BRRIINNNGGGG!!!! The shrill sound of the alarm rang through the head
of one Ezra Standish worse than the last Squishy Pumpkins concert, or whatever the
name of that abhorrent propagator of musical trauma was, that Mr. Dunne had
forced his fellow agents to attend.
Emitting a groan, along with a
fairly eloquent curse, he reached out an elegant white hand. Its objective?
A seek and destroy mission. Upon reaching its target, the hand shot down
with enough force to rattle the entire bedside table, sending the forgotten
glass of burgundy colored wine on a collision course with the bed. The bed
with the brand new, pure white, sinfully expensive down comforter on
it.
Green eyes wide with horror, the man lunged for the glass. Too late.
He watched as it arched gracefully through the air, sending a spray of
burgundy liquid all across the pristine whiteness of the bed. He lunged
again, hoping to at least salvage the plush carpeting on the floor of the
room. His fingers closed around the stem in triumph, then immediately opened
back up reflexively as pain shot through his foot. Oh God. What on earth had
persuaded him to buy this antique monstrosity of a bed? Wrought iron and
bare toes were not a combination he cared to try again in the near future.
His head throbbed in rhythm with his toes. An aftereffect of indulgence in
the same liquid that now adorned the bedding and the carpeting.
Ezra
sighed as he contemplated the mess surrounding him. He rubbed his foot and
sighed again. Oh well. C'est la vie. That was the purpose of a cleaning
service. He had other things to worry about. Such as getting to work so he
could afford the aforementioned cleaning service.
He stepped into the
bathroom. A hot shower would go a long way towards reviving him, physically
and mentally. Eagerly anticipating the moist, enveloping heat, he screeched
like a banshee when he was met by a blast of icy water, instead. What the
hell? He jumped backwards attempting to avoid the icy spray and his feet
promptly slid out from under him. He landed on his posterior with a painful
THUD. Now head, foot and rear all throbbed in some bizarre counterpoint
fashion.
He stalked indignantly towards the phone, still dripping wet,
intending to give maintenance his opinion of their woefully inadequate
performance, when he vaguely recalled some sort of notice he'd received the
previous week. Something about the hot water being off for a day while
repairs were being made. Damn. As if his morning hadn't been bad enough
already.
Shivering slightly, after the quickest, and coldest, shower of
his life, Ezra grabbed his favorite suit out of the closet. He found the
luxurious feel of the fabric highly soothing and he felt that a little bit
of comfort might not go amiss this morning. The image of his bloodshot eyes
and pale face in the mirror had not made him feel at an advantage.
He
slid the pants gingerly up his legs and over his aching posterior, frowning
in confusion when he reached his waist. Something was not right. A sudden
thought struck him. Good Lord, no. This wasn't possible. He?d worn this suit
just a few weeks ago. He refused to believe what his brain was telling him.
Rushing back into the bathroom, he stared in horror at the numbers on the
bathroom scale. He'd gained ten pounds!
Ezra fumed as he finished
dressing, forced to leave the top button on his pants unfastened if he
wished to breathe. This was all the fault of a certain sharpshooter. Ezra
would never have known of the existence of a certain puffy, sticky,
deliciously sweet little cookie, if Mr. Tanner had not insisted he try one
during a stakeout last week. He would have been perfectly content to remain
in blissful, and thin, ignorance. The deceptively innocent appearing tracker
was a menace. And to add insult to injury, his fellow agent devoured the
damned things by the boxful and never gained an ounce!
Ezra glanced
at his watch. No time for breakfast. Which was just as well, since he should
start becoming accustomed to not eating. At least until he?d lost these
extra pounds. And he really didn't feel all that well, anyway. The thought
of food was making him feel vaguely nauseous. One of the joys of
overindulgence in wine.
He grabbed his keys and raced out the door of
the condo, wincing at the sharp surge of pain this produced in both head and
foot. But he was determined to arrive on time today. Chris Larabee had
called a meeting for this morning in order to discuss a new undercover
operation. He'd have Ezra's head on a platter if he was late for it.
Although, with the way that portion of his anatomy was feeling, Ezra wasn't
certain that he wouldn't welcome giving it away to someone else.
Ezra maneuvered the Jag through the busy streets of downtown Denver. It
seemed as if everyone and their brother had someplace they neeed to be this
morning. And they all drove as if they needed to be there five minutes ago.
His hands clutched the steering wheel intently. This car was his pride and
joy. It always made him slightly nervous when the other cars got a bit too
close.
He could see ATF headquarters in the distance and he began to
relax at the sight. He was still on schedule and if he remembered correctly,
there was an unopened bottle of aspirin in his desk drawer. Things were
looking up.
The sickening sound of metal on metal was a worse pain to the
southern agent than the jolt he received as his body snapped forward from
the impact of the car behind him. A car with a driver who apparently was not
a believer in keeping his distance. Ezra put his head down on the steering
wheel. He didn't want to see the damage that had been done to his car. His
beautiful Jag. He wondered if a few tears would be remarked on. Were men
allowed to cry over their cars?
Ezra limped into the office just as
his fellow agents were exiting the conference room.
"Hey, Ez. Ya
missed all the fun." Buck Wilmington called out. Entirely too cheerfully in
the southerner?s opinion.
"What happened to you, Ezra? You look like
you've been in a wreck." JD grinned at him as he passed by on the way to his
desk..
"Mr. Wilmington. Mr. Dunne. Pray spare me any more of your
observations. My morning has been quite bad enough, as it is." Ezra was in
no mood.
"Brace yourself, Brother. I have a feeling your morning is about
to get a whole lot worse." Josiah Sanchez patted him on the shoulder in
commiseration as he exited the conference room, followed closely by Vin
Tanner and Nathan Jackson.
"Ezra. Come in here. I want to talk to
you." The voice of Chris Larabee did not sound nearly as irate as the
southern agent had expected. In fact, he sounded almost...amused. Somehow,
Ezra found that far more frightening. He walked slowly towards the door of
the conference room, feeling rather like he was walking that famous last
mile.
"Walks awful graceful, don't he?" He could hear the sharpshooter's
comment as he entered the conference room. Its meaning became all too
apparent as he caught sight of their smirking leader, holding out an armful
of purple taffeta.
Ezra walked back into the main office a few
minutes later, holding an armful of women's clothing and accessories. His
new undercover assignment.
"Gentlemen." He announced in resignation.
"Some days it just does not pay to get out of bed."
The End
