Closer

 

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Introduction

Just trying something a little different -- writing from a female POV.

This will need some work, and probably a lot of editing, so please bear with me.

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Chapter 1

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but without any form of payment or ID, there's nothing I can do for you.”   
    “But I've shown you who I am, you've seen my Facebook page. I know I can't pay you right now but I can leave something valuable with you. Or maybe you could allow me to call me friend so she can transfer money?”
    “Ma'am.” Impatient.
    “Oh, come on! How am I supposed to get to DC without my ID. Without my credit cards?” Equally impatient.
    “Maybe you could call a friend. Ma'am, I have other customers.” Again with the ma'am. And how many times had I told him my purse got stolen? I didn't have a phone. Resisting the urge to take my shoe off and throw it at his poker face, I moved away from the counter and lowered myself into one of the seats lining the wall on the other end of the space. I dropped my small weekend bag at my feet. I'd give him a couple of minutes to help the guy that had been waiting behind me and maybe then I'd ask him nicely if I could use the company phone to call a friend. Although I wasn't sure who to call. It was past dinner time, I doubted even my best friend would be willing to drive all the way to Miami because I lost my wallet, including all of my credit cards and my passport. All I had was about 20 dollars. Not nearly enough to get a cab. I sighed and watched the other ''customer'' lean across the counter, pointing at the computer screen and requesting a bigger car. Mph. First world problems. He was probably on holiday. He was wearing khakis and a gray T-shirt that may have been a little too tight, especially in the shoulder area. A baseball cap was pulled down low over his face, but not low enough to hide the little 5 'o clock shadow situation. Although he may not just be starting his vacation. Upon closer inspection his skin looked tanned, and not the fake kind.
    At that exact moment the guy turned and glanced at me, and I quickly averted my eyes, pretending I'd been staring at my heels this whole time. I leaned over to swipe two fingers across a non-existent spot on my toe just to come across a little more convincing, and it worked. He turned back to the car-rental guy and handed over his credit card. Of course, he had one. I kicked my bag and crossed my arms across my chest, attempting to stare down the rental guy. No such luck – he was ignoring me. A faint feeling of panic tickled beneath my chest. If I didn't have my credit card, and I wasn't able to find some way out of Miami, where was I going to stay tonight? The airport wasn't an option, they'd probably find me suspicious. And I doubted I would be able to get a hotel room for 20 dollars, even in the sketchy neighborhoods. Besides, I didn't even have a chance of getting to those sketchy neighborhoods. I sure as hell wasn't going to walk all the way in my business heels. For one, they were too expensive. Plus, there was the fact that I probably wouldn't even make it a mile without getting blisters. Perfect. I ran my hands down my face in frustration. Just perfect.
    “Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear. Did you say your purse got stolen?” Kind male voice. Definitely not the rental guy. I peeked over the tips of my fingers. It was the guy in the khakis. He'd taken place next to me and taken off his cap, friendly blue eyes boring into mine. He looked tired. I nodded, unsure of why he was talking to me.
    “Look, I'm driving up to DC myself, I realize how this sounds, but if you want I could give you a lift.” Yeah, right. Like that was gonna happen. I almost snorted. Almost.
    “No, thanks.” I expected him to get up and walk away, but he didn't.
    “I figured you'd say that. Okay, I asked the guy if I could pay for your rental, but unfortunately it doesn't work that way, something to do with insurance. Anyway, if you're sure? I mean I have some cash on me if you want to book yourself a hotel for the night, but 50 dollars is the best I can do.” He was already reaching into his back pocket. Was this guy for real?
    “Wait, you'd do that? For a total stranger?”
    “If it would help you.”
    “Why?” I was sure he was just trying to gain my trust. Convince me to get into that car with him so he could drive to the middle-of-nowhere and do scary things with me.
    “Honestly? Because you look a little distraught and I can understand why you wouldn't get into a car with a guy randomly offering you a ride. Even though I work for the FBI and you're more than welcome to use my phone and inform anyone you want of who I am.” He smiled a little, and I realized he was good looking. He didn't look like the type of guy that would hurt women. Although maybe that was how he lured them in. Ah crap.
    “Can you prove you're FBI?” I gave him my best suspicious look. He reached into his back pocket again and pulled out his badge, handing it to me. It sure felt real, although I had no idea how an FBI badge was supposed to feel. I ran my fingers across the emblem on the front and opened it. His name was Luke James Brody. The credentials looked genuine. “All right. How about an ID?” I held out my hand and was given exactly what I asked for. I inspected it closely. Date of birth March 6th, 1980. I glanced at him. Okay, I believed that. Citizen of Washington DC. Blue eyes, brown hair. Okay. I had an idea.
    “Phone, please?” I looked at him. He seemed to be holding back a smile. A smug smile or an amused one? I couldn't tell, but he gave me his phone. “This is locked.”
    “2009,” he said, no secrecy. Wow, he must be an outstanding agent to give away his code like that. I typed in the numbers and the iPhone unlocked. I placed his badge and ID on my lap and snapped a picture of them. Then, I composed a short but clear message and sent it, along with the picture, to my best friend – the only number I knew by heart.
    “Change your mind?” He asked, after I handed him back his badge, but held onto his ID.
    “One second.” I got up and walked back to the counter where rental guy looked up, bored.
    “Hi,” I said, as friendly as I could, “any chance you have a sharpie I can borrow?” I'd seen this on tv. The guy reached over and handed me a blue sharpie. I thanked him and looked at Luke Brody's ID again before writing his social security number across the length of my forearm. Then, I placed the sharpie back on the counter, made my way back to Mr. Federal Agent and gave him his ID. “Okay. I'm ready.” He'd put his baseball cap back on, but his smile was definitely one of amusement. 

 

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Chapter 2

Thirty minutes later I tried to make myself comfortable in the passenger seat while Brody made his way around the vehicle after closing the door for me. No need to worry, this guy had been very open about who he was. I'd even managed to convince him to text a friend saying he was giving me a lift to DC. Yet I couldn't help but feel a little freaked out when he climbed into the driver's seat and shut his door. My mother's voice was on constant repeat in the back of my mind Don't talk to strangers. Don't talk to strangers.
    “So what were you doing in Miami?” I adjusted my seat and put on my seat belt. After that I looked for other ways to fidget, but found none. The engine roared to life when he turned the key, and before I knew it we were moving. No way back now.
    “Business.” Short and for the first time not very open. I glanced at him. He'd slid on a pair of aviator sunglasses and he had his eyes on the road. His outfit wasn't very business-like, especially for someone who claimed to work for the government. My own attire – a short-sleeved red button-down, black skirt and matching heels was. I had been on a short business trip. Brody was lying his ass off. Or at least being very secretive. I wondered why.
    “I was here on business. You look like you've been on a swamp tour in the Everglades. And you're tanned.” To my surprise, he laughed.
    “What are you, a profiler? I'm not lying if that's what you mean. I was here on official FBI business, for quite a while actually, which should explain the tan, but I'm not allowed to discuss an ongoing case, especially with a stranger. All you told me is your name.” He had a point. I'd introduced myself shortly after I'd agreed to accept his officer, and maybe I was being nosy. I blamed it on my nerves. And yet I couldn't seem to stop.
    “You were undercover, weren't you?”
    “You're gonna keep bugging me about this the whole way there, aren't you?”
    “Maybe, I might be tired by the time we get to Daytona Beach.”
    “Well how's this? We get to know each other a little better first, drive until dinner time, grab some food and then find a place to stay for the night.”
    “That'll give us just enough time to get to Daytona Beach.”
    “Funny. Why don't you pick some music to keep us entertained.” He turned his attention back to the road. I let it go, for now, and spent some time going back and forth between channels until I found a satisfactory road trip song. It wasn't long until his fingers started tapping to the beat on the steering wheel, and I found myself a little more at ease. He spoke again when we were on the 95.
    “So, I know your name is Jane. What else can you tell me?”
    “Oh that's easy. You're off-limits and now you want to know all about me?” Only half-joking.
    “Hey, you know my full name, my age, where I work and why I was in Miami. You also know I'm afraid of flying and that I'm a fantastic driver. It's your turn now.” I couldn't help it. I laughed.
    “Fine. What do you want to know?” I turned the music down a little.
    “How did your purse get stolen?”
    “You're gonna think I'm stupid.”
    “Try me.”
    “I shared a cab to the airport. The guy paid for both of us. When I went to check in at the airport, it was gone.”
    “Huh. You don't strike me as the type who'd share a cab with a stranger.” I could've sworn I saw a hint of a smile on his lips.
    “It was raining. You don't strike me as the type who's afraid of flying.”
    “Well, chalk it up to childhood trauma. I prefer driving.”
    “Did you know it's much more likely to die in a car accident than to die in a plane crash?”
    “It's not so much about the crashing...” He trailed off, but I could tell he'd wanted to add something else.
    “But...?”
    “Hard to explain. It's the general experience. The feeling I get when I'm on a plane. Anxiety, I guess.” I watched his grip tighten on the wheel, knuckles whitening. Wow, there as a story there. I decided not to press, attempted to lighten the mood in stead.
    “I can understand that. Any other fears I should know about? Cats? Clowns, maybe?” It worked. His fingers relaxed, and he smiled. The smile was contagious.
    “Not that I know of. What about you?”
    “Oh well, where do I begin? Spiders, jellyfish, moths, flying insects in general. Oh and did you see the size of those cockroaches in Miami?”
    “Strangers?”
    “There's that.”

Here's what I'd learned about him 5 hours later. He wasn't married (although he hadn't actually told me that, the lack of a wedding band around his finger had told me that), he'd moved to DC on his own when he was 18 and he'd worked for the FBI for almost eight years. He currently worked for the homicide department, and no he wasn't going to tell me about his undercover case. Although when he said that, that had of course informed me he'd indeed been undercover in the Miami area. He also had a slight obsession with twizzlers – which he'd picked up while at the gas station during a toilet break an hour earlier, and he drank black coffee. What I told him about me was that I was happy in my current job, but wanted to start working for a non-profit organization at some point, that I was 29 and not dreading the big 3-0 because I didn't really have time to think about it. I told him I shared an apartment with my best friend in Georgetown, just outside DC, and that I'd lived there all my life. That I'd visited more than half the states in the country, and many other countries, but that DC was still my favorite place to be, and that I loved coming home to it. He'd agreed with that. There was just something about that city.
    “You never told me where you were born.” The sun was hanging low in the sky, and he flipped down his visor, shifting a little in his seat.
    “Nope.”
    “Can I guess?”
    “Knock yourself out, I'm gonna find us a motel and a place to eat.”
    “Okay. Well it's gotta be the West coast. Probably California.” I recrossed my legs on the dashboard and flipped down my own visor. A sign on the side of road told us Welcome to Daytona Beach. Finally. I was starving.
    “What makes you say that?”
    “The accent. There's a hint of California in there. Hard to tell, but it's there. So, I'm guessing – Santa Barbara?”
    “A little further North.”
    “Ah! That was my next guess. San Francisco.”
    “Bingo.”
    “I love that city. Did you like living there? Or is that why you moved to DC?”
    “It's beautiful.” Non-committal. A little evasive. Again, not very open. Was that another off-limits topic? This guy was a mystery. I realized that so far I'd learned nothing really personal about him, while he knew about my two younger siblings and my good relationship with my parents. And he knew that I had a small bladder. After five hours of not trying to kill me I trusted him, but didn't seem to trust me one bit, apart from giving me the code to his iPhone.
    “But...?”
    “I needed a change of scenery.”
    “Bad childhood?” I tried, knowing I'd fail.
    “How about KFC for dinner?” Definitely evasive that time. 

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