Page 13 of Retribution
Plopping myself down on an empty seat, I swing a leg over the other, waving it slightly as I reply, “No one. Just walked in.”
His face now resembling the color of a fire hydrant, I worry I may have to break out my first aid skills to help when he collapses from a heart attack.
Letting him splutter for a moment longer – just for the pure pleasure of it—I finally put him out of his misery. Turning to give everyone else a quick glance, I wave my arm in a dramatic fashion before stating, “Dutch Buchanan. Nice to meet you.”
There’s a moment of silence before the room breaks out in whispers.This is as bad as fucking high school, I think to myself, watching these tough agents work themselves into a tizzy over a female agent joining their ranks.
Seriously, boys, it ain’t 1952.
“Alright, alright, calm down,” Agent Cooper bellows, bringing order back to the room.
Pity. I preferred the chaos.
“Agent Buchanan, while I would like to say that it’s a pleasure to have you here, I would suggest in the future that you arrive on time.” Looking me up and down with a barely concealed sneer, he continues, “And appropriately dressed. This isn’t a metal concert.”
Fuck him. Who says I like metal? Oh, yeah. The Judas Priest tattoo might give it away.
“Are you telling me how to clothe my body?” I snap back at him, a smirk playing at my lips. “Do I need to run by what brand of tampons I use as well, or are you good with letting me make that choice myself?”
The whispers start up behind me again, and I roll my eyes. Definitely high school.
Agent Cooper begins spluttering again, his face an even more alarming red than before. If looks could kill, right? Oh yeah, I’d be six feet under for sure.
“Look, young lady, just because your uncle is the Director, doesn’t mean you can get away with that kind of disrespect and behavior.” He peers down at me with a smug look on his face. Like he just put me in my place or something.
I bring myself to my feet, pulling my arms up into a stretch, letting all the assholes get a good look at me before I sashay up to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“First of all,” I whisper in his ear, “no one likes a pompous, condescending blowhard. And secondly—that’s exactly what it means.” Backing away, I toss a grin around the room, taking in the wide eyes and jeering faces. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go find my desk. Surely there is some kind of work to do around here, right? Or do you all just sit around all day in a circle jerk?”
With that probably unwise statement, I make my exit, stalking out of the room and slamming the door shut behind me. Fuck’s sake. I didn’t want it advertised who my uncle was. That was a sure-fire way to get myself ostracized from the get-go.
The previously empty reception desk that I had strolled past my first time through the halls is now occupied by a woman, I’m guessing in her forties, with shoulder-length brown hair, glasses, and a friendly smile.
Peering up at me with wide eyes, she takes me in, a smile stretching across her face. “Oh, thank goodness!” she exclaims, her eyes twinkling. “Please tell me you’re going to go up against Calamity Cooper and keep dressing like that. Please.”
My eyebrows disappear into my hairline, I raise them so high at her comment. Chuckling, I murmur conspiratorially, “I might do that, just to see how many different shades of red he can turn.” Putting my hand out, I shake hers. “Dutch Buchanan.”
“Denise Scott.”
We smile at each other for a moment, before I ask her where I might find my office.
“Oh, yes, sorry, dear. Right this way.” I follow her down a corridor, and she points out the restrooms and breakroom along the way. Stopping outside a door with my name on it, she says, “Here you go. Make yourself comfortable. Let me know if you need anything else.”
I thank her and open the door, coming to an abrupt halt. Not because of surprise or joy, or any other emotion. But because the door only opens halfway, banging on the edge of the desk. Squeezing myself past the door and into the room, I close the door behind me, sighing at the broom closet-sized “office” before me. Certainly a far cry from the cushy, spacious office with stunning views I had in New York.
It’s official. My uncle hates me, and I’m in hell.
I just sit myself down in the squeaky chair when the door crashes into the desk for a second time. Raising my eyebrows at the man sticking his head through the gap, I wait for him to speak up.
“Hey, Dutch, right?” the Leonardo DiCaprio look-alike asks as he tries to squeeze into my shoebox. Office. What-the-fuck-ever.
“Who’s asking?” I snark back, dreams of a quiet morning pouring over files flying out the window.
Giving me a bashful smile, he thrusts his hand out, then slowly lowers it at the glower I offer back. “Chase Dempsey. Agent Cooper assigned me to be your partner. Help you get the lay of the land, as it were.”
Granny Moira used to tell me tales of the bean-shìdh, or in English, banshee, as a child; a spirit woman who would screech and wail at the impending death of a family member. Despite my calm and collected outward demeanor, inside I’m doing a fairly good impression of the bean-shìdh. Maybe I’m one of their descendants.
Pinching the bridge of my nose—and then realizing I’m subconsciously mimicking my uncle—I blow out a breath at the indignation of having a partner thrust on me. Gotta make sure the little lady can find her way around the teensy tiny building. Don’t want the little lady to, I don’t know, think for herself or anything.
