Mojitos with Merry Men (33 page)

 No one, that was, until an elderly woman with the stereotypical helmet of wispy blue hair hobbled over. "Can you interview me?" she asked, leaning on her knobby cane. "I want to be on television."

 
Hmm.
I gave her the once-over. It was funny how some people did anything they could to avoid going on air, while went all Kardashian selfie just at the thought of the insta-fame. (If I wasn't a reporter, I'd so be in the first category!) Of course, granny here wasn't our target demographic—at
News
9 we only cared about the sex lives of twenty-five to forty-nine-year-old women with a lot of disposable income. But it was nearly three P.M., and I was getting desperate.

 "Okay," I said, giving her my Big Reporter smile. I pointed the microphone at her. "Do you ever feel you're too stressed for sex?"

 She stared at me a moment, her blue eyes wide, as if shocked at my brazen question. I felt my face heat. Of course. What was I thinking? Granny probably hadn't gotten it on in the last twenty years or so. Ever since her precious Wilbur died back when Reagan was president.

 Sigh. Too bad my story wasn't "Too Senile for Sex."

 "Too stressed for sex?" the old woman repeated, following the phrase with a tinkly laugh that sounded a little like Christmas bells, "My goodness, no. In fact, ever since I started using this female Viagra I got off the Internet, my sex life is great!" she informed the lens.

 
Hmph.
Evidently these days even Granny was getting more action than me. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

 "Okay," I said, lowering the microphone. She obviously wasn't going to help with my story. "I appreciate you taking the time to answer."
Not
that you gave us anything
we
could use, my little senior sex kitten.

 The woman gave me a disapproving look over her bifocals. "You young people," she scolded. "You need to stop working so hard. Start enjoying life. When you're on your deathbed, you won't look back on your life and think, 'Why didn't I work more?' Trust me. But you might wonder why you didn't have more orgasms."

 Ah. Even better. Not only was Granny boinking like a bunny, she was now offering up life lessons. Next thing you knew, Jenny was going to tell her the Nick story, and the two of them would be tag-teaming for a sex-filled reconciliation.

 Can we say, no thank you?

 "Thanks," I muttered, stepping backward to put as much distance as possible between me and the hot flash ho. "Now, if you'll excuse us…"

 "Good luck, Sweetie," the woman said, then smiled patronizingly. "You'll find your Prince Charming eventually."

 I swallowed hard and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to tell her I'd already found him. And that when I'd kissed him, he'd turned into a total frog. I wanted to insist that relationships—while perhaps good for short-term, crazy, hook-ups—always ended in pain. Leaving you vulnerable and wounded and crying in your tomato alphabet soup. Alone.

 Instead, I channeled Self Protective Mode and turned to throw Jenny a smirk as Granny hobbled away. "Some people!"

 My photographer shrugged. "She does have a point, Dora."

 "Oh, don't start." I groaned. The last thing I needed was a lecture on relationships from an inexperienced twenty-two-year-old. The girl had been dating her boyfriend since the high school prom. She had no idea what was in store for her future love life.

 Jenny opened her mouth to speak, then looked behind me and closed it again. I whirled around to see what had caught her attention and actually achieved the nearly impossible task of shutting her up, crossing my fingers it was a twenty-five to forty-nine-year-old woman who looked way too stressed to do the wild thing with her hubby. Instead, my eyes fell upon a very tall man, dressed entirely in black, standing before me, arms crossed against his broad chest. He had mirrored shades, slicked-back black hair, and a shiny Rolex that peeked out from under his suit coatsleeve. The whole look screamed
Men
in Black.

 "Yes?" I asked, donning Indulgent Reporter Smile. He was probably from mall security and was about to ask us to leave the premises before he called the cops. Could this day get any worse?

 "Dora Duncan?" he asked in a clipped accent I didn't recognize. "Are you Dora Duncan?"

 I felt my face heat into a blush. Not a security guard. Maybe even a fan! A real, live fan!

 I always got a kick out of people recognizing me on the street. Of course, back in the old days when Nick and I rocked the national news, this was a more regular occurrence. We were network superstars then. A tag team everyone rooted for. Now, only a year after escaping the network to take this silly features reporter job in San Diego—where I was sure not to run face to face into a semiautomatic machine gun—nobody even knew my name.

 Nick, on the other hand, was still uber-famous. In fact, I didn't understand how any normal human being could manage to garner such a fan base without selling his soul to the devil. (Which, of course, I wouldn't put past him.) After leaving Baghdad and taking a job as a network news anchor in Los Angeles, he'd become more famous than ever. While I labored in local news obscurity, he walked the red carpet, schmoozing with starlets. While I covered craft fairs and dog shows, he interviewed senators and got laws changed. While I lived my life scarred and ugly because of  his mistake, he made
People Magazine's
"50 Most Beautiful People."

 And Jenny wondered why I wouldn't take him back?

 I realized the man in front of me had his hand outstretched and that I should be shaking it. Had to be gracious to the few fans I had left.

 "Yes. Hi. How nice to meet you," I said with a smile. I wondered if my hair was covering my scar. I hated that I always wondered that while meeting someone new, but I couldn't help it.

 "I'm Special Agent Fredricks," he said in response, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a badge encased in smooth black leather. He flashed it at me, and I raised an eyebrow. Not a fan. FBI. Figured. "We need your assistance, and I've been asked to have you come with me."

 I furrowed my brows. The FBI needed my assistance?
My
assistance?

 "What could you possibly need my assistance for?" I blurted, and then regretted it a moment later. After all, I didn't want to come off as rude and uncooperative to the FBI. But still…

 "It's classified," Fredricks replied, tossing a glance
at
Jenny. "Now, if you could just come with me…"

 I looked over at my photographer, then back to the special agent, trying to decide what I should do. I had a story to get on the air in a few hours, a story I wasn't exactly making much progress on. If I took time out to go with this man, I'd never make my slot. But, he was FBI. I couldn't say no to the FBI, could I? Plus, what if it was an important story he needed my assistance with? What if it were an inside scoop on a huge scandal? Even though I'd taken this job to get away from the danger I'd faced in Iraq, truth be told, lately I was getting a bit sick of covering sex and cellulite and celebrity C-sections for the evening news.

 "Uh, let me call the desk. See if it's okay." The assignment desk was the Big Brother of the newsroom: always watching you. If I took off without checking in with them, I could be in big trouble.

 I reached into my purse to dig out my phone. The agent placed a hand over mine. "No need, Ms. Duncan," he said. "We've already called your station. That's how we knew where you were."

 "Oh." I looked over at Jenny. Should I believe this guy?

 "We talked to a man named Mario. Your news director. He said he could move your story to the eleven P.M. news so you'd have time to finish it after we met with you."

 I raised an eyebrow. Wow. Guess even my boss Mario was impressed that I'd been called upon by the FBI. Usually the guy wouldn't pull a story even as a personal favor to The Pope. Go figure.

 "It will only take a few minutes, Ms. Duncan," assured the agent. "Then we can return you here for your story."

 "Go ahead, Dora," Jenny suggested. "I can hang here, go pick out a few thongs at Vicky Secrets. After all, Robbie's coming over tonight."

 "Uh, great. A bit T.M.I, but great." I suppressed a shudder, then turned back to Special Agent Fredricks. "Fine, fine. Lead the way," I agreed.

 I followed him out of the mall and into the parking lot, where a shiny black car with heavily tinted windows sat idling by the curb. A chauffeur type stepped up to open the back door and I ducked down to crawl inside. FBI Man entered after me, and soon we were speeding away from the mall.

 "Where are we going?' I asked.

 "Headquarters," Fredricks replied
not-so-informatively.

 "And what is it you need my help with again?"

 "It will all be explained to you in due time, Ms. Duncan."

 Of course it would be. I leaned back, settling into the plush leather seat. Might as well relax for a few moments. God knew I'd be scrambling the rest of the day to make my news slot after this inopportune field trip. Still, my pulse thrummed with anticipation. Relaxation was never my forte.

 About ten minutes later, the car slowed to a stop and the chauffeur opened the door. I crawled out, looking around at my surroundings. We were in an underground parking garage. Agent Fredricks stepped out beside me and gestured for me to follow him.

 Soon we were walking down a featureless corridor, flanked by even more featureless silver doors. It didn't look like anything I'd imagined FBI offices would look like. Not that my job had ever taken me anywhere higher up than the local police barracks.

 
Curiouser
and curiouser,
as Alice would say.

 Of course, my brain decided to take that instant to remind me that I hadn't really checked this man's ID all that closely. What if he was lying about being part of the FBI? About speaking to Mario? What if he was really part of some secret underground Iraqi syndicate that had been looking for me this last year? What if I'd walked right into their trap?

 I felt the all-too-familiar wave of panic rise like bile in my throat and attempted the breathing exercises the shrink had taught me to prevent yet another full-on panic attack.

 
Oh Dora, how do you get yourself into these messes?

 I squeezed my hands into fists and struggled to regain control of my rebellious, wildly beating heart. Being scared wouldn't help me escape if I needed to. Besides, I was being completely irrational. Why would some Iraqi group be looking for me? Ridiculous.

 "Here we are," Fredricks announced, interrupting my racing thoughts. He slid a card key into a slot by one of the nondescript doors. It looked exactly like the other thirty some-odd doors we'd passed, and I wondered how he kept track.

 A light above the slot turned green and the door slid open, revealing a circular, windowless conference room with a large mahogany table at its center. Sitting at the table were three men, also dressed in the uniform of black suit and mirrored shades. Which was odd, considering we were deep underground and the lighting didn't exactly lend itself to sunglasses.

 This was beginning to get super freaky. If they started introducing me to any aliens like they did with Will Smith, I was so out of there.

 "Sit, Ms. Duncan," said Man in Black #1.

 I pulled out a chair and did as he requested. After all, what choice did I have? Sure, I knew Tae Kwon Do, but it didn't seem quite plausible that I'd be able to take on four men all at once. Especially ones who appeared to be platinum members in good standing at their local gyms.

 "What's going on here?" I asked. "Did I do something wrong?" Even as I asked the question, I knew that couldn't be the case. After all, my current life consisted of reporting on new-and-improved microdermabrasion by day and binge-watching
The Real Housewives of Whatever City was Currently on the Air.
by night. Not exactly the stuff of which trouble was made.

 Unless they wanted to know more about my prison days in Iraq. I doubted that, though. I mean, I'd already been through the endless questioning a thousand times with a thousand different military men. The case had been closed—dismissed—long ago.

 Man in Black #2 shook his head. "No," he said. "On the contrary, we need your help."

 I shot a skeptical look from one to the next to the next. What on earth could they need my help with? And FYI, I'd retired from the helping business. I was a lowly features reporter now. I had no remaining FBI Helper Girl skills on reserve.

 Man in Black #3 picked up a shiny silver remote control from the table and pressed a button. A slide projection illuminated the far wall of the room. My eyes widened and I gasped as I recognized the image on the screen.

 Nick. Nick the Prick, to be exact.

 "Do you know this man?" asked Agent Fredricks in a tone that told me he already knew the answer and wasn't going to allow me the luxury of lying.

 
Grr.
I gritted my teeth. Why was it that everything in my life seemed to revolve around Nick? Why couldn't the world let me forget him and move on with my life? Allow me to meet a nice, normal investment banker who wanted nothing more than to transplant me to the suburbs and impregnate me with towheaded, blue-eyed suburban babies?

 I stared at the picture. At Nick's bright green eyes. At his endearingly cocky, Benedict Cumberbatch smirk. My heart squeezed and I reached up to brush the renegade tear from the corner of my eye. Ughl. Why did it still have to hurt so much? Why did just looking at a picture of him serve to flood my heart with nearly unbearable pain? He'd moved on. He had a new life. Why couldn't I do the same?

 Why was I still, deep down, so pathetically in love with this man? It didn't seem quite fair.

 "Yeah, he's an anchor in LA," I muttered, turning my gaze back to the men. It was a bit unnerving to stare into four blank mirror-sunglassed faces, but I'd sooner stare longingly at the Crypt Keeper than look any more at that projected photo of Nick.

 One of the men flipped through a legal pad filled with scrawled notes. "And your ex-boyfriend, right?" he asked.