"Look, Mr. Hotchner, Agent Hotchner, Hotch, my brother is dead, we've dealt with it already, I have a life, people I need to take care of, the last thing I need to do is throw my family into any unknown water anytime soon bringing this back up," I s...
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~ of course your opinion matters, just not to me ~
Waking up on Friday morning was not easy.
I was exhausted.
I worked the late shift at the restaurant last night, then I had to bartend at the club, meaning I didn't get home till 4 am.
Plus I had nightmares all night.
So 2 hours of sleep plus me, equals get the hell out of my way if you want to live to see another day.
I casually shuffle my feet around my broken alarm clock and made my way to the bathroom.
It was way to loud this morning.
My reflection made me cringe and I let out a grumble of incoherent words, walking over to the sink, turning the water on.
I splash my face repeatedly with the freezing water, hoping to wake myself up.
"Tate," a small knock sounds on my bedroom door, "Tate, can you help me with my hair?"
I let out a small sigh, turning off the tap, wiping my face on a brown towel.
"Ya, sure Tess," I shout back, opening my bathroom door.
The next 30 minutes are spent with my brushing Tessa's hair while talking about her school drama.
I thought I had school drama, but middle school is something else.
"Okay, can you please go get Taylor ready well I make you guys breakfast?" I ask, giving her a small smile through my vanity mirror.
She returns it with a small nod, hopping of the small bench and out of my room.
"Fuck," I breathe out slowly, gripping my hair harshly before letting it fall back onto my shoulders.
Maybe I should take the job, the hours are easier and if they really want me enough to practically stalk me, it will defiantly have to be a payed internship.
Rushing down the stairs, I head straight to the kitchen, my mind solely on getting breakfast ready.
My thoughts are cut short when I crash into someone, causing me to stumble backwards.
I bite my lip hard, trying not to let the profanities slip.
"Oh hi, you must be Tatum," a man asks.
At first glance, he seemed around 40, green eyes, slight stubble.
At second glance I knew exactly who this man was, and I wanted him out of my house.
"Ya, who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house," I ask, my voice calm and collected but still harsh and to the point.
