Page 71 of The Witness

I was dumbstruck. What makes me unique? I cringed inwardly. Not much. Big muscles and big dick were absolutely on the list. But I wasn’t sure what else about me made us worthy of her time. There had to be a reason I was a forty-three-year-old single serial dater that never married.

“And if you keep overstepping, you will piss me off.” She pointed at me like I was a bad dog that just peed on the new rug, and I cowered accordingly.

“You’re right, the George thing was—”

Thankfully, the trill of her cell phone cut off anything more I was going to say. She pulled it out of her back pocket and looked at the screen. “I have to take this.”

She walked out of the kitchen. And I watched her go.

“Shit.” My curse bounced off the walls and back at me.

Fresh air, sunshine, and miles of pavement called to my jumbled thoughts. So, I slipped out the back of Viande without saying goodbye. In less than five minutes, I was on my Harley heading west. The long flat roads that crisscrossed the Everglades always helped exorcise my demons.

When I was running low on fuel, I stopped at one of the shitty old gas stations on the edge of the Seminole Indian reservation to refuel. The hot dog I bought had been rolling on the heaters for so long it looked and tasted like leather.

I leaned next to the live bait well inside the grimy filling station and checked my cell, half hoping for a text from Sabrina but knowing it wouldn’t be there. She didn’t need my help. That was abundantly clear. Instead, I found a message from Quinn that told me to come by the office either today or early tomorrow. I had a new assignment and needed to pick up a company vehicle.

A surge of purpose had me chucking the last bites of hot dog into the trash so I could hightail it back to the office.

The ride back into the city was a nightmare. Pre-rush hour was in full swing. It was a miracle that I survived the journey to the Smith Agency unscathed.

“Quinn, you look great.” I had my helmet tucked under my arm and set it down on her desk as I walked into the office. She was dressed to kill in a black dress and bright red lipstick.

“Thank you. I assume you’re here for the SUV?”

“Yep. What’s my new gig?”

“Did you see the last Dolphins game?”

“No, I was in Cuba.”

“True. So, the kicker missed the last-second field goal that would have gotten us into the playoffs. Now he’s getting death threats. Miami PD is taking one of them seriously. Apparently, the suspect has a criminal record and history of instability. PD has people at Malcom Wanders’s place tonight, but they recommended he hire private security starting bright and early tomorrow. I emailed you the case file.” She pointed at me with her cell phone.

“Cool. And your smoking hot outfit?”

“Ah, yes.” She tossed her shiny blonde hair over her shoulder. “First, I’m heading to Viande to help wrangle the media for Sabrina, then—”

“What media?”

“She has an interview with the local news station about what happened. She’s promoting the crowdfunding campaign she launched this morning and doubling down on her promise to get the restaurant open on schedule. I told her I’d help with the spin to keep everyone happy. One wrong statement and the FBI will be pissed. We do not want that.”

“I can drive you?” I was taking home a Smith Agency vehicle. Why not help Quinn? Parking in the Design District was a bitch at this time of day. If I found parking, I’d hang out. Watch the interview. See Sabrina. Then drive Quinn back here.

“Sorry, afterward I have a date up the block from Viande. And depending on how that goes, I want to have my car.” She popped open a compact mirror from her top drawer and checked her lipstick.

“You have a date? You never date.”

“An exception was made.” She winked and tossed me the keys to The Tank.

I caught them and realized the Dolphin’s kicker must be in some really deep shit if I was getting The Tank.

“What did you tell Sabrina about me and the women I date?” The question was out before I thought to stop it.

Quinn sighed. “It’s common knowledge that you date women who need rescuing. It is kind of the number one commonality between every woman you’ve been with since we met.”

“No, it’s not.” Other than a preference for petite redheads, I didn’t have a type. My dating history proved it.

Quinn huffed a laugh. “Yeah, it is. Your exes are like a laundry list of sad and pathetic.”

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