pereira?” Frederica asks, as I start to leave. “Might I have a word in my office?” 

“Of course,” I answer, a sinking feeling in my stomach. 

We sit down on either side of her desk. I don’t know how I never noticed it before, but there’s absolutely nothing in her entire office that’s not related directly to her work. No photographs, silly vacation souvenirs, books, or even her college degrees. Just filing cabinets and tidily stacked folders of active cases. I can’t say I’m surprised, though it makes me a little sad for her. 

But then, if I actually had space on my desk, what would I put on it? Pictures of Sergei and me? Not anymore. Beth and Monique and me, maybe. But I can’t remember the last time all three of us looked truly happy and carefree in a photo. Beth’s stressing over the LSAT, and I’ve been breaking my back for this internship and graduation, and Monique’s been busy helping her parents’ business. This is our life now—a whole lot of busy-ness, with hardly anything to show for it. 

I was a hell of a lot stupider in freshman year, and saddled with wildly unrealistic expectations of what my adult life would be like and a vicious yearning to be living it already. Yet I didn’t appreciate the freedom I had. The freedom to not know who or what I wanted to be, and the freedom to explore it. Now I’m just a slave to my own plans. 

“Am I correct,” Frederica says, bringing me back to the present, “in assuming you and Mister Drakonov will no longer be seeing one another? This isn’t a minor hiccup?” 

I wince, feeling that hollow tear open inside my chest once more. “He seemed pretty final about it.” 

“So you no longer have access to the Drakonov brothers.” 

“Right.” I furrow my brow, unsure where she’s going with this. “But, hey, now Vladimir no longer has an incentive to bother me, either.” 

“Well, then that should offer you some comfort.” Frederica picks up the top folder from her desk. “Miss Pereira, I must regret to inform you that we’re terminating your internship, effective immediately.” 

My mouth pops open. “
What?
” 

“We will report to your university that you satisfied the terms of your internship and should be awarded full credit for your participation in the program. We will also confirm your employment at the Bureau for the entirety of the fall semester this year. However, we will not be offering you any recommendation letters on your behalf, and while you are welcome to apply to the Bureau for employment following the completion of your degree, you would have to go through the same process as anyone would. No additional consideration given.” 

My pulse is jackhammering in my ears. It feels like a swarm of bees has settled in my throat, buzzing furiously when I try to speak instead of letting any real words come out. “But why would—How could you—” I grip my thighs and take a deep breath. “This is my
career
. This is what I’ve been prepping for my whole time in college.” 

“It is the Bureau’s determination,” she says carefully, “that your personality is not a good fit for our exacting standards of protocol and need to respect the chain of command. This is not a judgment on you as a person, of course.” She says this part sweet as vinegar, and my upper lip curls. “Only an assessment of your actions compared to what we look for in ideal candidates to be special agents.” 

Frederica thrusts a manila packet at me. I flip it open to find a thick contract:
Acknowledgment of Notification to be Released from Bureau’s Service.
Blah blah blah, by signing this paper I affirm that I have been informed, blah blah, more legalese. Barf, barf, and more barf. 

I suppress a wild, panicked laugh. Okay, so maybe the allergic reaction I have to legal bullshit should have been the first sign I wasn’t cut out for the FBI. 

“Please sign the Acknowledgment. Take your time to look it over, if you need. There are two copies, one for you to keep, though I need to witness them both and affix the necessary seal, stamp, and identification number.” 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “And there’s no use arguing the point?” I ask. “Extenuating circumstances, appeals, all that?” 

Frederica smiles like it got permanently stuck on her face. “You are welcome to apply to any job openings in the Bureau upon graduation, like anyone else.” 

I scratch my signature onto the files, wait for her to do all her notary-witness-recordkeeping wizardry, and stuff my copy in my purse. “Thanks,” I say, “but I think I’ll keep my options open.” 

I return to my basement studio to find that, yet again, the dishwasher on the main floor above me has deposited a flurry of suds into the corner of my living area. When I open my phone to text the owners, I have one message waiting from Monique: 

Tell your boy to get healthy! We need to crush the Forge at the Classic! xo
 

My boy. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Sergei belongs to Vladimir Drakonov now. 

And I belong to no one and nothing at all. 

I wake up face-down in my drool- and tear-soaked pillow and scrub the crust of salt from my cheek. My phone is dead, but after shoving aside the boxes stacked in front of my tiny sliver of a basement window, it looks like early evening on Capitol Hill. Flocks of loafers and low-heeled shoes rush past the window as the congressional staffers go home for the day, or head out for drinks. The Eagles have a rest day—not that I’m in any mood to watch Sergei skate around—but I promised Beth I’d help her study for the LSAT. I shimmy out of my stiff pantsuit that screams “college intern” and toss on a sweater dress with riding boots and my favorite pea coat and scarf. 

“You look like hell,” Beth says, as I join her at her favorite coffee shop on Pennsylvania Avenue. I add my phone and charger to her array of phone, laptop, and tablet, each one displaying a different study aid website. “You don’t have a cold, do you? I can’t afford to get sick.” 

“Wow, okay, great to see you, too.” I tear off a corner of my pastry, but everything about it is suddenly unappetizing. My mouth feels like a cardboard box someone left in the rain. 

Beth digs her fingers into the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just—I feel like I’m about to collapse in on myself. Like a black hole or something. Nothing is making sense anymore.” 

“I can relate.” I pick up her stack of notecards and flip through them. “Should I just quiz you, or . . .” 

“No, no, you’re not getting off that easy. What’s the matter, J?” Her tone goes soft. “Seriously.” 

I smack the stack of cards into my open palm. “It’s not worth getting into it. You’ve got more important things going on.” 

“Sorry, girlie. Nothing’s more important than making sure my friends are all right.” She twists one finger in a dark blonde curl. “What’s going on?” 

I let out my breath slowly. How do I even begin? “Sergei and I are . . . well, we broke up.” Before she can react, I continue, “And I lost my internship.” 

“Wait. What?” Beth screeches, then her pale cheeks flush red when the tables near us go quiet. “Like, at the same time?” 

“Um.” I cringe. “Kind of.” 

“You’re gonna have to explain that one,” she says. “Because, like, one shouldn’t have anything to do with the other.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s complicated.” 

Beth snorts. “I’ve had to learn artificial languages for the LSAT logic problems. Just try me.” 

I do a quick scan of the coffee shop, all exposed brick and dark wood and retro lightbulbs dangling over each table. Any beefy-looking Slavic goons with handguns or wrenches hidden under their jackets? Any unmarked black SUVs lurking on the sidewalk? We look more or less safe, but I drop my voice beneath the din of the conversations around us and the vintage jazz on the coffeehouse sound system. “So, you know how I’ve been working at the FBI . . .” 

Beth listens to the whole story with a growing look of consternation. “And you didn’t once stop to think, ‘Gee, maybe I should ask my two best friends in the world for some advice?’” 

“I
thought
it,” I offer lamely. 

“But you didn’t say it. Probably because you assumed—rightfully so—that we would tell you that under
no
circumstances should you go along with your bosses’ absurd, dangerous, unethical, and humiliating plans.” 

“I was trying to keep my internship!” 

Beth sighs. “And how’d that work out for you?” 

“The FBI has always been my plan.
Always
, Beth.” I tear off another chunk of pastry and start squeezing it. “I have no other choice. I’ve spent almost three and a half years of college prepping for it.” 

“Your ‘plan’?” Beth asks. “That sounds like Todd Beckwith speaking.
Again.
” 

I groan and slump forward. “There’s nothing inherently wrong in planning for the future.” 

“No, just in refusing to accommodate any and all opportunities that come along.” Beth takes a sip of her coffee. “Look. You were trying to be flexible—the fact that you gave Sergei a chance proves that. You at least acknowledged, on some level, that plans can be changed, and that it’s perfectly okay if they do.” 

“That, and I fell for him.” I swallow. “Hard.” 

“Right. You were following your heart, for once, instead of whatever robot code Todd Beckwith tried to drill into your skull.” 

“He didn’t need much help,” I say. “I’ve always been that way.” 

“I know, girlie, but trust me, he brought out the worst of it in you.”  

Beth smiles sadly, and in that smile, I see it all too well. Every single time she swallowed her pride and consoled me whenever I failed to live up to Todd’s standards. Every time she bit back her hatred and disdain for him, just for my sake. Now she’s too tired and too frazzled to hold back anymore. And it’s just what I need to see. 

“You could have given up Sergei from the start,” Beth continues. “As soon as you knew the FBI was interested in him. Then you’d have no conflict of interest. Zero. Done.” 

“But I—” 

“But you wanted to see where things would go with him. I know. Deep down, you were willing to change your plans. The trouble arose when you tried to convince yourself that plans
hadn’t
changed, that you were still on the original path. But you weren’t.” 

Of course I wasn’t. My internship proved that the FBI was nothing like what I had dreamed it would be. But I’d kept fighting to keep that dream version, the one I’d scrawled all over my vision of the future. 

“So you tried to have it both ways. Explore the new and interesting change of plans while sticking to the old one. Disaster ensued.” Beth grimaces. “I’m so sorry, honey. I wish I could go back in time and make you realize this sooner.” 

“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “Too late. My own fault. I should’ve told you and Monique. I should’ve told Sergei the truth. I should’ve told the Bureau to shove it long ago.” 

“So the question is,” Beth says, “What are you going to do next?” 

The question burns hot in my head, but I’m not ready to answer it yet. I’m not even ready to begin. “Wallow in self-pity for a few days, I guess.” I pick her notecards back up. “And force you to study.”