I blamed my unrealistic expectations of becoming an FBI special agent on The X-Files.
Granted, Mulder and Scully were fictional characters, but working in the FBI was nothing like portrayed on any TV shows. Disappointment made me want to crawl inside the TV and kick some ass.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
So far my new FBI job hadn’t entailed chasing down aliens-either illegal or the bug-eyed, misshapen-headed types.
I hadn’t been assigned a trippy private office that I could decorate with funky, yet prophetic posters.
I hadn’t met a weirdly wise, hip, confidential informant.
I hadn’t participated in a raid where I got to yell, “Federal agents! Everyone on the ground!”
The brass hadn’t issued me a shiny badge or one of those rocking black jackets with FBI emblazoned in big white letters on the back.
Heck, I hadn’t even been saddled with an official partner.
I was damn lucky I’d gotten a gun.
Not that I’d gotten to shoot it yet.
Instead of chasing down bad guys and busting heads, I was trapped in an overheated office building in Rapid City with other agents, flipping though a stack of paperwork, listening to Director Shenker drone on.
And holy J. Edgar Hoover, did the man love the sound of his own monotone.
I sighed. A boot connected with my ankle, and I sucked in a quick breath at the sharp pain.
Of course, Director Shenker chose that moment to pause his lecture. He peered at me over the top of his cheater bifocals-leopard print cheater bifocals, no less.
Peered was too bland a word. Glared was more fitting.
I fought the urge to squirm.
“Have something to add, Agent Gunderson?”
“No, sir.” I pointed to my empty water glass. “Just a dry throat.” I reached for the water pitcher-we’d been in meeting hell so long the ice had melted. When I thoughtfully refilled my tablemate’s glass-oops, water splashed on his notebook, obliterating the elaborate doodle he’d been working on for the past two hours.
Served the bastard right for kicking me.
“Take ten, people,” Shenker said, leaving up the PowerPoint presentation.
Didn’t have to tell me twice. I was out of the room and down the hallway before my seatmate quit scratching himself.
Or so I thought.
A hand on my shoulder spun me around so I was nose to nose with Special Agent Shay Turnbull-my unofficial trainer, my doodling seat-mate, the disher of a daily dose of snark that made me snicker like a teenage girl in spite of myself.
