The roof of our hotel had a pool on it. Chlorinated and everything, the shallow end was three feet and the deep end was ten feet. A four-foot hot tub was spaced about ten yards from the shallow end of the pool. Both pools of water were occupied by several women, wearing very little. Most of them had long, painstakingly-styled hair that they didn't want to get wet. The few that had short hair wore flashy earrings or had their hair dyed bright colors, with the exception of only a few. Some of the women's bikini tops were barely large enough to cover their breasts, but no one really seemed to mind. California. It's practically another country.

"My neighborhood doesn't even have a pool," Booth stated with obvious longing. "Here, every hotel does."

"Well, you booked a hotel in the tourist hotspot. What were you expecting?" I asked rhetorically.

"You're both welcome to use my pool," Brennan offered, casually throwing out there that she lived in an apartment with a pool like it was common knowledge. Damn. New York Times Bestsellers really pay well.

Trisha walked around the beautiful-women-infested pool to us and she held out her hands in a helpless gesture when she reached us. "Well, the breast implant lead went nowhere."

I looked at Brennan and she had looked at me at the same time. Both of us were confused. "But what about the serial numbers?" Brennan asked.

"The implants were reported stolen six months ago. Our victim must have gotten them off the black market," Trisha explained.

"There's a black market in breast implants?" Brennan asked me. I briefly considered being insulted that she thought I would know about the black market, but to be fair, I've been living in a bad neighborhood and they know I've been working at a bar in the same bad neighborhood, and I actually do know about the black market.

"Anything that costs more than twenty dollars can probably be found in the black market, Dr. Brennan," I said with a sigh. "Quality and quantity depends on vendors. Highest vendors sell things like drugs and illegally harvested organs. Up there on that list is surgical equipment and implants. Selling breast implants in a city like this is like raking in gold."

"We have the name of the doctor from whom the implants were stolen," Trisha informed us, although she didn't seem very enthused by this information.

"Who uses a black market breast implant?" Apparently Brennan was still mystified by the stupidity of black market breast implants. I don't really blame her; being literal-minded and extremely rational, it's no surprise. Besides, I don't understand it that well, either. I'm good with my body the way it is, thanks, but if you really want to alter yourself with plastics, then you should at least have the common sense to get an actual doctor so that you know the procedure is accepted medically and is with minimal risk.

"Back alley plastic surgeons use them," Booth said for a quick explanation. "They're not even real doctors."

"Are you going to write the screenplay?" Trisha blurted to Brennan out of the blue.

"What screenplay?" Brennan asked.

"The one based on your book."

Brennan furrowed her eyebrows at the irrelevance. "Well, I guess, maybe. The producer I'm meeting will probably tell me."

Booth whistled to get our attention again. "Okay guys," he started, but then corrected himself. "Girls, let's turn our attention back to the murder victim. I'd like to go pay a visit to Dr. Boobs." I rolled my eyes. Wow. So mature.

"Why?" Trisha asked. "If implants were stolen from him, then he won't know anything."

I sighed, seriously getting irritated. "Look. I respect that you're probably good at your job, but right now, that doctor is the only lead that we've got, and leads are absolutely wonderful for screenplays – or even, say, working an actual, real-life homicide case!" I gave a big smile when Trisha just gave me this pissed off look. Booth whistled and gave me a thumbs-up out of sight of the other FBI agent.

I sat on the comfortable twin-sized bed in the hotel room I shared with Brennan and Booth. While they got food down in the bar at the lobby, I had opted to check in with the Jeffersonian in the anthropologists' place so that she could get breakfast instead. I crossed my legs under me and waited for the Skype to load, having gotten Angela's Skype address from Brennan after she and Booth had finalized with me that I was fine on my own and that I didn't mind if they went to eat. (This hadn't really been good enough for Booth: He'd made himself feel better about it by promising to bring me back a snack.)

Skype finally connected. "Hi sweetie!" Angela greeted with a smile, just looking up for a moment from her paper as the computer binged. "Did you make plans to go to a sky bar?"

"No," I answered, completely honest. "But we did make plans to go see a plastic surgeon." I gave a fake smile. "The breast implants were from the black market. We're talking to the doctor they were stolen from after Dr. Brennan and Booth eat breakfast."

"Why aren't you with them?" Angela asked.

"I'm not hungry," I said with a shrug, and it was truth. The other day I'd been stuffed with vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream and then made to eat a full-course meal at a fancy restaurant. I wasn't use to having so much food at once, just because I never ate very much. Since I started working at the lab, I've sort of given up regular meals and munch on snacks from vending machines to make up for it.

"I have something for you," a voice announced a second before Zach walked into view of the computer, his hands holding something behind his back.

Angela set her pencil down on her paper and looked away from the computer and to the intern. "Is it chocolate?" She asked hopefully.

"No." Zach answered.

Angela sighed and picked up her pencil again. "Then I find my interest has flagged."

Zach made a face at Angela when she looked away and rotated the cleaned skull around his torso and back in front of him, holding it level with Angela. "Nice," she commented sarcastically, seeing the skull right in front of her. "Who is it?" She asked, taking it from him with gentle hands. She placed it on a stand next to the computer and out of sight of her own webcam, so I couldn't see it anymore.

"It's the Hollywood murder victim," Zach said.

"Oh my God," Angela breathed, looking at the skull that I still can't see. She was reaching out to it with one hand, presumably feeling the surgically-made changes to the bones. "I see what Brennan means. This woman has had a lot of surgery."

"What's with Goodman and Hodgins?" Zach asked. It seemed random to me, but since I haven't been there to know if anything's gone on, it may not actually be that random.

"Oh, they're guys," Angela said, like that explained everything. She sighed in irritation. "They should just lay them out on the table and measure."

I laughed out loud at that and covered my mouth with my hands, trying to quiet myself. I just couldn't help it.

Zach frowned in frustration when he didn't understand. "Lay what out on the table and measure?"

Angela's smile faded and my giggles quieted. We were both completely silent for a minute while Zach went from looking at Angela to me, clearly expecting an explanation. "Okay… awkward moment," I said, finally breaking the silence.

"Let's just say they have different approaches, and they're guys, okay?" Angela told Zach, trying to keep it simple.

Zach frowned. "I'm a guy."

Angela looked at me for a bit of help and I shrugged, looking straight at Zach through the webcam. "Yes, but… you're more highly evolved," I decided. "Angela, the girl didn't just change her face. She changed her skull. I have no idea how many times she had surgery, but it had to be more than just once. A reconstruction is going to be very difficult and it may be impossible to be completely accurate, so I'd suggest working first with what doesn't have any visible scarring. From there, I guess you can try to guess based on what the scarring indicates. Beyond that, I really don't know."

"Yeah. It's alright. I'll try my best," Angela said, before dropping her hands to her lap and sighing. "This is going to make Brennan nuts."

"You know one thing," Zach said with a soft, sad smile. "She's going to be beautiful." Both Angela and I regarded him surprise. "Why would anyone go through all this pain and not end up beautiful?"

I smiled softly. Zach was so sincere about it that it made the reality of the situation that much more depressing. "Does the name Joan Rivers mean anything to you?" Angela asked Zach.

"Or Michael Jackson?" I suggested.

Zach looked up and pursed his lips, thinking. "One of them. The other I'll go look up."

"Every culture nurtures ideals of beauty towards which people strive. Fine." Brennan ranted to Booth and I loudly, her voice echoing in the waiting room of the plastic surgeon's practice. Booth and I were trying to hide our faces in the magazines. Brennan is really awesome, and I wouldn't have a problem with it, if it weren't for the other four women waiting for appointments giving Booth, Brennan, Trisha, and I dirty looks. But for fear of her wrath, no one was telling her to be quiet. Instead we meekly sank into our chairs while the anthropologist paced.

Brennan continued her ranting vehemently. "In the future, people will look back upon the surgical alterations of the body with the same horror that we regard the binding of the feet or the use of bronze coils to extend the neck."

I lowered my magazine a little bit so that my eyes were visible to the steaming scientist. "Hey Dr. Brennan, would you like to speak up a bit? It's pretty difficult to hear every word you say in this very quiet waiting room," I said, trying to subtly hint to her to lower her voice when it seemed that both Booth and Trisha were too nervous to do so.

"It's barbaric!" Brennan spat, emphasizing her point when she stopped pacing just to tell me this. "It's painful." She looked at the women waiting with thinly-veiled disgust. "It's wrong. This murder victim may never be identified because some glorified barber with a medical degree had the arrogance to think that he could do better than the millennium of evolution!"

I shrank back further and brought the magazine up again. "I tried," I whispered to Booth and Trisha, who were on either side of me. "Your turn."

Trisha brought the magazine away from her face suddenly, letting the pages bend themselves slightly as her hands resettled in her lap. "Do you know what producer you're meeting with, Dr. Brennan?"

"No, my publisher didn't give me a name." Brennan shook her head. "I don't know what a producer does specifically."

"Nobody does," Trisha said with a sigh. "But it's really important."

The secretary looked up from behind her desk and looked at Brennan with annoyance. "Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth, and Miss Kirkland. Dr. Kostov will see you now," she announced, before looking back to her computer and pressing a button on the telephone receiver to transfer a call.

I practically jumped up from my seat like it was a bomb. Yes! Operation: Distract Brennan Before the Women Murder Us is a success! Trisha started to get up, but Booth pushed himself up from the chair and told her, "You can remain here, Agent Finn."

"Yes, sir," Trisha said, her face falling.

I brushed my hair out of my face as I stepped into the plastic surgeon's office. It was clean and organized, but that didn't make me like it any less. Kostov stood briefly from his seat behind his desk and nodded in respectful acknowledgement as we came in. "Sir, misses, please make yourselves comfortable," he courteously invited.

I sat down in a chair across from the desk while Brennan and Booth sat in the couch next to my newly-claimed seat. Brennan reached into her bag and set the evidence-bagged breast implant on the table in front of the doctor. "Do you recognize this, Dr. Kostov?" She asked, going straight to the million-dollar question. She clearly doesn't like it here any more than I do.

Kostov leaned forward slightly for a moment before rocking back into the chair. He seemed to be projecting this friendly persona, even though any normal person would probably be a bit bewildered if someone just set a breast implant on their desk. Then again, who said he's normal? He cuts open faces for a living. "That would be your high-profile double-lumen full C saline."

"Yeah." Booth nodded, even though he probably had no clue what the term meant from a surgeon's perspective. "It's from a shipment of implants you reported stolen six months ago."

Kostov's smile slipped slightly. "I have a hard time believing you're returning one implant to me."

"I found it in the remains of a murdered girl," Brennan stated coolly.

I glanced at Brennan. Her cold attitude directed towards the surgeon was totally reasonable, in my opinion, but I knew that we needed to try to stay on his good side to ensure his cooperation. "Have many more of the stolen implants been recovered?" I asked.

"Yeah," the doctor nodded. "Approximately three weeks ago, there was a faulty one. Had to be removed by a surgeon out in the valley."

"From whom?" Booth prodded after it became clear that Kostov had finished giving out the information.

Kostov crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, straightening his back and resting his elbows on the edge of his table. "A Heidi."

"I don't know what that means," Brennan said, looking to me in confusion for an explanation.

"That's Californian speak for a prostitute," I said with a slight quirk of my lips. If I complained of aches, she could tell me exactly what part of my body was hurting, a plethora of suggestions as to why, and several possible resolutions, but she doesn't know the slang term for a prostitute.

"Los Angeles Police Department was investigating. They can tell you what agency the girl was working for," Kostov suggested. He looked at me suddenly, tilting his head a bit like he was sizing me up. His eyes slipped from mine and I had the feeling that he was more interested in my nose and cheeks than he was with the conversation I was trying to have with him. "You have the most… beautiful bone structure," he murmured.

Well, that's not at all totally freaking creepy. I had half a mind to run away, and the other part wanted to punch him in the face. Since neither seemed like my brightest ideas, I looked uncomfortably to the FBI agent next to me, hoping for a bit of defense.

"I can't take credit," I said in a tone that I hoped conveyed that I didn't appreciate the comment. I'm okay with being told "hey, you look pretty" (I mean, everyone likes being told once in a while that they look nice), but the way he said it was just disturbing. "It's genetic." Hopefully that hint will tell him I'm not interested in having my face altered.

"How old are you?" Kostov asked, giving me a once-over and meeting my eyes, like he was trying to decide whether my body alone suggested that I was an adult.

I didn't answer immediately, instead fighting a scowl back with the most neutral expression I could. "Why do you want to know?" I demanded.

Kostov stood up like I'd invited him and he stepped around the edge of his table and to me. While I was sitting, he loomed over me. "Well, it's never too early to watch problem areas – the jaw, little pouches beneath the eyes." He reached out with one hand to brush his fingers along my cheek, but then stopped halfway. "Do you mind?"

I stared up at him warily. "Do I mind if you invade my personal space to touch me and tell me what you'd like to do to destroy the soft tissue in my face to dramatically alter my appearance so that I fit your personal qualifications of beauty in a visually-stimulated society? No, go on ahead. Why would that bother me?"

He reached out again, completely misinterpreting the sarcasm.

"If you touch her, she will break you," Booth cautioned with a chuckle. "She doesn't like to be touched, and she thinks what you do is-"

"Barbaric," Brennan interrupted, glaring up at the surgeon.

I reached up suddenly and grabbed his wrist in a vice grip, taking him by surprise. I tightened my hold around his wrist. "Touch my face, and I'll break yours," I promised. "I don't want anyone touching my face, much less when they're talking about mutilating me to fit an image that I don't even care about. And you know, I'm pretty sure that Agent Booth could have you arrested for what you've already attempted to initiate. I'm a minor."

Kostov looked as though he knew that he'd just stepped in hot water. I smirked up at him and suddenly jerked forward, snapping my teeth. He jumped back faster than a rabbit and I exchanged a look with Booth.

LAPD (Los Angeles Police Department) was kind enough to do part of our work for us. They got the woman who ran Aphrodite Escorts into the interrogation room. The girl who'd had to have the faulty implants removed had been from the woman's prostitution/call girl service. Booth and I sat across the table from her.

"According to LAPD, a black market breast implant from the same shipment showed up in another girl from Aphrodite Escorts," I said, nearly monotonously. None of that information was new to me anymore; I was just repeating the basics of the situation for Miss Bardue's benefit.

Bardue was a pretty short woman with black, straightened hair and a pasty complexion due to all of the powders and makeups she used. She wore a black and white top and seemed calm, if not bored with the interrogation, despite that it had just started. Booth asked the first question. "Are you missing anyone?"

"We're not looking into your business, Miss Bardue," I said, going through the normal motions when I noticed her fingers curl up into a stressed fist. "We are solving a murder."

Bardue seemed to measure up my sincerity before folding her hands pompously in her lap and keeping her back straight. I half wondered if she had a corset or something on that was keeping her posture so well. "I haven't heard from Rachel in two weeks."

"Is that unusual?" Booth asked.

"Rachel booked out at a one-week rate." Bardue said, and I smiled just for a millisecond that we now knew our murder victim's name. Rachel. "She knows to check in with me if the client wants to extend the contract. It's… time to worry."

Booth pushed a yellow file folder across the table at Bardue. She looked down at it wearily, unsure whether or not to open it. I motioned towards them with my hand and she picked it up, taking the faxed pictures out of the folder and looking through them, putting each at the back of the collection as she looked at them. "Do any of these women resemble Rachel?" Booth asked.

Bardue sighed and shook her head slightly. "If I had to pick one, this is the closest," she said, thumbing back through to find the one she had in mind. She pulled it from the collection and passed it to me. "But not really."

"Does Rachel have a last name?" Booth asked.

Bardue smiled very faintly, like Booth had told a silly joke. "Rachel wasn't even her real first name, but she goes by Rachel Ashaunce." Good. Okay. We can work with that. "Rachel went to Vegas with a long-time customer."

"We need his name," I said next, before Booth could. This time, Bardue looked like she had no plans of answering. I waited for a moment before I sighed and leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms behind my head. "Miss Bardue, it's always the same story. A beautiful young woman is wanted by a man who can't have her, and then someone dies. Rachel was murdered, attacked by someone that she most likely knew, and it's our job to figure out who it was. We're not trying to take down your business, really."

Bardue shifted uneasily. "A Dr. Anton Kostov. An assembly-line nip tucker in town." Booth and I exchanged serious looks and Bardue looked piercingly at us. "If that's all?"

"Miss Bardue, do you have any idea of what Rachel looked like before her plastic surgery?" Booth asked, his tone seeming final.

Bardue smirked breezily. "Which time?"

I sighed and moved to stand up. "Do you have a card, Miss Bardue?" It's better to keep in contact in case we need to talk to her again, right?

Bardue took out her purse and slipped her manicured fingers into the first section, pulling out a little cardstock card with her name, number, and business information on the front. She slid it across to our side of the table and looked up at Booth. "We provide a law enforcement discount."

"Ah," I said, picking up the card and pushing it into my pocket. I made for the door, kicking the chair back under the table with my heel. Just outside, where Brennan was waiting for us to finish the interview, I threw my hands in the air in frustration. Brennan jumped in alarm. "Look, I get that Booth's an attractive guy and all, but really. Why do people hit on him when he's investigating? It's not like he's going to ask them out for coffee during an interrogation!"

Back in the morgue/examination area that Brennan and I had been provided, Booth, Brennan and I all stood around the table that the now clean bones rested upon, bouncing ideas and statements off of each other in the hopes that something would fall into place and give us another lead.

"Kostov knew Rachel as a patient and she knew him as a client," Booth stated simply.

"Kostov wasn't the victim's only plastic surgeon," Brennan said, completely convinced of this. "I looked at images in ten times magnification of the jawbone surgery. Kostov doesn't do work that sophisticated."

I scoffed. "Huh. Yet he still leaves marks." I ran my fingertips of one hand along my jawline without really thinking about it. "I can't believe he thought I'd be okay with getting plastic surgery done. He had the nerve to ask how old I was and start pointing out possible flaws!" I was getting angry just thinking about it again.

"Well, you know, those people are like parasites," Booth said, trying to give a simile that he felt was accurate and that would calm me at the same time. "They find a pretty girl, they make her self-conscious, and then they feed off of that to get a client, and boom, next thing they know, they're raking in thousands of dollars from surgeries out of the insecurities that they planted."

"It's cruel," Brennan said in disgust and distaste.

"I got more of a creep vibe from it," I said, not completely disagreeing.

One of the large monitors on the far left lit up, first with the "incoming call" Skype logo, and then the colors blurred and pixelated until they settled and formed the image of Zachary Addy, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and a pleased smile on his face. "Zach Addy," he called to get Booth and Brennan's attention, dragging out the first A. "I live to serve."

Brennan brightened immediately at the sight of her intern. "Zach, this facial surgery – the edges of the bone are almost scalped, as if the blade simultaneously cut and applied torsion," she said, after restarting her sentence to more eloquently state the fact.

Zach inclined his chin while he listened and then nodded carefully, already guessing her next request. "You need to know if this procedure is recognized and sanctioned by the American Medical Association."

Booth looked over at Brennan in intrigued surprise. "You think Kostov is performing illegal surgical procedures?"

Brennan raised her shoulders in an "I'm not sure" gesture. "It won't help us discover the identity of our victim, but it might help us catch her killer," Brennan said, gazing sadly at the bones on the table. She's really upset about how desperate Rachel must have been to conceal her real appearance.

Booth blinked at the way that Brennan worded it, like catching the murderer would just be a happy bonus. "That's the point, Bones."

"What?" Brennan asked, looking up at Booth.

"To catch the murderer," Booth specified.

On the monitor, Hodgins came up behind Zach and grabbed his shoulders, pushing him off away to the side. Out of view, Zach indignantly cried, "Hey!" but Hodgins didn't really seem to care. Jesus, that's a bit harsh. Whatever happened to manners in that institute? "I'm sending you a catalogue of all the stuff they sent me," Hodgins informed Brennan. "Soil samples, pollen, particulates, et cetera that were on the body parts. There's nothing too surprising, except for some E glass fibers."

Brennan snorted and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "She didn't pick that up in a field."

"Marine fiberglass," I told Booth when I noticed him about to open his mouth and ask what "E glass fibers" meant in layman's terms. "Meaning that the victim was on a boat shortly before her death."

"Precisely. Xena hit that on the nail," Hodgins agreed. "Oh, and also, look at this." He aimed a remote in his hand at a computer off-screen and the monitor to the right of the exam table came to life with a picture of a chipped acrylic fingernail, painted red with a diamond stud embedded in the polish. "It's probably her own. I sent it to the FBI crime lab so they can run DNA tests. That's zirconium, by the way, not an actual diamond, so I'm guessing she wasn't your top-drawer, high-class prostitute."

Zach shoved his way back onto the screen and I fought back a little laugh at his constant battle to be on screen, first against Angela, now against Hodgins. "All of the osteological elements are consistent with recent elective surgeries, except the compound fractures in the right tibia and fibula which indicate traumatic compression and-"

I held up a finger to the webcam for a minute. "Hold on, let's not leave out Booth." I looked over to the agent in question, who was reaching out for Brennan's phone as it laid on the table. "She had her leg crushed. Remodeling suggests it was around age thirteen. It's likely from an automobile accident."

Booth opened the phone and tapped some buttons before Brennan realized that he was using her phone. "Excuse me! That's mine!" She exclaimed.

"I analyzed the molars," Zach continued, oblivious to the ridiculous scuffle that ensued. Booth finished typing in a phone number and held the mobile up to his ear while Brennan tried to reach for it to take it back. He kept one arm extended to keep her back and for a few seconds, she struggled against it before she realized that she wasn't going to get her phone back and she gave up. These people are more entertaining than TV. "Oxygen and stranti isotopes in enamel indicate an early childhood in New England, while the dentin suggests six to ten years in southern California."

Booth ignored Zach, speaking into the phone once someone on the other end picked up. "Hey, Miss Bardue!" He greeted with a pleasant ring in his voice. "Hi, it's Special Agent Booth. I've reconsidered your offer. I was wondering if I could have one of your ladies visit me today?"

Brennan looked at Booth in what could only be described as horror. "You're ordering a prostitute from my cell phone?!" Unable to take it anymore, I doubled over laughing, clapping a hand over my mouth to not be heard over the phone line.

"Uh, yeah, I was wondering if Rachel ever took part in any of those two-on-one specials," Booth stated mildly, and my laughter increased in volume.

"Hey, the old two-on-one special," Hodgins grinned impishly. "Classic!"

"What's a classic?" Zach asked, but Hodgins just shook his head and refused to explain.

"That's great!" Booth exclaimed enthusiastically. "Just send me whoever she worked with the most."

"You're ordering a hooker to my hotel?" Brennan exclaimed, her voice getting slightly squeaky in disbelief and embarrassment.

"Did I hear you say hooker?" Zach asked, glancing at Hodgins and forcing his way into the screen yet again, attention caught.

Hodgins pouted. "How come I never get to go on these out of town trips?" He demanded, whining.

Booth didn't bother to dignify the squints with an answer, instead looking to Brennan to explain himself before she killed him for her humiliation. "Because you have much looser daily allowances than I do!"

Brennan glared at him and snatched her phone away possessively. "Well, have fun," she said snippily. "I have to get up early tomorrow."

"Why?" Booth asked.

"I'm meeting a producer," Brennan said sharply. "And Holly's going with me."

"I am?" I asked. "This is new information to me."

"Either that or you can go see a hooker with Booth," she said, motioning to the agent with the hand that wasn't clutching her phone.

I briefly considered that for a moment. See a prostitute with Booth for a two-hour meeting, or only see a prostitute with Booth for an hour and spent the other half of that time with Brennan? Well, best of both worlds, I guess. "Okay, that'll work," I conceded without much of a fight.

I looked over to the clock on the wall on my way out of the police department, on my way to get a taxi back to the hotel to change clothes and put on something more casual for the driving test Booth had arranged, when I was stopped.

"Miss Kirkland!" Trisha called after me. I sighed. I'd left the morgue a few minutes early, anyway, so I slowed to a stop and turned around to watch Trisha as she tried to catch up with me. Her hair swished as she half ran to reach me. "Can I have a moment? Please?" She asked, coming to a slow stop in front of me.

I nodded, blinking and slightly interested. "We're investigating someone's murder together. Of course you can have a moment."

She came to a complete stop and lifted up one of her hands uncertainly to play with her hair. With her fingers, she twisted a strand around her finger and then pulled her hand away, letting her hair pull itself out of the spiral. "Um, have I done something to offend Agent Booth or yourself?" She asked.

I frowned, uncomfortable. "I'm really not into the whole "west-coast-in-touch-with-your-feelings" thing…"

"Yeah," Trisha said, although since I hadn't really said anything for her to agree to, I assume it's just because she wanted me to keep focus on her. "I'm really good at my job, and I've been nothing but cooperative and helpful to you, but the two of you are just freezing me out." I raised my eyebrows as a symbol for her to continue. "And… And I know that Agent Booth has nothing against working with women, because he's partners with you and Dr. Brennan," I didn't bother to correct her on that I wasn't Booth's partner. "And I know that you don't have anything against the FBI, because you work with Booth, so I'm left with the conclusion that your problems must be with me."

I sighed softly, trying my best not to be mean to her. She really didn't seem like a bad person, and she hadn't returned any of the quips that Booth or I had made, instead backing down to us when we got snappish. "Okay, look," I said, honestly trying to understand. "I have no issues with you. Honestly, I don't. I think you're nice and I think you must be a very patient woman to put up with me." I shrugged halfheartedly. "But the fact is, I'm not good with people, and when it's with people that I don't know, then usually I shy away from human interaction like it burns. I have no problems, really, I'm just not very inclined for socializing. As for Agent Booth," I said, making sure to use his title with his name. "I suggest you ask him. As far as I know, you haven't done anything to upset him. He's not unreasonable; if you bring it up calmly, he'll listen. Although, if I can make an observation," I added. "He gets sharp with you when you switch topics from screenplays to this case. I believe that your ambitions combined with your working for the FBI may be part of the problem."

Trisha nodded, not very happy with what advice I had given her about Booth, but she seemed more appeased by my explanation of my own coolness.

I sat in the parking lot, leaning back against the driver's seat with my arms crossed across my chest impatiently for the official conducting my test to finish filling out my basic information. Unfortunately, Booth had been told to wait back inside, leaving me alone with the man who didn't seem to respect me very much. I stretched out my legs, my feet touching the gas and brake pedals, but not pressing down on them. The keys dangled from their place in the ignition, but the car wasn't started.

"Date of birth?" The official asked, double-checking what he had written down with me.

"December twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-seven." I said monotonously. I was going to be tested using a pretty modern but common car. It wasn't exactly an SUV or minivan, but it was a pretty large vehicle somewhere in between a van and a car. I'm not sure what it's called but I've seen the same model several times around D.C.. This particular one was white and had one of those air fresheners pinned to a vent. At least this one isn't motion activated.

…Yeah. When I had my permit with one of the foster families, the foster mother insisted that we keep a motion activated air freshener in the car so that whenever someone got in, the air would smell nice for them. She didn't consider that if you need to lean across to get the proof of insurance from the glove compartment, then the air freshener will spray you in the face.

That was not a fun experience for me. I spent half an hour trying to wash my eyes of the chemicals and then stop crying.

When the official finally set his clipboard on the dash, I threw my head back before reaching forward, grabbing the edge, and pushing it back onto his legs. I'm sorry, I just can't drive with papers and things on the dashboard. If the sun's out and there's little cloud cover, then the reflections go up on the windshield and it's harder to see, and it's just always bothered me.

The official seemed a little peeved that I'd done that but I really couldn't care less.

When he told me to start driving, and told me the route (since I wasn't local, he had to show me a map so I'd know what he was talking about), I twisted the keys and pulled back out of the parking space, and a minute later, he told me to drive the way I normally would. I shrugged at that and then rolled down the driver's side window and turned on the radio.

While Taylor Swift sang Sparks Fly and I hummed along to the chorus, which was really the only part of the song that I knew, I drove out onto the road beside the building Booth was waiting in. The official (I really should have asked his name earlier) seemed disgruntled by my carelessness and lack of visible concentration, but anyone who knows me would know that when I'm trying to maintain focus or stress I hum. Brennan and Angela both knew that, but the official didn't, so he started questioning me.

"Keep the window rolled up," he instructed. "It blocks out unnecessary noise and keeps the wind from making you need to look away from the road."

I smirked and raised one hand from the steering wheel to tap the side of my plastic blue sunglasses. "It enables me to hear if a siren is going and I need to pull over, and my sunglasses keep anything from hindering my vision."

"Roll up the window," he said again.

"Why would I do that?" I asked, enjoying taunting him. I was driving perfectly legally and I was doing a good job at it, too, and it's not like he can dock scores for sass.

"Because I asked you to."

"Yeah, well, you're making me uncomfortable," I countered with a decisive nod. Yeah, I'll go with that.

The official looked taken aback. "What does that have anything to do with the windows being rolled down?"

"Because if they're rolled down, then I'm free to scream "kidnap" out the window if you start creeping me out any more."

Once we got back to the building, I parked the car as he lifted his pen. "Something I noticed. Why, after going for nearly a year without a permit, are you suddenly in want of a license?"

I shrugged and took the keys out of the ignition, holding them up by the white tag that labeled the make and model of the car they went with. The official took them from me. "So I can drive the awesome car Agent Booth rented."

"Is that all?" He asked skeptically, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, I don't exactly have a car of my own. I bet you've heard more pointless reasons before."