Page 19 of Empire State Enemies

Well, fuck. It couldn’t have been her, could it?

But damn, her hands were all over my ass, right where I’d stashed that fob. That sudden exit from the bathroom, her shift from seductive to spooked—it reeked of a setup.

I clench my fists behind my head, eyes fixed on the void left by my car.

This can’t be a coincidence. Not with a car like that. Had to be someone who knew what they were doing, how to bypass security. People live and breathe for these limited editions—they’d give their firstborn to ride in one.

And there she was, all seductive in that bathroom, disarming me with those captivating eyes and distracting lips . . .

Was Iplayed?

No fucking way.

I stride to the security desk, jaw clenched, and find the rent-a-cop with his feet up, chuckling around a mouthful of pizza, oblivious as I approach. Useless idiot. No wonder someone waltzed off with my Porsche.

I slam my hands down on the desk. “Hey.”

He jumps so high his giant Pepsi goes flying and drenches his pants.

“M-Mr. Quinn!” he stammers, dripping soda. “Sir, I didn’t see you—”

“Clearly,” I cut him off. “Maybe if you kept your eyes on the monitors instead of the TV, you’d have seen who rode my Porsche out of here.”

His face drains of color. “Y-your Porsche?” He checks the video feed, sees the empty bay.

“Oh god.” He looks like he’s about to puke or piss himself. Maybe both.

I lean in close, my voice low. “You’ll answer for this later.”

He stumbles up, soaked in soda, and for a split-second looks like he might protest. But then he sees the look in my eyes and thinks better of it.

I storm back up to reception, interrupting the inane guest chatter. “Someone stole my car. Pull up the security footage. Now.”

Sara the receptionist’s eyes blow wide, fingers freezing over the keyboard. “Of course, Mr. Quinn.”

They all must think I’m losing it with how agitated I’ve been lately. But let’s be real here, it’s hard to joke around with them when this issue is constantly eating away at me, ruining everything I do. Every meeting, every workout, every meal, every fuck—it’s all tainted by this nagging feeling that something just ain’t right.

Her nails click-clack sluggishly across the keys, and I resist pushing her aside and taking over. Few things piss me off more than having my time wasted. Lately my temper’s a lit fuse—doesn’t take much to spark an explosion.

“Camera thirty-five. Lobby,” I order.

“What are we looking for?”

“Rewind to last night. Between nine and ten.”

I lean in close, glaring at the screen. The footage flickers by in a meaningless parade of faces until it’s just background noise against my growing irritation. Still no sign of my little hustler.

“Anyone in particular we’re looking for?” Sara asks, nervously biting her lip.

“Yeah,” I snap, jaw tight with frustration.

The footage stutters forward, and there I am, a mess, hardly the picture of control or dignity. I run a hand over my face in frustration.

“There. Freeze it.”

There she is, sitting alone at the bar. The brunette who had me all revved up only to leave me steaming like an enraged bull. She’s waiting for someone, but keeps glancing over at me as I stumble through the crowd.

“Fast forward,” I command.