Page 29 of High Velocity

“Probably should have,” she returns, tossing back the rest of her third margarita. She’s singlehandedly killed off about three-quarters of that pitcher. “Did for a while too.”

“I’m hearing a but…”

She shoots a grin my way.

“Yeah, well…I’ve always been a sucker for a bad boy.”

I force a chuckle. “Couldn’t stay away?”

“Actually, technically I did, for about five years,” she confesses, and I find myself leaning forward in anticipation. “I only met him in person recently.”

Bingo.

I try not to let my excitement show. The timeline works, but I want some confirmation we’re talking about Mitchel Laine and not some other guy.

“Oh, you met online or something? I haven’t had much luck with those dating sites,” I probe.

“I wasn’t too keen on them myself, but I figured I’d give it another try. That was five years ago, and the first one I met on there was him.”

“Wait, are you saying you’ve been talking to this guy for five years but you never met face-to-face?”

“Until recently, yeah.” She gets up to empty the pitcher in her glass. “More water?” she asks me.

I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

When she sits down and sips her drink, I worry I’m going to have to push harder to get more information, but apparently, she’s not yet done sharing.

“Also, we mostly wrote each other. Then after a while I gave him my phone number and he’d call whenever he could. Gave us a chance to really get to know each other.”

Tracy comes across as someone who has her shit together, so it’s hard for me to believe the dreamy look on her face was put there by the likes of Mitchel Laine.

“Wow. Military? Was he working overseas or something?”

I do my best to make the question sound casual, and keep a close eye on Tracy’s reaction. Instead of looking at me suspiciously, she averts her gaze, looking almost embarrassed.

“Or something,” she finally responds after waging a silent battle. Her eyes come up and meet mine when she adds, “He was incarcerated.”

“Oh,” I feign surprise. At least I hope I do, because inside I’m giving myself a mental fist pump.

“It’s not like that,” she immediately jumps to his defense. “He was framed.”

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that excuse, I’d buy myself an island in the South Pacific.

“He’s such a gentleman, so sweet and attentive. There’s no way he could’ve done any of the things they accused him of. He’s been nothing but good to me.”

She’s trying so hard to convince me, I feel for Tracy, I do. Clearly Laine spent the past five years brainwashing her into buying his claim of innocence. By her own admission, she didn’t have many good experiences with men before meeting him, and that manipulative bastard must’ve caught right on to that. He turned himself into everything she’d ever wanted.

I wondered, at first, if perhaps this girl had been an accomplice of sorts, but I don’t think so. She didn’t stand a chance; she has stars in her eyes, and I want to bet she has no clue what he’s really been up to since his release.

“So when did you two finally meet?”

“The first time was a little over a week ago,” she shares, taking a drink from her margarita and getting that dreamy look on her face again. “He’s dropped by a few times since.”

So he’s not actually staying here, but he can’t be too far.

“Oh wow, so he’s local,” I observe, but I notice something about my comment doesn’t sit well with Tracy.

She suddenly seems flustered and gets to her feet, carrying her still half-full glass to the kitchen sink where she dumps it out. Then she turns around and leans against the counter, folding her arms in front of her.

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