Page 46 of Fiery Romance

Scowling, I stomp ahead and throw myself into his car.

* * *

Bolton takesoff at a breakneck speed.

“Put on your seatbelt and punch the location into my GPS,” he says, nodding to the impressive dashboard monitor.

It looks like someone shoved a computer into the front of his truck. Something tells me this fancy set up is for more than just directions.

Hands shaking, I do as he asks and call Rasheeda again.

She sounds a little calmer this time. “The police are here.”

“Give them everything they ask for. If you need help writing a detailed list of missing goods, I have one. I keep an inventory account for all the salons.” My thoughts are rushing in too many directions at once. “Was it just theft? Did they break anything?”

“They sprayed graffiti over the front glass windows.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Do you know of anyone who’d want to do this to you?”

“Uh… no. I don’t… no.”

“Then it must be gang affiliated.” My head is strained. It was a risk setting up a shop at the very edge of a low-income neighborhood, but the rent prices were good and the space was perfect. Plus there were tons of clientele just a stone’s throw from the store.

“Island, the police want to speak to me. I’ll talk to you when you get here.”

I set the phone down and chew on my bottom lip. I’m glad Rasheeda and the other technicians are safe. That’s what matters, but I can’t help bemoaning the timing.

I’m entangled with Bolton and his draconian threats, and even if I wanted to pay him off, one of my stores was just targeted. It’ll take forever to sort through insurance and even then, I might not be able to climb out of this hole financially unscathed.

Bolton looks over. “What makes you think this incident was gang related?”

“Almost every small business in the area has been targeted. Thieves go in, break things, steal things and leave graffiti stains.”

“But you didn’t think it would hit your salon?”

“No, I thought… we don’t keep money in the store and gang bangers aren’t necessarily hunting for hair conditioners.” I stop and peer at him. “Why do you care?”

“Something doesn’t feel right.”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

“But I’m giving it anyway.” He slants me adon’t be so stubbornlook. “Why would a gang want to steal all the items in a salon? I get vandalism and I get trashing the place. But taking hair stuff? My gut is telling me there’s more to it than that.”

“Maybe the gang vandalized it first and looters came in afterwards.”

He presses his lips together.

“Either way, it’s not your problem, so how about you let the police handle this?” I fold my arms over my chest. A wrinkle forms in my left brow.

“The police have their own timelines.”

“And you don’t?”

He shrugs.

“Well, I don’t need your help. Besides, you—” I gesture to all of him—“with your fancy security company and your rich family, don’t have any experience with people living in the ghetto.”

“If you think I haven’t seen poverty and helplessness, think again.” He makes a left. “Humans are complicated, but simple too. Good people and evil people exist everywhere, no matter what part of the world you go to.”

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