Investigating the Hottie

Investigating the Hottie

© 2012 by Juli Alexander

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights reserved under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without proper written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, media, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.  The publication of these trademarks is associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.  

Investigating the Hottie

by

Juli Alexander

Chapter One

Watching Lindsay Lohan kiss Chad Michael Murray on my iPod took my mind off flying. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but planes freaked me out. Unfortunately,
Freaky Friday
therapy reminded me just how uneventful my life was. I’d never been kissed. Well, not a real kiss. And I’d certainly never reeled in a hottie. 

Not that I wanted to switch bodies with my mother like Lindsay Lohan did. But I got tired of being so average. It would rock to be the world’s youngest private detective like
Veronica Mars
, or have superpowers, or even slay vampires. I didn’t necessarily want to be a vampire like Elena on
The Vampire Diaries
, but I’d love to kick butt with my superior brain power. I craved adventure and romance, but I wasn’t getting any of either. 

The plane hit a patch of turbulence and the businessman next to me started saying Hail Marys. I turned off my iPod and clutched it to my chest. My other hand gripped the armrest so tight it started cutting into my hand. Okay, this was so not what I meant by wanting adventure.

Mom thought spending a week with my Aunt Christie would take my mind off the divorce, but it was really hard to forget about my parents splitting up. Especially when they didn’t have a good reason. “We’ve grown apart” was the lamest explanation I’d ever heard. What about “Til death do us part”? If one of them had done something horrible to the other, like cheated, then I would have understood, and then I’d have known who to be mad at. Instead, I was just totally confused.

The plane lurched more violently so I stuffed the iPod in my pocket. Rationally, I knew I wasn’t going to die, but I started to wonder idly if my parents would get back together to grieve over my death. If so, at least my eight-year-old brother would benefit. He didn’t understand “We’re just not happy married to each other” any more than I did.

My stomach started to rebel against the jerking of the plane. I imagined myself puking all over the seat in front of me or even worse, on the only pair of jeans that fit me perfectly. The airline’s barf bag didn’t look nearly big enough.

Then the bumping and jiggling stopped. Just like that. The pilot came on and apologized, and all the passengers let out this collective sigh. I wasn’t going to die at fifteen.

Mr. Businessman pulled out his tablet and tried to act like he hadn’t lost his cool.

I was feeling a little stressed. Aunt Christie would probably brew me some herbal tea and burn some incense to help me relax. She was into all that earthy stuff.

Christie was a professional student, a Ph.D. candidate with three master’s degrees. I’d love to have her brains, but the idea of spending my whole life in school depressed me. An advanced degree was fine, but one would be all I could handle. Christie was thirty-five. When I’m in my thirties, I want a cool job, a hot husband, a red SUV, and a house with a pool.

Somehow, I survived the landing, freed my backpack from the overhead compartment, and managed to hold onto my sanity while we walked more slowly than I ever thought possible to exit the plane.

In the crowded Newark airport, I sighed in relief. When I had cleared the metal detectors, I started searching for Christie’s long flowing skirts, Birkenstocks, and curly waist-length hair.

I made my way to the baggage claim. She wasn’t there. I sniffed the air for her scent, Patchouli, of course.

Okay, she’s probably lost track of time in the gift shop.

I decided to wait for my bags and hope she showed up, when a woman came right up to me and said, “Hey, Amanda.”

This super-stylish, beautiful creature with short brown hair, a few shades darker than mine, held out her toned arms to hug me. For a second, I didn’t know who she was. Then, I saw Mom’s green eyes studying me. It had to be my aunt. Mom, Christie, and I have the same emerald green eyes.

“Christie?”

This Christie looked like the kind who always dressed to impress. I glanced down to find super chic black pants and spike heels. They were probably some kind of designer shoes; I never could keep up with that stuff. She looked more like a supermodel than a philosophy student.

“You’ve really grown up.” She grinned and gave me a big hug.

I’d grown, but she still had two inches on me in those shoes. “Ch-Christie?”

My historically late, slow-moving aunt grabbed my arm. “We’ve got a lot to do tonight. We’re on a tight schedule.”

“What?”

“We’ll talk in the car.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and squeezed tight. “It’s great to see you.”

I glanced around to see if anyone else was noticing anything weird, but the guy who got off the plane after me seemed to actually
recognize
the woman who greeted him, judging by the way he had his tongue down her throat. So, this retro Twilight Zone thing was only happening to me. 

A man and a woman were arguing nearby in Spanish. “Quit ogling her. You think she is so beautiful? You can go home alone.” I automatically translated the conversation in my head out of habit. I had a real knack for languages.

Yikes. The woman is upset.

The man was starting to grovel. “I wasn’t looking at her beauty. You are the only one for me.”

Barf
. Then it hit me that they were fighting over my aunt--the only hot female in sight. I studied her. She’d be right at home tossing her hair, short though it was, in slow motion to some music on the big screen. This was not the Christie I pigged out on banana splits with two years ago. 

She grabbed my black duffel bag off the conveyor belt.

“How’d you know that was mine?” I asked. It wasn’t like it had my name on it in hot pink letters or anything.

 “Tell me about your flight. Was it okay? I know you don’t like flying much.” She carried my bag as if it weighed nothing.

Christie walked so fast that I could barely keep up with her despite wearing my cross trainers.

“Move it, girlfriend,” Christie said with a laugh. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, and you need to be ready by eight in the morning for school.”

“School?” I ran a few steps to keep up. “It’s fall break. Remember?”

“Your school is out for fall break, but up here school is in session.”

Surely she was kidding. I tried to check out her expression, but she kept moving. “I’m visiting you, Christie. I’m not moving here.”

“Of course.” She headed toward the exit. “I’ll explain at my place in Princeton. It’s a twenty-minute ride.”

She hustled me through the parking garage in the direction of an aging Honda hatchback with a crystal hanging from the rear view mirror.

Finally, a sign of the Christie I expected.

Then, she clicked her remote and the silver convertible next to the Honda beeped.

My jaw dropped practically to my chest. “You’re driving a sports car?”   

“Nice, isn’t it?” She popped the trunk with the remote and loaded my suitcase. I smelled the leather seats as I climbed in. She got behind the wheel. “You’re in for a real treat. There’s nothing better than a sunny day and a BMW convertible.”

She started the engine and tapped on the steering wheel impatiently while the roof opened. Then, she grinned at me, shifted into reverse, and hit the gas. She shifted into first faster than I could blink.

We literally squealed around the corner, and she paid the parking garage attendant with a five I never saw her get out.

I grabbed the door, hanging on for dear life as she roared out onto the tree-lined freeway. The brilliant orange, red, and yellow leaves blurred as she topped the speed limit and kept accelerating.

Who was this woman?

Fifteen minutes later, I climbed out of Christie’s car and toddled on wobbly legs through the door of her unit in the unbelievably ritzy condo complex.

Once inside, I saw that everything was white and super modern. The furniture, the carpet, the walls. I didn’t see how anyone could actually live there without ruining everything. I contemplated taking off my shoes, but Christie didn’t, so I followed her into the living room.

“I didn’t know you bought a condo.” I checked behind me to see if I’d left footprints in the soft, thick carpet.

“I didn’t. It’s just part of my current assignment.” She put my duffel bag on the dining room table.

Assignment
? “I don’t understand.”
What is she supposed to do? Live here and write a paper on it?
None of this was making any sense to me.    

“Do you want something to drink? Or some chocolate?”

“No thanks.” I dropped my backpack on the white leather couch and plopped down beside it. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Okay, chickie.” Christie moved to stand in front of the flat screen TV. “We need to discuss a few things. It’s a lot to hit you with all at once, but you need to know. First of all, I’m not a student.”

“You quit school?” Mom would hate it that I knew first.

“No,” she said. “Well, yes. Actually, I haven’t been in school since I was twenty-two. I’ve been working for various federal agencies in an undercover capacity. I use the student thing as a cover with family. Mostly to protect you guys, but also to keep your mother from worrying.” She made a face that reminded me of my little brother.

I didn’t say anything because, of course, she was kidding.

“Okay.” She examined me closely then smiled. “This is going well. So, I’ve transferred out of the Drug Enforcement Agency, and my job doesn’t involve long assignments deep undercover anymore. I’m working for an agency coordinating efforts to fight biological and technological terrorism and espionage.”

“Espionage. You’re like a spy. Right.” I settled back into the couch for what was apparently going to be some kind of show. Bond. James Bond. Yeah, right.

“Yes.” She looked relieved.

I was pretty much thinking she was crazy and wondering if Princeton had a good psychiatric hospital.
Mom’s a psychiatrist. She would know.
My expression must have given me away. 

“You’re not convinced.” She frowned.
Should I play along with her psychosis? Why hadn’t I listened more when my mom talked about her job?
 

She grabbed the TV remote and punched some buttons. Blinds slid sideways across the windows and clicked shut. Suddenly, the TV showed nine camera views of the condo and the parking lot. She had some seriously high tech surveillance.

Okay, so she’s crazy and paranoid.

I suspected she could tell what I was thinking, because she reached for a laptop and sat beside me on the couch. “Look at this.”

“It’s a laptop,” I said slowly as I studied her real hard for signs that her insanity might be dangerous. Or contagious.

“Mmm-hmm.” She gave me a warm smile and began typing.

“I, um, have one at home.” I sat up a little straighter in case I needed to react quickly. And this trip was supposed to relieve my stress?

“Not like this.” She typed a rapid succession of keys and the laptop whirred.

“’Kay.”
Don’t make any sudden movements
. 

The television responded instead of the laptop and turned my attention away from my aunt. A voice that sounded a lot like James Earl Jones’s boomed, “Welcome to the Global Agency for Shared Intelligence—GASI.”

Images of the President, the White House, Congress, and the Pentagon flashed across the screen as the voice continued. “GASI was created in January of 2009 by the President as a tool for coordinating the various intelligence agencies. GASI is a secret organization and is not known to the public. Its role is to watch for corruption in other agencies as well as to coordinate the investigation of threats to national security.”

“GASI?” I asked Christie, because it was pronounced like the word for flatulence. “Are you kidding me?”

“Shhh. This is the important part.” She motioned to the screen.

“In the spring of 2011, the agency began recruiting younger agents in order to fill our needs. We selected an initial class of thirty teens, and training commenced immediately. You, Amanda Peterson, are one of those teens.”

Now, the screen showed my picture and then video footage of me strolling in the mall, playing soccer, and sitting in class.