Breaking Point Read Free Page B

again, this time to a close-up of another young actor as darkly handsome as Robin was fair.
    It was Adam Wyndham.
    Jules’s lying, cheating, son-of-a-bitch ex.
    God, he looked good.
    As an actor.
    He looked good
on film,
with the flattering lights and makeup. That’s what Jules had meant. That was not some kind of masochistic, longing-for-reconciliation,
he-looked-good
thought that had popped into his head.
    No, no, no, he was securely in the been-there-done-that phase as far as Adam was concerned.
    But as Jules continued to cool his fingers, the picture dissolved again, this time to both actors as they sat shoulder to shoulder, dressed in World War II battle gear, gorgeous and giddy with silent laughter as the thunderous music played on—movie trailer code signaling that this was a meaningful epic drama.
    Then a cut to another scene as, still side by side, the two men ran, weapons locked and loaded, up a beach into battle.
    The picture froze with them both midstride, and faded back to that same earlier sepia tone as the voiceover announced, “
American Hero.
The war is within . . . Starts Friday in select theaters.”
    Jules’s expensive new shirt was stained, his favorite mug had cracked, the French vanilla coffee was gone, and the movie starring his cheating ex–significant other, the movie he’d stayed out of theaters for the past two months to avoid seeing, the movie that had made him toss his subscription copies of
Entertainment Weekly
to avoid reading about, didn’t even open until this Friday.
    Fuck a duck.
    But okay. That sky outside the window was still blue. And Deb Erlanger, one of his fellow FBI teammates, appeared like an angel of mercy bringing tidings of hope and caffeine. “Hey, Jules. We’re going to Starbucks. Want something?”
    Her partner, Joe Hirabayashi, was right behind her. What was this? National Come-In-Early day?
    Jules muted the TV’s volume again. “Any chance they’ve started selling business attire?” Like Max, he kept an extra shirt in his office. But unlike Max, he’d used his two days ago and had forgotten to replace it.
    Yashi surveyed the damage and summed it up concisely, as was his zenlike way. “Shit, man. That shirt’s ruined.”
    “Aren’t you having some kind of review today?” Deb asked. “With Peggy Ryan?”
    Yes, Deb. Yes, he was. In fact, his review today wasn’t merely “some kind of.” Instead, it fell into the subcategory of “review, comma, extremely important.”
    Jules was up for a promotion. So far he’d sat down with all of the team leaders—except for Peggy Ryan, to whom he was going to talk today.
    Peggy was one of those people who dealt with her homophobia by pretending Jules simply didn’t exist. In the past, Jules had cooperated by staying out of Peggy’s way as much as possible.
    But this was one meeting neither of them could avoid. It was going to make for an interesting afternoon, that was for durn sure.
    “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Yashi said, gesturing with his chin toward the dark blotch that Jules was now half-heartedly blotting with a paper towel. “Coffee stain on your shirt. Kinda makes you look straight.” He scrunched up his face. “If, you know, you squint . . .”
    “You definitely need a gingerbread latte, extra whipped cream,” Deb decided for Jules. “We’ll be right back.”
    But it was then that George Faulkner appeared, blocking their route. He was out of breath, which was somewhat novel. Jules hadn’t been aware that George even knew how to run.
    “Where’s Laronda?” George asked, his tone broadcasting all kinds of grim.
    “She’s not coming in,” Deb told him.
    “What? Why not?” Jules hadn’t known it was a Laronda-less day.
    Laronda was Max’s administrative assistant. A day without Laronda was about as productive and as much fun as a day spent hitting one’s thumb with a hammer. Over and over and over. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
    “Her son’s debate club made it to the national finals,” Deb