The Thing About Love

  “Just tell me when and I’ll be there,” her instructor, Agent Balinski, had said without hesitation, when she’d dropped by his office to ask about additional practice. “Hell, I’ll keep the place open all night if you want.” Then he’d cocked his head. “For starters, we should work on your stance. You need to spread your legs and lean into it more.”

  So she kept hearing.

  For the next several weeks, instead of grabbing a drink with her classmates at the Boardroom—the “bar” on the second floor of the Academy’s main building that was, essentially, a cafeteria that sold beer—she spent most of her evenings on the firing range. She fixed her stance, got comfortable with shotguns and carbines in addition to pistols, and, after learning how to shoot off the reset, significantly improved her accuracy. And all the practice paid off: Not to toot her own horn, but by the midpoint of the course, she would dare say she was among the top five shooters in her class.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who was best.

  Determined though she may have been, she was also realistic. There was no way she was ever going to shoot better than John, who’d been training with every kind of firearm under the sun for years. Which meant that if she wanted to kick his ass at something—and, oh, did she ever for that if you want to keep on sucking comment—she’d have to do it another way. Specifically, in classroom academics and the case exercises.

  In terms of the case exercises, the real-life scenarios they ran through at Hogan’s Alley were primarily about controlling the situation and not letting it escalate into violence. And, as it so happened, that was something for which she apparently had a knack.

  “Shepherd! You’re supposed to be politely escorting the guy out of the bar to answer a few questions, not going into the damn place with guns blazing like he’s bin Laden holed up in a Pakistani compound!” their instructor had shouted, after one such exercise that ended with half the bar’s mock patrons lying facedown against the pavement, bewildered and with hands cuffed behind their backs, because somebody had apparently gotten a little “fresh” with John.

  “Shadow Harlow this next time,” the instructor had barked at him. “Watch how she handles the same scenario.”

  Ah . . . seeing the look on John’s face after that instruction very well might have been Jessica’s favorite moment of the entire twenty-one weeks.

  In the classroom, they studied law, forensic and behavioral sciences, ethics, and advanced interrogation techniques, and learned the skill every special agent most needed to master: report writing. Relatively fresh out of law school, Jessica fell easily back into the classroom routine and even tutored a handful of her fellow trainees who felt less confident with some of the material.

  Not that John was any slouch when it came to academics. As much as it killed her to admit it, the guy was smart, he picked up new material quickly, and he obviously put in a good amount of study time.

  So she, in turn, put in more study time.

  It wasn’t only about competing with John, although this was not an unwelcome side benefit. Rather, it was about proving something to herself and highlighting her strengths to her instructors. Yes, as the weeks progressed, she grew stronger and quicker and improved in the physical challenges. But so did everyone else in her class. Which meant, as the shortest and skinniest kid on the block, comparatively speaking, she remained near the bottom of the pack on that front.

  She needed something to balance that out.

  There was no award for high marks in operational skills, and John was already a shoo-in for the high mark in firearms. Which meant that her only shot at finishing first was in academics. And if John Shepherd thought she was going to let him walk away with a trifecta of all high marks in their class, he had another think coming.

  She would take that man down in the classroom even if it meant she had to duct-tape her eyeballs open at night to keep studying.

  And so it went for their remaining weeks at the Academy. Since neither she nor John wanted to get a reputation of not being team players, they kept their mutual dislike just between them, feigning politeness when others were around and even working well together when required to do so.

  On the sly, however, they traded insults and jabs every chance they got. And there were, indeed, plenty of chances. As part of the same class, she and John ate together, trained together, and even slept in rooms right down the hall from one another. It was like she could never escape the guy. They would be in a classroom, or at the shooting range, and there would be thirty-nine other trainees present, and still she’d be just so . . . aware of him.

  Seventeen weeks into the Academy, it all came to a head.

  Their class was in the gym, waiting to be paired up for their next fight. At the start of the Academy, they’d been informed that each trainee would spar against everyone else at some point. So Jessica had always known that she’d have to face John on the mat eventually, but nevertheless there’d been this teeny-tiny part of her that had hoped the instructors would just overlook that since John so obviously outmatched her.

  That hope died a quick death on a sunny Friday afternoon.

  “Shepherd—you’re up. And you, too, Harlow,” their defensive tactics instructor ordered them.

  Jessica’s heart began to pound, and so help her if she didn’t nearly lose her lunch right there.

  Her fighting skills had improved since joining the Academy, and she was scrappy enough to have almost beaten a few of the shorter and lighter male trainees. But John Shepherd?

  She’d seen him fight many times, and the raw power and strength behind his punches—combined with the way his hands and feet worked together in graceful fluidity—was truly impressive. And that was despite the fact that he obviously held back in his matches, since, in a real-life scenario, the guy could probably kill them all with his bare hands if he wanted to. Undoubtedly while inflicting a whole world of hurt along the way.

  And now she had to face him one-on-one. The person he disliked most in their class.

  She so was toast.

  Quietly taking a deep breath, she headed over to the mat where their instructor waited. He reminded her and John of the rules as they strapped on their grappling gloves, headgear, and mouth guards: no hits to the groin area or other dirty moves, and the fight would end as soon as one of them tapped out. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the other trainees gathering around to watch, probably taking bets on how many fleeting seconds it would take for John to get her down to the ground and trapped in a hold.

  Then the instructor blew his whistle.

  John came charging straight for her, all six feet, four inches and two hundred fifteen pounds of solid muscle—oh shit—and she put up her gloves, thinking that everyone had better start betting in nanoseconds instead.

  But when John got within arm’s reach, he slowed down and started circling around her, moving lightly on his feet. He was fully aware he’d just scared the crap out of her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he waited for her to make the first move. And that was when Jessica realized something.

  He was toying with her.

  And just like that, a fire lit inside her.

  Yes, she had no hope of winning this fight—between John’s training and the fact that he had a full foot and over a hundred pounds on her, this was a foregone conclusion. But if he wanted to be cocky and dance around the mat like a cat playing with a mouse before swallowing it whole, perhaps she could work with that.

  Her eyes met his and she quickly devised a plan.

  Game on, John Shepherd.

  • • •

  Jessica’s phone buzzed with a new e-mail message, abruptly snapping her back to the present. Realizing that she’d been sitting there on the couch with a bowl of now-soggy Rice Krispies, she shook off the memory and checked her phone.

  Another e-mail from John.

  Yo
u can cancel tomorrow’s meeting with the Stagehand guys. The Jacksonville agents already took care of the website. All they need is a photo from each of us.

  She frowned, surprised by this information.

  When did you talk to the Jax agents?

  His reply came moments later.

  Just a few minutes ago. I called Agent Leavitt on his cell phone, figuring I should introduce myself, too.

  Jessica rolled her eyes. So that was how it was going to be: John getting all huffy any time she tried to take charge in the case. Well, the guy was just going to have to get used it. This was a public corruption investigation, not organized crime, and as far as she was concerned that made her the lead undercover—

  Her phone chimed again almost immediately.

  She picked it up and saw another message from John.

  By the way, I took the liberty of telling Agent Leavitt that we’re free to fly down to Jacksonville next Wednesday. Hope that works with your schedule, he added, throwing back her earlier words.

  Yep. It was going to be a long few weeks.

  7

  Sunday evening, John headed over to his dad’s house for dinner, a weekly tradition that started when he’d first moved back to Chicago. It had been a convenient way for him and his younger brother, Nate, to check in on their mom without looking like they were checking in on their mom, who’d insisted that she didn’t want anyone “hovering” over her as she went through chemotherapy.

  Because they knew it was what Barbara Shepherd would’ve expected of them, John, his brother, and their father had carried on with the tradition after she’d died—at least to the extent that John’s travel schedule had allowed. Although, admittedly, now the Sunday dinners consisted primarily of takeout—of which his mother most definitely would not have approved—and the table, with its empty seat to John’s right, was a little quieter.

  “So when do you find out if you’ve made the team?” John’s dad, Eric, asked.

  The three of them ate a deep-dish pizza John had picked up on the way over. It was the first time he’d seen his family since he’d been back from Quantico, so he’d told them about the tryouts—the parts he was allowed to talk about, anyway. Fascinated by the process, Nate had asked a bunch of questions. But their dad had been oddly quiet.

  “A few weeks,” John told him. “If I make it, I’d have to be in Quantico by Labor Day.”

  In response, his dad merely grunted and took another bite of pizza.

  Okay, then. John shot a look across the table at his brother, who shrugged. The three of them ate in silence for several moments, until his dad grabbed another piece of garlic bread from the take-out container in the middle of the table.

  “Just seems like this decision is coming out of the blue. I thought you were enjoying undercover work,” he said.

  “I waited six years to try out for the team,” John said. “I wouldn’t exactly call that a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  His father tore off a piece of garlic bread and popped it in his mouth.

  And . . . back to the silent treatment.

  Frankly, John had been expecting a much different reaction from his dad, who’d been in the Army, just like him, before joining the Chicago Police Department. Many times over the last six years, his father had brought up the subject of the Hostage Rescue Team, bragging to his friends and other family members that John had a “standing invitation” to try out for the team whenever he wanted. But now that John had actually gone and done just that, his dad’s reaction was tepid, at best.

  He shot his brother another look across the table. A little help here? I’m going down in flames.

  Nate nodded, on it. “Did you guys see that the Cubs traded Doyle?”

  “About time,” their dad said. “He’s been awful this season.”

  The tension at the table eased as the three of them talked sports, and then his dad asked Nate, who managed a popular Irish pub on the north side of the city, how work was going.

  Seemingly more relaxed after Nate finished regaling them with this week’s edition of crazy-bar-patron stories—of which he had a seemingly infinite supply—Eric turned back to John. “How about you? They got you working on anything interesting these days?”

  “Actually, they just put me on a new undercover assignment. For one of the white-collar crime squads,” John said.

  “White-collar?” His dad grinned, resting his arms on the table. “Aren’t you moving up in the world? What kind of assignment?” The former homicide detective in him was always eager to hear about John’s investigations.

  “Public corruption, a sting operation being run by another office. My partner and I are playing private equity investors trying to buy our way around a few zoning laws.”

  His dad raised an eyebrow. “You have a partner for this?”

  While always protected by a team of backup agents, John typically didn’t have a “partner” in his undercover roles. It was difficult enough for one agent to infiltrate an organized crime ring, let alone two. But things worked differently in the white-collar world.

  “The case agents thought it would be more realistic if there were two of us.” And John agreed with that assessment. Rarely did these private equity types work alone on an investment project—and in a case like this, they would be particularly inclined to put on a big show with the mayor, in order to underscore how important it was that the real estate “issues” they faced be resolved favorably.

  “So this new partner of yours, what’s he like?” his dad asked.

  An image of Jessica popped into John’s head, of her in that gray tailored pantsuit she’d been wearing the other day, when they’d met in Nick’s office. They hadn’t seen each other since, both of them opting instead to correspond by e-mail if there was something they needed to discuss about the case. For the most part, however, everything was being handled by the case agents in Jacksonville—as long as both he and Jessica were prepared for their undercover roles, there really wasn’t too much they needed to say to one another.

  Which suited him just fine.

  “She is new to the office. She just transferred here from Los Angeles.” Most unfortunately, John silently added, taking a sip of his beer.

  His dad waited for more. “And? Does she have a name?”

  John had a few nicknames for her, all right, but none that would be appropriate to share with his father. “Jessica Harlow.”

  Across the table, Nate cocked his head. “Jessica Harlow. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s probably just one of those names that has a ring to it.”

  Nate didn’t look entirely convinced. “Maybe.”

  His dad gestured impatiently. “Come on, this is a big deal—it’s been a while since you’ve had a partner. Tell us more about her.”

  Really, John would rather not. “Having a partner is different in the FBI, Dad. It’s not like you and Uncle Don.” His “uncle” Don had been his father’s partner on the Chicago police force for years. They were godfathers to each other’s kids, had taken yearly family vacations together, and to this day still hung out every Friday night at the local tavern.

  In the FBI, however, being partners with someone was a looser, less formalized concept. Young agents new to the office would be paired up with a more senior agent for training purposes, and, obviously, there were times when two agents worked as a team on a particular investigation. But those were typically short-term arrangements, not the kind of extended, almost family-like relationship his father recalled from the good old days when he was on the force.

  His father waved this off dismissively. “Don’t give me the ‘it’s different in the FBI’ line. A partner is a partner. Someone who has your back, someone you trust. Let me tell you something: There are few greater bonds than that between a man and the guy—or girl—who will be st
anding next to him if the shit hits the fan. You know what I’m saying?”

  John figured it was best just to be agreeable. “Sure, Dad.” He took another sip of his beer, hoping that would be the end of it.

  His dad nodded, seeming satisfied. “And you said she’s from Los Angeles, right? Well, then, she probably doesn’t know too many people in town. You should bring her by for dinner sometime.” He waved his hand, as if that was settled. “You know, as a nice gesture.”

  John nearly choked on his beer. Invite Jessica Harlow to a family dinner?

  He’d rather eat barbecued shoe.

  Still, he played it cool, seeing no reason to get into his history with Jessica. “That’s a nice idea. But she has family here in town, so I think she’s set. And besides, this isn’t a long-term arrangement. Especially since there’s a good chance I won’t even be working in Chicago much longer.”

  Immediately, he realized that it was the wrong thing to say.

  His dad wiped his mouth with a napkin, his tone turning curt again. “Well. I guess you know what’s best, right?”

  Another silence fell around the table.

  Nate looked between them and then smiled brightly. “So. How about those Blackhawks?”

  • • •

  A half hour later, John and his brother walked to their cars, parked in front of his parents’ house. “I think it’s safe to say Dad isn’t thrilled I tried out for the Hostage Rescue Team.”

  “He’ll come around,” Nate said.

  “It’s not like I haven’t left Chicago before,” John felt the need to point out. “Between college, the Army, and Detroit, I’ve lived in another part of the country for most of my adult life.”

  “Come on, you know it’s different now that Mom’s gone.” Nate held up a hand when John opened his mouth. “I’m not saying you should feel guilty about leaving if you make the team. Of course you should go—how many people get the opportunity to do something like that? And Dad knows that. He just got used to having you around these past three years. We both did.”