Free The Seven Year Itch by S D Skye Page B

crackbrained to know when to quit while he was behind,
Sabinski continued his rant. “As your E.E.O. rep, I’d advise you to report me.
But I don’t feel like entertaining
any reports against me ,” he chuckled,
his teeth as yellow as a tub of I Can’t
Believe This is Butter.
    She failed to see the humor.
    How she longed for it, the day when she slapped the handcuffs
on him and dragged him to jail by the lone strand of hair left on
watermelon-sized nugget.
    She bolted up from her seat and started toward the door.
Attempted to leave before choice four- and five-letter words spewed past her
lips. Why give him the satisfaction of knowing he could make her completely
lose her composure. She did, however, leave him with one final thought.
    “If you ever spit those hateful comments or utter a single syllable about my father again, I
promise you an E.E.O. complaint will look like the Tea Cup ride at Disney Land
compared to the nightmare I’ll bring to your doorstep!”
    She strutted to his desk, her breath heavy and fingers
trembling with fury as she reached toward him. Jack’s eyes bulged and his
countenance lit with panic. He wanted to scream at her, but the sound locked in
his throat.
    J.J. proceeded to knock over every OCD-arranged knick-knack
she could reach. She then dry washed her hands and threw her hands up in
victory. With his bottom jaw scraping the floor, she turned to leave.
    Jack sat back hard against his seat. This was a different
J.J. and she could see he was caught off guard. She’d never jumped down his
throat heels first; rather she’d normally grin and bear his verbal vitriol. He
paused, unsure of how heavily to tread. “I won’t tolerate your insubordination!
Touch my desk or speak to me that way again, and I’ll you have fired.”
    He had no idea how much she wanted to dare him. No sooner
than the words passed his lips, a slight sensation emerged in her earlobe.
    Bluffing.
    Emboldened, J.J. shot a glare over her shoulder. “You promise?”

 
 
    Chapter 8

 
 
    J.J. burned with angry fire as she raced from Jack’s office,
her feet pounded hard against the floor. She charged toward the vault entrance,
frustrated. Pissed off. Thirsty. She had a duty to stay and cared too much to
quit and leave it all behind. She hadn’t planned to walk into the vault but for
the fact that she could take swig without everyone staring down her throat.
J.J. had been teetering on a thin line for years and he’d managed push her
over. Now she didn’t want a drink, she needed it.
    “What’s going on, J.J.?” Tony asked, concerned. He hurried
his pace to catch up with her. Once he was out of earshot of their nosy
colleagues, she stopped and turned to him.
    “Refresh my memory. What’s the penalty for first degree
murder?”
    J.J. badged into the vault, placing her index finger into the
new biometric scanners, the most hi-tech security used in the Bureau outside of
the labs at Quantico. She waved her badge in front of the infrared reader until
the lock clicked then entered with Tony following close on her heels.
    “What happened? What did he say?”
    She collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her hands,
tried to shake off the disastrous meeting. Then she pulled her spare flask from
a desk drawer and opened it in front of Tony. He bit his lip, his neck
stiffened.
    “J.J.”
    She took a short gulp and twisted the cap shut. She never
took more than a sip or two at a time. A slow drizzle. “Trust me, when I tell you
what happened you’re going to want some too.” She handed the flask out to him.
“What do you want first, the bad new
or the worse news?”
    “Gimme the worst first,” he said, sitting at attention and
wagging his hand to refuse her offer.
    “It’s Plotnikov...he was recalled to Moscow.” She returned
the flask to the drawer. “He’s gone, probably dead by now if Golikov’s people
had anything to do with it.”
    “You’re yankin’ my chain. I don’t even believe this