Crash Into Me (Into Me Series Book One)

Chapter Twenty Seven - Attitude

Jackson's POV

I bounce my leg impatiently under the table that I lean on. Connor gives me a look, to which I glare in response.  He sighs, leaning back into his chair and readjusting the tie around his neck. I move my glare to the director in front of me. Who keeps his eyes locked on mine, waiting for an answer.

"Captain Hart?" he wonders, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, Director?" I respond.
"Did you hear what I asked you?" he presses.
"What, if I would be comfortable taking on some domestic terrorism cases on top of our already heavy sex trafficking and child prostitution case load?" I clarify.
"Yes," he nods.
"With no additional staff or pay increases for anyone on the team?" I question.
"Yes," he nods again.

I start laughing, Connor's eyes widening in my peripheral. He shoves his knee into mine, telling me to shut the fuck up. I totally would, but this is completely fucking ridiculous. They want my guys to take on more work than they already have on their plates, which is already a fuck ton mind you, without any sort of incentive or any additional help. Not to mention almost doubling my workload. He's got jokes... I'll give him that.

"Are you fucking insane?" I laugh.
"I don't find this to be a joking manner, Mr. Hart," the assistant director responds, narrowing his eyes.
"First off, it's 'Captain' to you. Second off, you want my team, my team that already outperforms all other tactical teams, to take on even more work with even less men without raises or extra help? You have to be on crack or something because that's absolutely fucking insane," I argue.
"We have a 98% success rate for recovery of victims. What more could you possibly want?" Connor asks.
"100% success rate and no dead kids on your record," the director snaps back.

My face drops as it suddenly gets harder to breathe. Well damn... ouch. I loosen my tie around my neck, sinking back into my chair as I grab the scrunchie in my pocket. It's Jet's favorite. Black, lace material, worn and weathered. It reminds me of her and it keeps me calm. It also smells like her. She stuck it around the gearshift in my Corvette and thinks that's where it stays, when in reality, if she's not with me, it's in my pocket. A little piece of her wherever I go.

"Maybe we would still have our 100% success rate if we were given the correct information about the bust," Connor grumbles, crossing his arms across his chest.
"We passed along to you the information our informants gave us," the assistant director defends.
"Well, maybe your informants should have been better informed," Connor responds, rolling his eyes.

The assistant director and Connor continue arguing, their banter allowing my mind to drift. I spin Jet's scrunchie in my fingers as I think of her. Even just the thought of her calms me down, makes me feel safe, protected, whole, happy. Even when I'm knee deep in the worst pile of shit, I just have to think of her. And her fucking eyes looking at me. And her fingers tracing the lines of the tattoos on my arms.

I think of her curves. Of bending her over this conference room table and taking her, fucking her so hard that her nails sink into the soft wood of the table and leave indents. Her back arching, her ass shaking, her hair tangled up in my hand as her pretty little moans fill the room, my name tumbling over her lips like that's what they were created for. Her pussy taking my cock so well, squeezing around me as she squirts all over the both of us. Her thighs shaking with every orgasm, her knees weak.

"Jackson? What do you think?" Connor asks, shoving me with his knee again.

I look over to him. He raises his eyebrows at me, expecting an answer. Oh... fuck... what did they even say? I rack my brain to try to recall any details of the conversation they just had, but come up with nothing. Yeah... this is gonna look bad on my part.
I clear my throat, tightening the tie, "Wait, what? About what?"
"The director's offer..." Connor drags, narrowing his eyes at me.
"What was it again?" I ask.
The director sighs, aggressively carding his fingers through his hair, "Three new members for your team of my choosing, one of the members having a medical background, if you agree to take on the extra caseload."
"I'll accept if I get to pick the new members," I counter.
"Absolutely not," the director argues.
"I want a Marine with medic training," I state.
"Not going to happen," he responds.
"A SEAL with EMT training," I offer.
"No-"
"An Air Force paratrooper," I rebuttal.
"Not going to happ-"
"An Army Ranger that is a certified field medic."
"You will take who I give you and that is the end of it!" he roars, slamming his fist onto the table, his face matching the red hue of his tie.