Female FBI agent, First Person Fiction
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Jenna. My stomach growls, hungry and angry that I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. I grit my teeth, blowing out my frustration. ******* call. He left 45 minutes ago, walking down the block to the bakery to get us something quick to eat. He should have been back by 8 10. It doesn't take that long to buy doughnuts, but knowing him as well as I dio he's balls deep inside that baker as we speak. Horny *******. He's no different from any other man thinks with the piece of meat dangling between his legs well before he uses his brain for something useful, like remembering that I'm starving. I wind exactly that half a dozen times before he crawled out of his bed to go get us some sustenance. I slept here last night after having a bad night, and now I'm late for work. Luckily being a senior special agent for the Los Angeles California field office of the FBI, I'm not required to punch in every workday morning like clockwork. Most days I'm working out in the field with my team, my eyes cut to the top of the toilet tank as my phone chimes with an incoming text message when my arms are mid air, securing my long red locks into a sleek, tight ponytail high on my head. My hair isn't nearly the length it once was, but I still prefer to keep it on the longer side. It normally extends to the center my back. But while I'm working, I have to have it out of my face, letting the strands fall. Covering the back of my neck, I lean to my left away from the mirror, grabbing myself. Josh, where are you? Joshua Beckett, my boss, longtime friend and my team's special agent in charge. Josh, you were supposed to be here half a Knauer ago. The **** cat. I've gone by Gemma, my first name since I was 17. Onley Josh calls me Cat, preferring it over my real name. There was a time long ago when I hated that he called me that or even worse, Wildcat. But over time I got over my issues with him. We got through them together, and now he's one of my best friends. He's my boss, first and foremost but friend nonetheless, I hate how he came into my life but also love that he was the one because had it been anyone else, I wouldn't have the freedom I do today. Or perhaps I wouldn't even be alive. My head snaps to the open bathroom door that leads into Coles Bedroom. When I hear the front door from downstairs slam closed, finally much longer, and I might have passed out from lack of nourishment. I write a quick text shooting it back to the boss. Me headed your way. Now I'll never make excuses. I'm late and there's nothing that's going to stop the *** chewing he's going to give me when I arrive. It's deserved. I have a job to do. And as one of the two senior agents on the team, I shouldn't be late for any reason. I didn't bring a change of clothes, and I knew that before I decided to shower at Coles this morning. I'll have to wear the same clothes I showed up here in last night, the same ones I wore to work yesterday. In my case, every outfit I wear toe work is the same. The only thing that ever changes depends on whether I wear a jacket due to changes in the weather or if I have to be present for court proceedings. I slipped my cell down the deep pocket of my black tactical pants as I step back in Cole's master bedroom. After snagging my bra off his four poster bed, I head out of this spacious room, sliding an arm through one of the straps of my black racer back bra. I wrap it around my back and push my other arm through, pulling the cups under my boobs and snapping the hook closed around the front. As I take the first step down the stairs, chills rushed down my spine, stopping me dead in my tracks when I hear a voice I haven't heard in years. Looks like our boy had some kind of night. Trey laughs, and it guts me stealing the air from my lungs and at the same time pulls my eyes down the stairs and into the large open living room below. My gaze flicks over when I hear a snicker come from sets mouth. I don't think I want to meet whatever check he's banging, he remarks, leaning over the glass coffee table, picking up my leg holster and weapon. I cringe hating someone putting their hands on my ****. It's the FBI agent in me when I met Coles. I tend to let my guard down when I know I shouldn't. I sure a should have not left my weapon out of reaching distance. I know better.