Page 70 of The Witness

“Great. Nice that she has a professional to help, because this is a disaster.” George, hands on hips, turned slowly, taking in the repairs his crew would need to make. He pulled a pad and pen from the back pocket of his well-worn jeans, ready to start making notes.

“I’m thinking it’s a bit like triage. The worst injuries first?”

“Yeah, that’s one way of looking at it.” George, head tipped back, looked up at the bullets still embedded in the ceiling.

“Automatic weapons fire.”

“Fuck. She doesn’t deserve this shit. Any place you want us to start?”

“The front windows and doors. New glass.” Sabrina would be so happy I was here to help. Soon I’d need a nametag that said ‘Mr. Priceless.’

“Good call.” George started writing. “I’ve got the old purchase orders we can—”

“So, you two started without me?” Sabrina’s tone of voice was my first clue I might have miscalculated.

I winced. She didn’t look happy. There was useful and there was… overbearing. I had a sinking feeling I’d crossed the line.

“Hey, Sabrina. I don’t even know what to say about all this. It’s a mess. But props to your insurance agency for sending an adjustor over for our meeting. That kind of service is unheard of.” George shot me a thumbs up, unknowingly driving the final nail into my value-add coffin. “I have to get a card from you, Steel; I already forgot the name of your agency.”

“Oh, Michael isn’t from any insurance company. Are you?”

I rubbed the five o’clock shadow on my jaw that I’d not shaved this morning in a rush to keep being valuable.

“Ah, no I’m a…” I trailed off. Friend seemed too small. Boyfriend too big. And security consultant too asinine considering George’s perfectly reasonable insurance adjustor assumption.

“George, if you’ll excuse us for a moment.” She grabbed my upper arm like an angry nun in a catholic school and shoved me toward the back of the restaurant. If she’d been able to reach, I think she might have gone for my ear.

“I’m trying to help.” The words burst out as soon as we were in the kitchen.

“Sure. But no. This is more. Cleaning up at the house and here were nice gestures. Texting the security monitoring service at the Smith Agency to keep an eye on me was disconcerting. Stepping into my place in a business meeting with my GC was a hard, fast, huge no. I was five minutes late. Five. You didn’t text or call, you took over.” She had her hands on her hips and her chin jutted aggressively at me.

“I want to be useful.” I held my hands up and out in a position of supplication.

“Quinn warned me that was your thing: rescuing women. I’m not that kind of girl. I can do things for myself. Always have. If you need your knight in shining armor kink serviced, you need to look elsewhere.” She turned away.

This might be the end. Poof. Our last conversation. I stepped in front of her before she left the room. A surge of panic filled my chest. It couldn’t end like this.

“But in Cuba—” I started to explain how good we’d been, how it all worked and would keep working. How wrong Quinn had been; it wasn’t rescuing, it was beinguseful. Fuck, Simon didn’t explain it well, or I’d made a wrong turn somewhere. I wanted to matter for the long haul.

“In Cuba, an international crime lord was hunting me. I needed my own personal superhero to step in and save me. I was so far in over my head it could have been deadly. Now, I got this. All of it. I can load my dishwasher. Set my alarm. Talk to my GC. Sometimes I may want a hug, but the rest I can manage.”

“I hate seeing you stressed.” I was reaching the end of my viable arguments. And the rope I was hanging on was fraying fast, but I clung tight.

She laughed. It kind of sounded like a hyena in a cable TV nature show—sharp and abrupt. “Stress is how entrepreneurs survive. We stress and strive and fight. Then we tally up the wins and losses and do it all again.”

“But what can I do?”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “If you want to be part of my life, I need more Clark Kent and less Superman.”

I shook my head, not understanding what she was asking for. Her hand fell from my shoulder and her expression changed. The sadness and disappointment in her eyes sucked the air from my lungs.

“That night in Cuba when you told me about your sister. That is the only personal thing you have ever told me. One story. You’re a two-dimensional character in my life. Just like superman. I need more. If you want to be more than a roll in the hay, then show me more than your muscles and your dick.”

Ouch.

“I’m trying to be useful.” My chest deflated and my broad shoulders rounded.

“If that was what I wanted, I’d hire a personal assistant or a housekeeper. For this,” she waved between the two of us, “to continue, show me a third dimension. The real you. What makes you unique and makes us worth the time and effort?”

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