Page 2

MIA

Suit Guy looms under the streetlight, all sharp angles and simmering rage. His tie is undone, jacket discarded somewhere, sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos snaking down his forearms.

Up close, he’s younger than I thought—late twenties? early thirties at most—with the kind of face that belongs on either a billboard or a wanted poster.

And right now, he looks like he wants to put my face on a Missing poster.

“Did you get my fucking car towed?” he snarls at me in a rasping, feral baritone.

I tilt my head. “I did try to tell you.”

“You had no right.” His jaw tics.

“Actually, if you had bothered to listen to me for even one second, I could’ve told you that was my driveway, and I actually have every right.” I unlock my door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got vaginas to steam.”

He blocks my path. “Do you think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re in my way.”

“You made this much harder than it had to be.”

I laugh right in his face. Buddy here doesn’t know the first thing about how hard things can get.

“Life has a funny way of doing that, doesn’t it?” I remark.

I try to sidestep him again, but he grabs my wrist.

Big mistake.

My body moves before my brain catches up. A twist, a shift, pressure —and suddenly, he’s against the hood, my elbow jammed under his throat.

“Do not touch me,” I snarl right back in the same growl he used on me.

He goes still.

Not scared, though.

Intrigued.

His gaze flicks to my fresh set of scrubs, my shaking hands, the faded scar on my throat that Brad left there.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

The streetlight catches his eyes. Gray, with flecks of gold.

Dangerous.

I release him and step back. “And you’re full of shit. Now, for the love of all that is holy, can you please move so I can get on with my life?”

He doesn’t do anything of the kind. Just watches me, lips curving in a crooked half-smirk. “What’s your name?”

“To you, it’s Tow Truck Tina. For God’s sake?—”

“Tough act.” He straightens his cuffs. “But that grip? You’ve had training. Nursing school doesn’t teach you that. That’s more.”

I freeze. How the hell did he know ? —?

He smirks and rakes his eyes up and down my body. “Scrub pants, sneakers, adrenaline shakes. You know how to handle yourself. But you learned it the hard way, didn’t you?”

“Wow. You’re a detective and a dickhead. Multitalented.”

I reach for my car door, but his hand shoots out, pinning it shut.

“Wait.” His voice drops, barely audible above the street noise. “I have a proposition for you.”

I bark out a laugh, right in his smug face. “I’m not interested in any proposition from a guy who can’t read a ‘No Parking’ sign.”

“What about one that could solve your financial problems?” His eyes flick to my worn-thin scrubs, to the fraying strap of my bag, then back to my face, which is worn-thin and fraying in its own kind of way. “ All of them.”

Something in his tone makes me pause. The streetlight casts shadows across his face, but his eyes are clear. Calculating.

He means it.

“Three minutes,” he presses. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll tell you what I need and why you’re perfect for it, and when you tell me yes?—”

“ —if I tell you yes?—”

“— when you tell me yes,” he overrides, “then I’m going to put a large amount of cash in your hand, and you’re going to thank me for the easiest money you’ve ever made in your life.”

I should tell him to fuck off, then knee him in the groin and run. As a matter of fact, I’m about to do exactly that?—

But then I think of Eli’s shoes.

Of the pile of bills on my counter.

Of the three jobs that still aren’t enough, have never been enough, have only ever felt like hole-riddled pails I desperately use to bail out a sinking ship that keeps taking on more water, and more water, and more, more, more, dragging me and Eli alike down to the bottom of a black ocean that never gave a damn whether we lived or died.

“Two minutes,” I hear myself say. “Not a second more.”

The man’s smile stretches wider.