Page 30 of Dirty Roxie
Ronan
“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, security has been looking for you both,” the clerk at the front desk says, stopping us as we walk through the lobby. “They requested a copy of the guest list and are talking to everyone who attended the party last night. They asked me to send you to them upon your return.” The clerk rushes around from behind his workstation. “If you wouldn’t mind following me.”
He waves an arm in the direction we plan to travel. Down a long hallway set back and to the side of the front desk. He brings us to a large door marked “SEGURIDAD” and opens it, motioning for us to go in ahead of him.
I follow Roxie in, letting myself check out her ass in her cut-off shorts as I do. Then allowing my gaze to drift all the way down her long pale legs to the combat boots adorning her feet. Which she somehow makes look sexy as hell. Between the short shorts and her low-cut T-shirt, showing off just a hint of the lace at the edge of her bra, she’s had me on edge all day. Not to mention the message on today’s tee:
A good man breaks your headboard, not your heart.
Leading me to fantasize all day about the different ways we could break her headboard.
Another clerk takes down our names on a clipboard, then shows us into a smaller meeting room with four chairs and a table, plus a video camera set on a tripod, and a TV mounted to the wall. I pull out a chair for Roxie, then take a seat next to her, a slight groan escaping as I do.
“How are the stitches holding up?” she asks in a low voice.
“Very well. I’m impressed.”
“You shouldn’t be, that’s only the third time I’ve ever done that. Jen is usually themedicin our crew.” She uses air quotes when she says the word medic, which worries me a bit.
“Maybe I should have someone else take a look.” I pull the bottom of my shirt up slightly to peek at the bandage. No red seeps through, which is good. The stitches haven’t split and I’m not bleeding.
“Looks good to me,” she says.
“Yes, to me as well.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it,” she jokes.
“I am happy. And grateful. I just wish I didn’t know that was only your third time stitching a wound.”
“How can you be such a badass and such a worrywart at the same time?”
“What is a worrywart?”
“You know, like a nervous Nellie, fusspot, mother hen. Someone who worries about things all the time.”
“Are you saying it is bad to exercise caution?” I ask.
“No, not at all. It just goes along with the whole fancy-pants vibe you’ve got going on.”
“I’m not . . . never mind.” I sigh. “We aren’t going to tell the police I was shot if they ask.”
“Good idea.” She nods in agreement, then asks, “Why not?”
“Police report. Hospital notification. Admission of guilt. I don’t know. I just get the impression it’s a bad idea.”
“Okay, I won’t say anything about you getting shot. What about that they shot at us?”
“What about if I do the talking?”
The door opens before she responds. A tall clean-cut man comes in carrying two bottled waters. His suit appears freshly pressed, his hair either wet or gelled back, and his face free from stubble. The scent of soap that follows him tells me he just showered.
He sets a bottled water in front of each of us and takes a seat across the table from where we sit. “SeñorJohnson.” He nods at me. “SeñoraJohnson.” And then at Roxie. “Pleasure to meet you. I am Inspector Cruz Castillo and I’d like to speak with you about the party last night.”
“What about it?” Roxie asks.
I snake a hand over to her lap and pinch her bare thigh, hoping it jogs her memory that I would do all the talking. Then grab her hand in mine, so it looks like that was my intention all along.
“Did you enjoy yourselves?” Inspector Castillo asks.
