Page 82 of The 6:20 Man

“You do it all the time,” she retorted.

“Yeah, well, I outweigh you by over a hundred pounds and I’m a badass Army Ranger. What were you doing?”

“Working at a firm in town. Part-time until I pass the bar.”

She sat next to him and took off her high heels, rubbing her stockinged feet. “Why the sad face?”

“Just a long, shitty day, no other reason.”

“Yeah, I had one of those, too.”

“Then you could use this.” He held up the beer.

Speers took two swigs and let them go down slow. She handed the bottle back. “Need that lawyer yet?”

“Getting really close, I think.”

“NYPD any closer to nailing whoever killed that woman?”

He took another drink and passed the bottle back and told Speers to finish it. “I don’t know about that. I do know that the guy here asking me questions lied about being with NYPD. There apparently is no Detective Karl Hancock, or at least that’s my take from the reactions of the real detectives who questioned me.”

“A fake detective? What the hell is that about?”

“I wish I knew. I seem to be right in the middle of a little conspiracy.”

She shot him a look. “Are any conspiracies actually little?”

He eyed her. “Not when you’re in the middle of one, actually. You gonna do your yoga?”

“Thinking of bagging it, actually. Why?”

He gave her a look up and down, taking the woman all in; she was just mesmerizing to him right now. “I don’t know,” he lied as he looked away.

“Don’t you, Travis?”

He shot her a glance. “What?”

“You ever see me reading Braille? No. Because I’m not blind.”

She stood, put on her heels, and said, “Give me a few minutes to freshen up.”

He glanced up at her, thoroughly taken aback by this abrupt development. “You sure about this, Helen? I mean . . . ” To Devine it all seemed sudden, but also a long time in coming, with lots of glances and sneaked looks and innuendos that danced around probably the most natural, and difficult, phenomena between two people.

“I’m attracted to you, and you to me. We’re consenting adults, are we not?”

Devine didn’t answer; he didn’t think he had to.

He gave her ten minutes and then headed up.

She was lying on the bed when he walked into her room. She had on a loose-fitting top and a pair of pajama shorts. As he slipped next to her, Speers met him with her mouth. After five minutes of feeling each other out in both familiar and unfamiliar ways, they slowly undressed one another. She pushed him flat on his back and climbed on top.

She looked at his shoulder where the shrapnel had torn through, with some of the metal still in there. She next glanced down at his damaged calf.

“Still hurt?”

“Not right now, no.”

Her lips curled into a smile. “Thank you for your service, soldier.”