When we came up for air, Jacob tossed the rag in his hands toward the kitchenette. It slid off the countertop and pooled on the tile floor. His now-free hand was easing its way around my hip. His fingertips traced the cleft of my ass with unflinching precision, and he palmed the right cheek in a possessive squeeze. “So, this benefit package you mentioned…is it all-access?”
“I think that can be arranged.”
Without losing a beat, Jacob backed me into the table and unhitched my pants. He shoved them down around my thighs as he folded to his knees. Maybe I’d been offering encouragement, not fishing for sex—but, hell, I wasn’t about to turn down a blowjob.
He wet my cockhead with a quick swipe of his tongue and then moistened his lips…just as his phone rang.
And I immediately recognized the ringtone as the office.
It was tempting to tell him to ignore the call, especially with his breath ghosting over the wetness of his spit on the most sensitive part of my anatomy—though for all we knew, some grave matter of security was at stake. Of course, Jacob couldn’t just let it go to voicemail and finish what he’d started. But I had to wonder, if not for the “satisfactory” rating…might he have at least considered letting it wait?
At least he had the courtesy to be annoyed. “Great timing,” he said with some chagrin before he got up and answered with a clipped, “Marks.”
I tucked myself away and headed to the kitchen. There, I retrieved the dropped dishtowel before I slid halfway across thecannery on it on my way to the coffee pot the next morning as Jacob fielded some Internal Affairs question.
“No, I’m not saying the agent is lying, just that he edited. Uh-huh. Right. But if his report is accurate, he shouldn’t be worried about a second assessment.”
As I always did my bestnotto land in the crosshairs with IA, I had no idea if Jacob was always so strict…or if he was reacting to some “satisfactory” assessments that were no doubt totally baseless.
It must really suck to care so much about how you stack up. At least that was one neurosis of which I was, thankfully, free. I was never destined to be top of the class. If flunking fourth grade didn’t clue me in, repeating the spectacle in sixth grade put it on a billboard with flashing lights. The one thing Iwasgood at—seeing ghosts—was impossible to measure. Fine by me. There’s not a competitive bone in my body.
I shoved a couple of Oreos in my mouth—stale, but good enough—and wrangled the last straggling bits of daily clutter while Jacob paced back and forth on the phone. He sounded just a bit too patient. Probably mapping out which department he should coordinate with to raise hissatisfactoryto agood.
Better him than me. I didn’t need a gold star or a pat on the head. I was glad enough to make it through the day intact. Mediocrity suited me just fine—
My phone gave off a little pulse. I dug it out of my pocket…and there, staring at me from the notification screen, was Blip.
Why did you give up?
His articulated fishbowl arms shrugged.
Just what I needed. A passive-aggressive goldfish.
Still, Ihadbeen just half a second away from corralling the Floatalongs. I swiped open the app, relaxed into alpha, and nudged the puffballs the rest of the way.Ba-ding!The app made a happy sound. Big freaking deal. Now I could grab a couple more stale Oreos and—
Great job! Now check your progress!
How could there be progress? What progress was there to measure? I’d only done the thing one time. But my curiosity got the better of me, and I tapped the button, only to find a timed graph of my alpha state. Which, I reminded myself, wasn’t even very accurate. Interesting to note, though, that eating didn’t put me in the zone. Neither did getting serviced. Just imagine if I’d had my happy ending….
“Vic? Are you coming to bed?”
I glanced up, blinking, and wondered exactly how long I’d been scrutinizing my graph.
Right. Good thing I’m not competitive.
CHAPTER TWO
KNOWING SOMETHING ISN’T the same as acting on it. Mood Blaster was a $4.99 app with a target audience whose diet consisted of chicken nuggets and juice boxes. Even so, my inability to beat level 18 was driving me right up a wall.
“When did you get up?” Jacob asked blearily.
Four cups of coffee ago. Coffee that had mysteriously gone cold.
We cycled through the usual morning routine and made it to the office in time for yoga. Bethany Roberts, Medium 2, was a tall, slim new-age type, whose “suggestions” all carried the weight of an unshakeable belief that you were an insufferable screwup…but maybe, given half a chance, she could mold you into something worthwhile.
Her morning sessions had grown over the past months, and now at least a dozen other black-suited federal agents shed their sensible shoes at the door to begin their day with a series of sun salutations. My attendance was sporadic, at best. Yoga didn’t do much for my third eye, but it did seem to make my lumbar region happy.
That morning, I hung back once the namastes were all complete. “Can I get your take on something?” I asked Bethany as I toed on my shoes.
