“Right. Well.” She slipped her purse strap onto her shoulder. At least now she didn‟t have to drug his beer.
“Take care of yourself.”
As she slid out of the booth, he stepped back, lean and bronzed and just beyond her reach. “You too.”
She walked away, reluctance dogging her steps and dragging at her heart.
Justin watched his plans for the evening walk out the door with more regret than he had a right to. Her tight butt in that slim
skirt attracted more than a few glances. Her fall of dark brown hair swung between her shoulders. The woman sure knew how
to move.
He shook his head. He‟d known she was slumming when she came on to him this afternoon. Presumably she was going
back where she belonged, with Mr. Tall, Blond, and Uptight.
He hadn‟t lost anything more than half an hour of his time. So why was there this ache in the center of his chest, this sense
of missed opportunity?
He took a long, cold pull at his bottle, his gaze drifting over the bar. He‟d been in worse watering holes over the past nine
years, before he got his bearings and some control over his life. Worse situations, in Porto Parangua and Montevideo, in
Newark and Miami. He drank more beer. He fit in with the surly locals and tattooed sea rats better than pretty Lara Rho and
her upscale boyfriend ever could. But he didn‟t belong here. He belonged . . . The beer tasted suddenly flat in his mouth. He
didn‟t know where he belonged.
He set down his bottle. He didn‟t want to drink alone tonight. And he didn‟t want to drink with the company the Galaxy
had to offer.
Careful not to flash his roll, he dropped a couple of bills on the table and walked out.
Nobody followed.
Outside, the sky was stained with sunset and a chemical haze, orange, purple, gray. The day‟s heat lingered, radiating from
the crumbling asphalt, sparking off the broken glass. He headed instinctively for the water, free as a bird thanks to the
coworker boyfriend with the ponytail, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his evening.
Or maybe his life.
Beyond the jumbled rooftops at the end of the street, he could see the flat shimmer of the sea. He passed a homeless guy
huddled in a doorway, clutching a bottle, watching the street with flat, dead eyes. Something wrong there. He kept his arms
loose and at his sides as the pawn shops and tattoo parlors gave way to warehouses and razed lots.
His neck crawled. Alley ahead. Empty. Good.
He lengthened his stride, taking note of blank windows and deserted doorways. Good place to get jumped, he thought, and
angled to avoid the dirty white van blocking a side street.
He heard a thump. A grunt.
Not his problem, he reminded himself. None of his business.
A woman‟s cry, sharp with anger and alarm.
Shit.
He circled the van, shot a quick look down the street.
And saw Lara Rho backed against the brick wall of an empty lot with a couple of rough guys circling her like dogs.