The Trifecta Challenge is to write anything, in whichever form, that is between 33 and 333 words based upon a word and definition given. This week’s word is “fireworks.” My personal challenge is to weave the entries into an actual story. Word count verified by Written? Kitten!
Dean briefly considered pushing the issue, then thought better of it. Instead of reigniting the fireworks, he continued eating the peanuts as if he didn’t see the way she was looking at him.
It took everything he had not to turn to her and tell her that when he’d joined the FBI, he hadn’t envisioned being tethered to someone twenty-four hours a day. When he was in the Academy, he’d imagined himself solving cases or kicking down doors. And while he hadn’t had the time of his life filling out forms or typing reports, he’d at least had his freedom.
Now he was as much of a prisoner as the woman who had, in a further effort to show him she wasn’t paying attention, started on the crossword puzzle in the airline magazine. He never got to leave work. He never got to go home, take off his shoes and tell his wife all about the insane woman he had to babysit but got to hand off when his eight hours were finished. When he took off his shoes, it was in the guest bedroom of the insane woman’s house, and he didn’t even get eight hours of sleep at a time anymore.
It wasn’t the usual way things were done, but Sahara was such an important witness that they wanted to make sure she was safe at all costs. Being so vital to the case meant that she was equally as dangerous to the men being prosecuted, so his boss had informed him that they would be approaching her safety in a less than conventional manner.
His boss assured him that as soon as she testified again and they were sure she was going to be safe, they would move him out and his involvement would be no more strenuous than a monthly check-in to make sure she was getting along in whatever job they set her up with.
“Sahara,” Dean said, dusting the salt from his hands. “You—“
“Still not listening.”