ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 37: pride & pre-justice

      "I'll keep a lid on my temper," I say.

      "Can you guarantee that?" Snag folds his arms.

      "Yes," I nod.

      No.

      Snag raises a peppercorn eyebrow at me. Arsehole, he should know how I feel seeing that he's the one with the flaming JH Complex that's always on the verge of appearance. He flares his nostrils at me in challenge when my own brow twitches, I swear that since he's found out about me and Sam, Snag's taken it upon himself to bring on the hate parade. Perhaps my relationship reminds him of the one he never had with Maria.

      I look down at my phone and see the minutes tick by. Quade graciously reminded me the last time I saw him (when he threw me down on the damn table) that the hearing's at 9 o'clock and is ticking towards the 7 o'clock mark. I have to get Chloe Quinn and her legal guardian Cindy Horton from JFK International. If the traffic is decent it'll take me and Sam 45 minutes, having enough time to make the trip there and back with a few spare minutes to compose ourselves before entering court.

      "Oh would you look at the time," I say with mock-cheer.

      "You're doing your thing again," Banks rolls her eyes. She's referring to the fact that I put on fake enthusiasm to get out of uncomfortable situations; apparently that's my second defence mechanism. "I swear are all Diablos like this?" Banks directs the statement to Sam and Snag who are trying not to laugh.

      "Nope," Snag says. "Though it is quite amusing to watch."  

      "I second that," Sam agrees with a smirk.

     

      The ride to JFK International is rather soothing, since there are no major dips in traffic, Sam pleasantly holds my hand. I relish the feel of his thumb brushing over my knuckles in slow circular motions. To me, it's the simple touches like hand-holding that makes relationships all the more intimate and special―I think I speak for Sam too because before we ever start anything against protocol, the little touches lead up to the grinding against each other in an unorthodox manner.

      A fine example is what happened this morning at 5 A.M. I was in the bathroom re-dying my hair, only half dressed in a black bra and my slacks (since we're all dressed formally today in our uniforms) when Sam comes in only wearing black boxers and starts massaging the tight coils in my shoulders. Before long, as you can guess like a pair of horn bags, we're wrapped around each other on the couch, kissing to the early morning weather report.

       Sam turns onto Van Wyck Expressway and all we have to do from there is go to the Red Lot and wait in front of Terminal 9 for Chloe Quinn and Cindy. I have their files to ensure that I don't walk up to some strangers and invite them to a court room. Sam and I decant from the SUV and try not to inhale the petrol and unfiltered cigarette fumes in front of the check-in.

      Immediately as we breeze through the glass doors, the hundreds of people cramped into JFK International turn to look at the two uniformly dressed law enforces with matching guns, two imperfect peas in a pod. A few tourists turn to discreetly take photos (because apparently it's not every day that the FBI and NYPD peruse the airport) whereas a school tour group mumble their 'Oh my God's' and 'Are those guns real?'.

      I ignore the public interest for a while as we navigate to the correct terminal, but it's a single mother carrying her toddler and young son that catches my attention. The son is no older than seven and is decked out in the entire New York Yankees gear even though it's the off-season, the mother is trying to control both children, the trolley and her mobile phone all at once.