Page 14 of Brazen Mistakes

Slightly more awake, I double the grounds in the coffeemaker, brewing what would be considered sludge under the best of circumstances. But I pull out some of Walker’s oat milk to cut the acidity. Raking my wet curls onto the top of my head, I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my fists, ignoring how quiet the house is.

What can I do to move time forward?

I’d planned on cleaning up my email yesterday, like an adult or something.

It’s better than nothing.

I scroll through, deleting as I go. And then. There it is.

An email from the FBI Internship program.

My heart pounds as my finger hovers above the message. What if I got in? What if I didn’t?

Oh God.

I down half of my sludge, then risk opening it.

A yelp of joy gets caught in my throat.

I got in! I’m FBI worthy!

My sleep-deprived body feels so fluttery that I might actually be flying. Shit. This is amazing.

And absolutely terrible.

A laugh-sob pops out, the morning light barely tinting the sky gray out the kitchen window.

“Shit. What should I do?” I ask the empty house.

I’d almost forgotten I’d applied. But I did apply. And I got in. Right after I started to find my place in a criminal crew. Obviously, this makes as much sense as anything else in my life right now.

Closing my eyes, I imagine what a normal girl would do right now. She’d be screaming, jumping up and down before calling her mom and dad to share the good news, collecting excitement from everyone who loves and supports her.

She’d respond to the email immediately, then search for summer sublets, unable to slow down for a second. Because she’d made it. Years of hard work, all leading to this one moment, this one win.

But me?

I turn off my screen and rest my head in my palms, leaning against the kitchen island.

Right now, I wish I’d let Emma in on the craziness my life has become. I need an unbiased sounding board.

Only idiot girls throw away their futures for some guy. Or in my case, for a group of guys.

I’m not a tagalong. I have goals and ambitions separate from the men in my life. This is one of them.

But I have a future here, too. I know it. I fucked up, but working with the guys, it feels like stepping into a pair of perfectly broken-in running shoes. There’s so much to learn. But I want to learn it. My soul fucking sings when I create order from chaos under threat of jail time and violence.

And the FBI?

There’s still the threat of jail time and violence, but not for me. And the order I’d create is less “sprinting down alleyways, protecting the guys,” and more “sifting through financial paper trails and putting people like the guys behind bars.”

Shit.

I can’t make this decision. Not today. Not right now.

The response day is the fifteenth of January. Less than a month to decide.

Fuck.

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