Identity - Rewritten

Chapter Twenty-Three

April 2014

The most surprising thing about Jennifer Davinforth's office is that she's in it.

The office itself is exactly what Ian expected it to be: bland, made up entirely of furniture in varying shades of black and grey, all smooth surfaces and sharp lines. Even the wall-to-ceiling windows behind her desk, showcasing the inky black night just beyond, are grandiose enough that they're not surprising, either.

However, when Ian walks in at 6:00 a.m., under the guise of emptying trashcans but really so he can snoop around, she's sitting at her desk, head bent over a pile of paperwork.

He's not exactly quiet about his entrance, but Jennifer doesn't look up from her work, mid-way through jotting down a note of some kind. Ian just bites his lip and heads for the trashcan to her left, unsure of what else to do. If he were anyone else, he'd think of a way to engage her in conversation, to try and glean some information from her words, but Ian Sharpe has never been good at espionage. The only way he speaks to his targets are through the nonverbal language of gun and bullet.

Jennifer finally glances at him when he's mid-way through his task, tying up the garbage bag from her trashcan. For some reason, she doesn't look away, instead watching his fingers while he works.

"You're new." Her voice is blank, like she doesn't really make much of that fact, and her eyes are now burning a hole in his face. Ian glances up at her from under his eyelashes for a moment before returning his gaze to his work.

"I am," he replies, heart picking up its rhythm against his chest. Before he can figure out what to say, Jennifer does it for him.

"What's your name?"

"Ian. Ian Sharpe."
Jennifer appraises him, her eyes raking up and down his jumpsuited body. Her grin is sickly sweet, too much candy after a scare on Halloween.

"Nice to meet you, Ian Sharpe. I'm Jen." She's leaning back in her office chair now, work forgotten, as he replaces the old trash bag with a new one.

Ian nods and straightens up, the plastic ties of the small bag clasped between clammy fingers. "Nice to meet you, Jen," he says, and the way her eyes are devouring his well-kept physique is unmistakable.

"How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?" Her hazel eyes are ravenous. Hungry.

She's married, but she's not wearing a wedding band.

"Twenty." He barely keeps from tripping over the word; it's a half truth, the age of his cover.

Jennifer nods, apparently pleased with his answer if her expression is anything to go by. She glances back toward the hall he came from, and then opens a drawer of her desk. From inside, she produces a single business card, and turns it over, scrawling a number in blue ink on the back.

She holds it out to Ian. "My personal number. Give me a call, sometime. My husband's away all week."

Ian does his best to keep his face impassive, as he takes the card from her and puts it into the front pocket of his jumpsuit. He steels himself with a breath, and does his best to copy Diego's signature smirk, despite how foreign it feels on his lips.

"I'll do that," he says.

.....

The soccer ball sails just centimeters over Tommy's head, and crashes into the goal.

"Fuck yeah! In your face, Sinclair!" Evan yells. He jumps on Diego's back before Deigo knows what's going on, screaming like a madman, and it's all Diego can do to keep from throwing him off. "We got one past our own goddamned brick wall! Fuck yeah!"