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My plan to sit down stalls when I see that one of the folding chairs has a broken leg and the other looks to have been smeared with a substance that might be chocolate or might be a biohazard.
Keeping the strap of my purse firmly settled over my shoulder, I choose to lean against the nearest wall instead. Unfortunately, my back brushes against a picture frame. The thing crashes to the floor, cracking the glass.
Using caution, I pick up the frame. The grainy photo features a trio of unsmiling men with their muscled, bare chests puffed out. I can’t really stick it back on the wall with a broken frame so I ferry it across the small room.
The man’s heavy brows furrow when I lay the broken picture frame on his desk.
“I’m really sorry. I can get you a new frame.”
To my surprise, he chuckles. “I stare at that thing every day and somehow haven’t seen it in years.” He stabs a scarred finger at the middle man. “You’ve heard of Elijah Romero?”
“No. Who is he?”
He grins, flashing a gold tooth. “You’re looking at him. I was a big deal in my day.”
I see it now, the likeness between the young man in the photo with his gloved hands lifted in a fighting pose and the older man in front of me.
“I used to sweep the floors in this gym. Now I own it.” He jerks his chin at me. “What do you do?”
“Realtor. Well, usually. At the moment I’m Stuart Ballerini’s campaign manager.”
Elijah scratches his head. “Don’t know him.”
“He’s running for mayor of Emerald City in the upcoming election.”
Now he yawns. “Didn’t say I don’t know who he is. Just don’tknowhim.”
The man is interesting. I try not to pass up opportunities to hear what people have to say if they’re willing to talk. “If you had to pick an issue that’s most important to you and your community, what would it be?”
“My community.” His face puckers. “How the fuck should I know? I only speak for myself.”
“Well, what’s important to you?”
Based on his flat expression, I’m not sure if he’s mulling the question over or wishing I’d shut up and mind my own business.
Loud rustling and heavy footsteps interrupt the exchange. A shirtless man with a gym bag lazily flung over one shoulder stands three feet away, peering down at me. He’s roped with muscle, clearly a fighter, and wears ink, not nearly as artful as Micah’s. A gigantic blurry shamrock covers the left side of his chest. The right side is decorated with a faded flag in the colors white, green and orange. Ireland, to match the shamrock. But when he opens his mouth, it’s a clipped New York-style accent that comes barking out.
“What’s with the girl scout visit?” His eyes sweep over me with more scrutiny than I’d like.
“Not a girl scout,” I say.
“What are you then, a fucking missionary?” He slinks too close and reeks of male sweat.
I know the type, wades through life thinking he’s the most intimidating thing on two legs.
With my head up and refusing to give an inch, I stare into his dull hazel eyes. “No, I’m not a missionary either.”
Elijan opens a drawer and drops the wrecked picture frame inside. “She’s here to see Lyonne.”
The other man’s face splits into a cold smile. “Doubt it. She looks too spotless to crawl around in the gutter with him.”
The comment annoys Elijah. “You’re just in a mood because he knocked you down one time too many. Get over it, Halligan. You won’t beat him.”
The dynamic is clear. One of these men is a friend of Micah’s. The other is not.
Halligan, whoever he is, takes the liberty of slithering even closer. One more inch and his sweaty arm will brush against my silk blouse. Even though I catch a spark of something alarming in the depths of his narrowed eyes, I stand my ground.
“If you and your bad breath could kindly back up a foot or two, it would be appreciated.”
