I'll pass on the salsa
REED
Andrewsrhythmically taps his ring finger on the steering wheel, the metal clicking along in time with the song.
Tap, tap, tap.
If he knew how close to losing a hand he was, he’d stop. Perhaps I should warn him.
He cocks an accusatory brow at me. “You know what I just realized about you?”
I don’t answer, not wanting to engage in more of his pointless chit-chat. Unfortunately, he either doesn’t get the hint or doesn’t care.
Tap, tap, tap.
“I’ve never seen you smile.AndI’ve never seen you drink coffee. Coincidence?”
I roll my eyes. “Ha.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“I’m just saying, you might be less grumpy if you were properly caffeinated.”
“No thanks.”
“It’s worth a try. I mean, it’s not like you could get crustier than you already are.”
“Only the weak need vices to survive. I’ll stick to water.”
“Wow. That was extra pompous. Even for you, which is saying something.”
Hard to believe I was once thrilled to be assigned to the Violent Crimes unit with him as my mentor. About two months ago, I got called up from my grunt assignment in the white-collar division and put on the dream team. Since I’ve only been at the FBI for a little over a year, Andrews was assigned to help me settle in.
He might be a knowledgeable agent who’s taught me quite a bit, but he’s nosy as hell.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told him that I don’t discuss my private life. He keeps trying to offer fatherly advice and butt in where he isn’t wanted. I think he misunderstood his task as a mentor. He’s supposed to be a trainer, not a fucking life coach.
He shakes his head at me and clicks his tongue. “Did you reply to my friend yet?”
Propping my elbow at the base of the passenger window, I make a point of looking out my side of the car. Away from him.
Under my breath, I mutter, “None of your business, Andrews.”
He grunts, which I hope is a sign that he’s getting tired of trying to talk to me about this shit. “So you honestly have no interest in meeting your biological brother?”
Fucking hell. Turns out, his grunt wasnota sign of forthcoming silence.
Sadly.
“None at all.” My jaw aches from the prolonged clenching. “And for the last time, I don’t want to talk about it with you.”
Or with anyone.
My family isnota topic worth discussing. And I have no plans of changing my position on the matter.
Tap, tap, tap.
I cast a sharp glare at the source of the offending sound, and my teeth scrape together as my frustration reaches new heights. After rolling out my shoulders, I readjust the knot on my necktie.
