Page 118 of Mensa's Match

Mom stared at him.

Mensa gave her a boyish grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll prove to you how serious I am.”

Mom nodded. “I don’t doubt it. I’ll talk to Bill. He’s protective of her, and getting that call from Wyatt that our girl had been shot… it threw us, since we thought we didn’t have to worry about that any more.”

Chapter 30

It's a Start

Mensa

Mensa strode out tothe hospital parking lot. He pulled his helmet over his head, and his phone rang.

He took the call, only to be interrupted mid-answer by Dontrell.

“What the hell is this I hear? Houston got shot on your watch! Is she okay?”

Mensa willed himself to stay calm because it was good for Whitney to have someone who cared about her like that. “Take it down a notch, Dontrell. How’d you find out?”

“Who cares how I found out?”

Mensa stayed focused. “Was it your son? Or Scrap? Or did Rod come in to tell you himself?”

“He won’t last two seconds if he comes around here—”

“Don’t say shit like that. You never know who might hear you.”

“Like I give a damn,” Dontrell muttered.

“Why did you call me?”

“To find out about Whitney.”

Mensa gave him a quick summary of what happened and how Whitney was doing.

“Okay. That’s a relief. What are you doing about that asshole?”

He shook his head. “No offense, D, but I wouldn’t tell you if I knew.”

Dontrell’s tone went stern. “I want to help you.”

“I appreciate that, but you don’t need to give the cops another reason to question you.”

Dontrell sighed. “Fine. I’m making a Greek combo plate for her. Come get it, so I don’t have to leave. The assistant manager here is six months pregnant and I’m not leaving her alone.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Half-way to DeeLight’s, Mensa was reminded of how much he despised rush hour traffic. Cars wove in and out of the lanes, and it didn’t matter how loud his pipes were, those distracted drivers rarely knew he was riding next to them.

He pulled into the Division Street location of DeeLight’s, and parked his bike near the entrance. As he unfastened his helmet, he heard approaching sirens from his left. The restaurant wasn’t far from a busy intersection.

He went inside the restaurant, and from the front window, he watched a motorcycle run a red light, turning onto Division Street, narrowly avoiding the on-coming traffic.

The motorcyclist picked up some speed, but then slowed to turn right into DeeLight’s.

“Shit,” Mensa whispered.

The last thing Dontrell needed was some speed-demon trying to hide out in his parking lot.

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