“No, I got it,” I countered. “I need motivation for next time.”
“You sure?”
“No.” I sighed. “But, yes.” I grinned up at him. “Besides, I’m expensing all this to the club, anyway.”
Rabbit raised an eyebrow. “Does Sundance know that?”
I chuckled. “No, but he will. And he’ll pay. You know he will.”
“Yeah, he will.” Rabbit laughed. “Jesus, you’re the only one with balls enough to do something socrazy.”
“Crazy? I prefer quirky,” I said.
“Hit the showers, grab some chow, and we’ll meet in training room A-65 at oh-nine-hundred,” Taxi called out to the group.
It was Tuesday, which meant the omelet bar would still be open in the mess hall if I hurried. With so few creature comforts of home available at Quantico, it was often the little things that would brighten my day. An extra five minutes in the shower, choosing the movie on movie night, but most of all, the omelet bar. A much welcomed, once a week break from the culinary monotony of the mess hall. The eggs were the of the same watery, tasteless variety I’d learned to choke down, but they were joined by shredded cheddar cheese, onions, peppers, and my absolute favorite, mushrooms. It may not have been Michelin star rated cuisine, but it was the best breakfast the FBI had to offer and the only thing I was looking forward to today.
After a lukewarm, therefore quick shower, I made my way to the mess hall. Upon entering, I grabbed a tray, poured myself a cup of black coffee (because they were out of cream, which should have been my first indication of what was to come) and headed to the omelet station.
It was closed.
“Noooo!” I cried, drawing the attention of one of the food servers.
“Corporal Blair has the flu,” he said. “We’re short staffed this morning, so no omelet bar.”
“There’s no contingency plan for this sort ofthing?” I asked. “A back up omelet maker? A private omelet person? A private omeleteer?”
“Private back up omelet maker?” The man smirked. “Ah, no, ma’am. That’s not a thing.”
“Right,” I grumbled.
Great. The day started with a five-K run, and now I’d have to settle for undercooked eggs, overcooked bacon, and un-creamed coffee.
What next?
“And I should warn you… that’s decaf coffee in your cup. We ran out of regular a half hour ago and we won’t be getting another shipment until this afternoon.”
“Of course it is,” I muttered.
I needed to write in my dream journal and hoped to squeeze in ten minutes of meditation before this morning’s teaching session. Not to mention, I was searching for Tackle’s sister who had gone missing several years ago and I’d found a new lead, so I needed to touch base with him.
Needless to say, there was a lot on my plate. In the end, I settled on two bananas and a diet coke for breakfast before heading back to the barracks.
* * *
The teaching session ended early (thank the goddess), so I grabbed Tackle and we headed into a private conference room.
“You found her?” he asked.
“Sort of,” I said, opening my laptop. “I need to set your expectations, buddy. And I also don’t actually think you should look at what I’ve found—”
“Fuck, kiddie porn?” he rasped.
“Yes,” I confirmed. I met his eyes. “I’ve edited the videos so that all you see is her face. I need you to confirm that it’s Leighton, but no brother should see their sister like that, so…”
He studied me and his eyes got soft as he did. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Of course.”