Page 24 of A Step You Shouldn't Take

“How you doin’, Cullen?” Jerome asked when I walked out of the locker room.

We’d both joined on the same day, and Buzz, the owner, had taken us on the grand tour together. Weights, bikes, weights, more weights, water fountain. Buzz was a man of few words.

“Not bad.”

“You gettin’ your problems sorted out?”

Jerome knew I’d had difficulties with Emma’s debts after she left, but I’d never let on how bad it had got. I may not have had money, but I still had pride.

“Things are getting better, Rome.” He’d adopted the nickname years ago after someone kidded him that Rome wasn’t built in a day. “Picked up a new case on Saturday.”

“Not another one of those infidelity messes?”

“No, this one’s different. Attempted kidnapping.”

“Attempted?”

“The woman escaped. The cops have given up, but she wants him found and educated on the error of his ways.”

“Need a hand with that?”

Rome cracked his knuckles, and several people turned their heads. He had that effect. Five years ago, he’d worked as an enforcer for one of Maryland’s most feared drug dealers, but when his boss got shot dead in a turf war, Rome had decided to go straight. Well, straight-ish. Six and a half feet tall, he weighed two-hundred-and-fifty pounds and people crossed the street to avoid him.

“Maybe. I need to find him first.”

“I’ve got faith, brother.”

“This one might need more than faith. Can you do me a favour tomorrow night?”

“What sort of a favour?”

“I need you to call me at nine thirty and pretend there’s an emergency.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got to visit a potential witness, and the thought of being alone with her leaves me cold inside.”

“She’s a dog?”

“More of a rabid cheerleader-slash-cop groupie.”

***

I deliberately dressed down to visit Brittney—worn jeans, battered boots, and a leather jacket that had seen better days, say, last century. In hindsight, that was a mistake.

“Come in, come in!” She flung the door wide. “Wait—you’re Reed, right?”

“Ma’am, you really should ask for ID before you open the door.”

“Ma’am?” She giggled, and a boob almost fell out of her top. “You’re so old-fashioned. Love the jacket, by the way. Hugo Boss?”

“No, I bought it off a guy at a truck stop.”

“Really?” Her over-plucked brows furrowed. “I get it! You’re joking.” She reached up to stroke my face. “The stubble really suits you.”

Mental note: shave every single fucking day.

“Did you get the photos?”

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