Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie

Twenty-Seven

Chase

The hot water pounds on my back and swirls in circles around the drain. The skin around my toes is sponge-like. It’s time to get out of the shower. I rotate and let the water pour directly on my face and down my body.

Even with my eyes closed, I can’t escape. The bodies. The blood. Muffled crying. The bright lights. The eerie silence that followed before sirens sounded. The faint, acrid smell of gunfire. The fear Sam wore, unchecked, as he held Wes’s hand. “You’re gonna be okay. Stay with us.”

I brusquely wipe water droplets off my face and wrap a towel around my waist. Condensation covers the mirror. I swipe a clear path with my palm. The person who stares back at me is foreign. I don’t want to be the guy in the reflection.

“Did you know Sydney’s in the FBI?” It was the first question Olivia asked when we jumped in a cab to head to the hospital, close behind Wes and Sam in the ambulance.

I didn’t know. Anything. Talk about being played. Who knew undercover agents would fuck suspects to get close to them? Because that’s what it had to be. Right? She wouldn’t work at both BB&E and the FBI. Someone might have a full career and “help” the CIA, but the FBI is a full-time gig. So, she had to have been undercover. I suppose it’s possible she wasn’t investigating me. She was investigating Garrick or BB&E overall, and she didn’t expect to fall for my charms. Yeah, right. She’s a real-life Bond girl. I got played.

And it doesn’t even matter. One thing about death, it puts everything in perspective. All over the city tonight, phone calls and texts, maybe social media posts, are being shared, forever altering someone’s world. The person they spoke to earlier today is no more. The person they planned to see this weekend won’t be arriving. So, I was a pawn in an FBI undercover operation. Big. Fucking. Deal. Other people died.

I get dressed and stare at my bed. A designer decked out my whole place. I let her do whatever she wanted. Told her I wanted the HGTV reveal experience. Zero effort on my part. White paint with a fancy name on the walls and ceiling. Patterned black and white spread, with two muted tribal throw pillows. Then she had me buy this brown and white cowhide throw. All the framed images are black and white. Some photos, some art.

I’ll give it to her. You can photograph the shit out of this place. But there’s not a damn thing here to take cover from this hell I’m in. I shuffle out of the bedroom. I don’t want to close my eyes. I’d rather stare at the white walls and my sparse modern furnishings than see what I’ll see if I lie down.

The buzzer sounds, alerting me that someone’s outside. Who the hell would be coming here at four a.m.? A coldness infiltrates. Shit. Olivia might want to tell me in person if Wes didn’t make it. When I left, he was out of surgery. I thought he was out of the woods.

I bow my head and press the intercom button to allow her in. I’d speak, but it doesn’t work. The intercom relays static, and that’s about it. Side effect of living in an old building. I’d loved this renovated loft and the street, Hudson Square. Now, it comes across as disjointed. Alien.

I hold open the door, standing one foot in the hall in boxers and a t-shirt, barefoot. There are two other units on my floor, but no one’s going to be coming out into the hall at this hour. The rickety elevator creaks up to my floor, and the single panel door folds open.

Sydney steps out into the hall.

Not who I was expecting. She’s got two colleagues parked on the street. Protective detail, they said. I wonder if she’s aware. But of course she is. She’s FBI. They know every fucking thing.

“I hope I didn’t wake you.” She’s tentative. Fiddling with her fingers. Wearing the same little black dress and high heels. Pink, verging on red, skin mars the area where skin meets shoe on her feet. Her hair still falls in a perfect straight bob. If it wasn’t for the feet, I’d say this is just another day in the life for Agent Frost.

I lean against the doorjamb and let the door fall against my left side.

“What do you need?”

She pushes her hair behind her right ear and looks me in the eye. “Can I come in?”

Fuck her. But whatever. I kick the door open and walk into my apartment. The three windows in my living area open onto the building across the street. No one’s lights are on, a reminder of the hour.

I hear the door click close.

“You want something to drink?” I ask as my bare feet pound the wood floor.

“I’d love some water.” She slides onto the barstool that faces the kitchen area, and I push a glass over the Corian block countertop, another design feature courtesy of someone else’s taste.

I stare at her. She squirms on the stool. I’m fully aware she’s had a tough day, too. Hell, she killed someone today. But unfamiliar emotions roll through me, and my brain’s not fully activated. I don’t even know who the fuck she is.

“I have some explaining to do.” She crosses her long legs and folds her hands in her lap.

“I’m all ears.” I cross my arms and wait.

She twists off the barstool and limps over to the sofa, barefoot. My sofa is this modern, low back, cool-looking but not particularly comfortable, light brown suede piece with some throw pillows on it to soften it up. It’ll do, but when my butt hits the ultra-firm seat, for about the thousandth time, I wish I’d requested a comfortable ugly plush sofa that a person can crash on.

I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, forehead against my palms. My eyes burn, my throat’s sore, and my muscles ache. I lift my head and exhale.

“Let’s get this over with,” I tell her.

She pulls her feet up under her and cradles a throw pillow in her lap.

“I work for the FBI.”

“I kinda got that.”

“I’m a new team member to a larger operation. The task force suspected BB&E was engaged in illegal activities. As a new member, with my background, I was chosen to participate in an undercover role. I am a CPA, and forensic accounting is my specialty. It was supposed to be a quick assignment.”

“So, did you catch the bad guys?”

“I can’t talk about specifics in an ongoing case. I’ve probably already said too much.”

A bug or something nips below my eye, and I rub it hard, then press up and down in vicious swipes on the right half of my face. If she can’t talk about an ongoing case, what the fuck else can she say?

We stare at each other.

“If you don’t have anything else to say, I’m sure you’d like to try to get some sleep.” I gesture to the door.

“Chase, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Who says I’m hurt?”

“I was going to tell you everything tomorrow, or I mean today. As soon as I had the approval to do so.”

“And when you told me everything, was there more you were going to say, or did you just cover all the points you wanted to cover?”

“My real name is Sadie. Sadie Keating. I chose the name Sydney Frost as my cover name. I thought it was a good play on my real name. I’ve never been an undercover agent, and I was nervous about it. It’s not the role I want to play in the FBI moving forward. I might not have known that before this operation, but I know now. It’s too hard for me to pretend to be someone else, to disassociate. The only way I could pull it off was to be as close to the real me as possible.”

I swallow and grind my teeth as I absorb her statement. “And who is the real you?”

“Sadie—”

“Not your fucking name. A name is a name. I’m called by many of them. Women often choose ‘asshole.’ But that doesn’t make me one. Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m an agent who got close to someone while on an undercover assignment. At least, I thought we were becoming close.” She squeezes the pillow to her chest like it’s a life raft. “I’ve grown closer to you than I have anyone else in a long time.”

She’s staring down at the suede. There’s a shitload of questions to ask her, but my throat’s closing, and exhaustion is setting in. Only one thing really matters.

“When you were with me, when we spent time together, just the two of us? Iowa. Last night. Was that real?”

“Yes. I promise. I swear.” She slowly lifts her gaze to meet mine.

My eyes burn. My emotion levels are sky high, yet in a state of paradox. I’m numb. I stand. Her dark eyes glisten in the moonlight cascading through the window. “I can’t promise anything. I’ve got a shitload to think through…sort through. And a shit ton of questions. But it’s late. I just want to crash. End this day.” She nods, and the light catches on a stray tear. “And I want to hold you in my arms. Thank the gods you’re okay and that fucker didn’t shoot you before you shot him.” Tears sting. I rub my eyes and walk away.

She follows me into my bedroom, and I close the shades. She pulls off her dress and snaps off her bra, letting them both fall in a heap on the floor.

“Go. Get in the shower. Wash today off. Then we’ll sleep.”

She follows my directions and steps into my shower. The water pours down over her, and the steam builds. I hold out a towel for her, waiting. I watch her through the glass as she tilts her face into the water. Her shoulders shake as emotion rocks through her.

I drop the towel, open the glass door, and step in behind her. I hold her to me as she cries it out. Once her sobs settle down, I place soap on a sponge and wash her all over. I massage shampoo into her scalp, then finger conditioner through her strands.

I wrap a towel around her then drop my soaked sweatpants onto the shower floor, to be dealt with tomorrow.

I get into bed behind her, pulling her against me, spooning her, holding her tight. Filled with gratitude that I can. I don’t have any idea what tomorrow will hold. How I’ll feel. How angry I’ll be. But one thing is crystal clear. When the world’s thrown into utter chaos, you’ve got to focus on what matters. Names don’t matter. Material shit doesn’t matter. People. Those you love. At the end of the day, that’s all there is. I could kick her out. But after the carnage of today, no way. She’s my people. I’m holding on.