Page 138 of A Stop in Time
Edging away from the Camry, I set eyes on a black vehicle approaching with dark-tinted windows that make it impossible to see who’s behind the wheel. It slows to a stop and parks.
Flooded with uncertainty about the identity of this visitor, my fingers twitch on my right hand when the driver’s side door opens.
Out steps an impossibly tall man, clad in head-to-toe black clothing that molds to his muscular stature. His skin is so dark that it nearly blends in with his attire. Built like a Mack truck, broad shoulders and barrel-chested, he could easily pass for an NFL lineman.
Dark, mirror-tinted sunglasses cover his eyes as he surveys the front of the building before advancing toward the garage.
Drawing to a stop a few feet away from me, he flashes me a perfect set of white teeth when he grins, his words infused with a deep Southern accent. “Well, hot damn. They sure didn’t go and tell me how pretty you are.”
My tone dry, I crane my neck just to peer up at him. “And no one warned me I’d get a visit from a giant.”
His smile widens, and he offers his large palm in greeting. “Name’s Steve.”
I eye his hand before sliding mine into it for a handshake. “Mac.” His hand practically engulfs mine, and I get the impression he could easily crush every bone in my hand. Yet he’s…gentle with me while still maintaining a decent handshake.
What’s more odd is how his presence doesn’t immediately incite my usual edgy, cautiousness I experience around strangers. Instead, he has a way about him that exudes comfort.
He drops his hand to his side. “Nice to meet you, Mac.” Sliding his sunglasses up to rest on his short buzz cut head, he scans the garage. “I was wonderin’ if you’re hirin’. Been lookin’ for work.”
“That so?” I tip my head, peering past him to focus on his vehicle.
“Yes, ma’am. And I’m available to start right away and work week—”
“Those run-flats on your car?”
His eyes snap to mine, his answer emerging slowly, cautiously. “Yes, ma’am.”
I stride toward his Dodge Charger and rap my knuckles twice against the windshield. Huh. When I crouch beside the front tire and peer into the wheel well, a shiver rolls through me.
Straightening, I force my knees not to wobble when I turn to face the man who hasn’t moved from where he stands in my garage bay.
“That’s some expensive bulletproof glass you’ve got here, Steve.”
He doesn’t say a word, and I cross my arms, continuing. “You know, I knew someone who had an armored car with run-flats and bulletproof glass.”
He offers me a playful smile, his accent growing thicker. “I’d venture to say one can never be too careful these days.”
My eyes flick to his muscled arms bared by the short-sleeved shirt. The unmistakable tattoo on the inside of his left arm clues me in. A scorpion.
This is it. My stomach twists itself into a knot. I suppose he can’t bear to see my face, so he sent someone else to do it.
“Are you here to kill me?”
I force my fingers to stop twitching with the urge to stop time and escape this situation. Because if this will help Daniel move on, if he needs me dead, then I’m okay with that.
Steve wrinkles his face in disgust that can’t possibly be faked. “Hell no.”
I regard him warily. “Then why are you really here?”
He lets out a heavy sigh and ventures toward me. “’Cause Bossman thought it’d be best if I came down and checked on you. Maybe stuck around a bit.”
“Bossman being…”
“Bronson.”
Holyshit. Bronson Cortez? It’s one thing to sleep with his second-in-command, but having the notorious gang leader actually know I exist is unsettling as hell.
Steve’s eyes narrow in concern. “You look like you’re about to hyperventilate.”