pebbles was painful.
My lungs burned. My pulse pounded in my ears, competing with the sirens. The sandy ground turned into concrete, and I lunged forward, gaining new momentum. My skin burned. I wanted to shrug it off. I would’ve settled for removing my jacket, but my gun was still holstered to my side. It was the last thing the police needed to see.
The Welcome and Please Don’t Litter signs blurred as I ran past. Once I hit the street, I stopped for a second to gather my wits. Perspiration slid into my eye. I pushed it away with the back of my hand. The blue and red lights were up ahead, by the west entrance. Could they see me?
Cars sped down the road. There was no sign of the girls. Knowing Aiden was a step behind, I darted across the street. Horns blasted, but I couldn’t take the time to cross safely. I headed east, knowing the area somewhat well.
I weaved around a couple holding hands, a group of teenagers smoking cigarettes, and a homeless guy begging for change. I neared the corner and charged forward, hoping that once I turned I’d have a moment to hide and get Aiden off my tail. I didn’t look back, didn’t want to see how close he was, but I knew he was still back there. I sensed his proximity.
As I leaned into the turn, a man appeared, and I plowed into him.
I lost my breath and bounced off his chest, like a rag doll. Instead of landing on my back, I twisted and fell into a bicycle propped against the store front.
We both slid to the ground. Me and the bike. Not me and the man. The man kept going, never stopping to see if I was okay, or if a handlebar was jammed into my ribs.
Rude much?
I sprawled across the metal hunk of junk. My palms scraped the sidewalk, but my left knee took most of the brunt, stuck between the wheel spokes. Bolts of fire shot into my thigh. On the verge of tears, I wanted to cry, scream and throw a two-year-old tantrum.
I didn’t have time to nurse my bruises though, physical or emotional. Self-preservation brought me to my knees. Indecent, manly grunts tore from my chest as I climbed to my feet. I wobbled around the corner, hoping my leg wouldn’t cramp. I hurried around a woman shouting into her cell and turned to the neon red sign in my peripheral vision.
The Spotted Pony.
Exhilaration spread through my weary bones. How could I forget this place was here?
I limped across the street with a smile. The girls and I worked a case here six months ago. A near-hysterical wife hired us to get the goods on her husband who was frequenting the club. She suspected he was sleeping with a dancer named Luscious Lavender. After a week of stake-outs and an offer from the owner to dance, we discovered the man had been married previously. He’d lost touch with his first wife, who fled from the relationship three months pregnant. Luscious Lavender was the guy’s daughter.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door and rushed inside. No one manned the entrance, so I sprinted into the club mindful that Aiden and his cop parade could barge through at any moment.
I slipped to the left, trying to blend in with the horny crowd. The woman on stage hung upside down, with her legs wrapped around a pole. Several young guys in the front row cheered and barked. It was either a bachelor party or their first time.
I spotted Omar, the owner, near the bar and shouted his name. I limped over, panting like a wild dog.
He looked up and chuckled, recognizing me immediately. At six-feet, two-hundred and fifty pounds and sporting a military buzz, he resembled a bouncer more than an entrepreneur. He took in my limp and my labored breaths and uttered one word. "Who?"
"GQ," is all I got out between pants. Damn, I needed to work out more.
I barely heard the door swing open above the house music and cat calls, but I sensed him. I stepped to the side and used Omar as a human shield.
"Candy, Apple." He snapped his fingers and pointed to Aiden.
Immediately two girls working the tables jumped to attention. They were
My lungs burned. My pulse pounded in my ears, competing with the sirens. The sandy ground turned into concrete, and I lunged forward, gaining new momentum. My skin burned. I wanted to shrug it off. I would’ve settled for removing my jacket, but my gun was still holstered to my side. It was the last thing the police needed to see.
The Welcome and Please Don’t Litter signs blurred as I ran past. Once I hit the street, I stopped for a second to gather my wits. Perspiration slid into my eye. I pushed it away with the back of my hand. The blue and red lights were up ahead, by the west entrance. Could they see me?
Cars sped down the road. There was no sign of the girls. Knowing Aiden was a step behind, I darted across the street. Horns blasted, but I couldn’t take the time to cross safely. I headed east, knowing the area somewhat well.
I weaved around a couple holding hands, a group of teenagers smoking cigarettes, and a homeless guy begging for change. I neared the corner and charged forward, hoping that once I turned I’d have a moment to hide and get Aiden off my tail. I didn’t look back, didn’t want to see how close he was, but I knew he was still back there. I sensed his proximity.
As I leaned into the turn, a man appeared, and I plowed into him.
I lost my breath and bounced off his chest, like a rag doll. Instead of landing on my back, I twisted and fell into a bicycle propped against the store front.
We both slid to the ground. Me and the bike. Not me and the man. The man kept going, never stopping to see if I was okay, or if a handlebar was jammed into my ribs.
Rude much?
I sprawled across the metal hunk of junk. My palms scraped the sidewalk, but my left knee took most of the brunt, stuck between the wheel spokes. Bolts of fire shot into my thigh. On the verge of tears, I wanted to cry, scream and throw a two-year-old tantrum.
I didn’t have time to nurse my bruises though, physical or emotional. Self-preservation brought me to my knees. Indecent, manly grunts tore from my chest as I climbed to my feet. I wobbled around the corner, hoping my leg wouldn’t cramp. I hurried around a woman shouting into her cell and turned to the neon red sign in my peripheral vision.
The Spotted Pony.
Exhilaration spread through my weary bones. How could I forget this place was here?
I limped across the street with a smile. The girls and I worked a case here six months ago. A near-hysterical wife hired us to get the goods on her husband who was frequenting the club. She suspected he was sleeping with a dancer named Luscious Lavender. After a week of stake-outs and an offer from the owner to dance, we discovered the man had been married previously. He’d lost touch with his first wife, who fled from the relationship three months pregnant. Luscious Lavender was the guy’s daughter.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door and rushed inside. No one manned the entrance, so I sprinted into the club mindful that Aiden and his cop parade could barge through at any moment.
I slipped to the left, trying to blend in with the horny crowd. The woman on stage hung upside down, with her legs wrapped around a pole. Several young guys in the front row cheered and barked. It was either a bachelor party or their first time.
I spotted Omar, the owner, near the bar and shouted his name. I limped over, panting like a wild dog.
He looked up and chuckled, recognizing me immediately. At six-feet, two-hundred and fifty pounds and sporting a military buzz, he resembled a bouncer more than an entrepreneur. He took in my limp and my labored breaths and uttered one word. "Who?"
"GQ," is all I got out between pants. Damn, I needed to work out more.
I barely heard the door swing open above the house music and cat calls, but I sensed him. I stepped to the side and used Omar as a human shield.
"Candy, Apple." He snapped his fingers and pointed to Aiden.
Immediately two girls working the tables jumped to attention. They were
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