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He lifted the South African from the canvas and got him in a headlock, then did something with his arm that made him screech in pain. “Tell us what we want to know,” Colton growled. “Bru.”
I pushed my way through the crowd and got ringside just in time to hear the response. “I don’t know what the job is but your Serbian’s got money and he takes care of his men. My friend says he’s got a big screen TV in their place with the whole NFL package!”
“Where’s this place, where are they working out of?” demanded Colton.
“Right here in New York! My friend wouldn’t say where but he sent me a photo of where he eats dinner. He likes the waitress there!” He fumbled his phone out of his pants and showed us a photo of a pretty, blonde-haired waitress in a retro-style pink uniform.
Colton made him send the photo to us, then a photo of the friend who worked for Maravic, so we could identify him. “One more thing,” said Colton. “Apologize.”
The South African wailed in pain. “Sorry, man, sorry!”
“To her.”
The South African looked up at me, panting and sweating in agony. “Sorry!” he pleaded.
Colton released him and he collapsed to the canvas, wheezing and moaning. I stared at Colton, awestruck. The whole crowd was staring at him. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
Colton offered me his hand and I took it. Together, we walked up the stairs and out of the bar. My mind was spinning: now that he was out of danger, I had time to re-run how angry he’d gotten, when I’d said using my body was something I did. Not anymore, it’s not, he’d said. Protecting me, even though we weren’t together.
His hand felt so good, wrapped around mine. I wanted him. Oh, God, I wanted him so much, I wanted to just throw my arms around him and tell him I’d been wrong, wanted the sweet, warm dream of the two of us together instead of the cold reality of what I was. But I couldn’t give in. I deserved to be alone and he deserved better. I’d already hurt him once. I had to be firm, or I’d hurt him again.
But there was one thing I could do. “Colton?” I mumbled as we got into the car.
Those brown and amber eyes burned at me from beneath his dark brows.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and we sped away.
There weren’t that many diners in New York where the waitresses wore retro-style pink uniforms and by looking at the decor in the background, I found it on our third try. The place was in Manhattan, which wasn’t good. “Too many cameras,” muttered Colton, glancing suspiciously up at the surveillance cameras perched on the corners of buildings.
He was right, his team would be looking for us and by now they’d have called in the help of The Sisters of Invidia to comb through surveillance footage using facial recognition. But even so, I felt a smile tug at my lips. When he frowned and peered upwards through the windshield like that, he looked exactly like a grumpy bear peering up at a songbird who’d disturbed his sleep. Then I caught myself and shook my head. What’s wrong with me?
We had no idea if the South African’s friend had already eaten, but it was the only lead we had so we walked in and hoped we’d get lucky. I spotted the blonde waitress straight away, down at the other end of the diner, but no sign of the guy. We hadn’t eaten since that morning and we were ravenous, so we ordered: buttermilk fried chicken burgers with mustard mayonnaise and towering piles of crispy, seasoned fries. The burger took two hands to hold and my fingers got slathered with warm, dripping mayonnaise and melted cheese, but it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. I ate the entire thing and felt better. I was trying to find a delicate way to lick my fingers when I saw a reflection I recognized in the glass window in front of me and checked over my shoulder to be sure. “It’s him!” I whispered to Colton.
The mercenary was sitting at the other end of the diner, flirting with the blonde waitress. We ordered dessert while we waited: I was too full to eat but Colton happily worked his way through a slice of blueberry pie. When it looked like the guy was finishing up, we quickly paid and waited outside for him. It had started to rain, that heavy, gray New York rain that soaks your clothes in seconds. We stood shivering, blinking water from our eyes, until the guy emerged. But was he going to meet up with Maravic, or just heading home for the night?
He walked off down the block and we tailed him. Fortunately, the hammering rain meant he had his head down and his hood up, so he wasn’t checking behind him. He turned down a backstreet, walked past a beat-up brown van and disappeared into a run-down car bodyshop.
