Not that it’s ever happened. But if it did, I’d be a fucking buffoon.
She seems confused for a second, then embarrassed, then confused again when she comes to grips with the fact that there she is, and here I am, and we’re both in a fucking Target late at night.
What are the chances of that, by the way?
I could make a run for it, sure. Pretend none of this happened and spend the rest of the night trying to get the image of Emma Green’s unguarded eyes out of my head. The truth is, it’s too much fun to give the woman some grief.
“Lose your apartment?”
I smirk. It’s funny.
Green doesn’t think so. A scowl appears across her face as she groggily pushes herself up and out of the saucer.
“Ass.”
“Boyfriend kick you out?”
She flips me the bird, and I stifle another laugh.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” She insists.
“Really? ’Cause ya could have fucking fooled me.”
She yawns. “And you care because…”
Good question. “I don’t.”
Green gives me a groggy yet triumphant look. “Could’ve fucking fooled me.”
I don’t have a comeback for that one.
Dammit.
“Why were you standing there watching me like that anyway?” She checks to make sure all her shit is still where she left it. “It’s creepy.”
“It was like a horror film; it was freaking me out but I couldn’t look away. Plus, you know, I didn’t wanna get too close.”
She gives me a look that clearly asks, what in the hell are you talking about? And I point to my still slightly bruised lip from the other day. As a courtesy reminder of her Ninja skills.
Realization hits her. She bows her head and busies herself by rummaging through her purse, but I see the smile she’s trying to hide. It’s friendly.
Weird.
Instead of grilling her more about why she prefers to spend her time snoozing at the back of a Target store, I ask her something else I’m curious about.
“Why are you carrying?”
Her head snaps up and she appears surprised that I noticed. But come on, how could I not notice that shit? She’s lucky it was me that stumbled upon her and not security.
“What?” she huffs out a nervous giggle.
“Right leg.” Right handed. “Black leather holster. Probably nothing more than a handgun. You look like the Ruger type.”
She blinks. Then blinks again. “I… how did you…”
I lean in toward her and tap the side of my temple. “Private eye. I’m extremely observant.” I point at her. “I hope you know how to use that thing.”
“I’ve taken lessons,” she assures me. “And have a permit.” Then she throws her purse strap over her shoulder and starts to leave. To which I follow her with my cart full of teenage items.
She peeks into the cart then back at me.
“New wardrobe?”
I shake my head. “Client.” No idea why I feel the need to explain.
This raises an eyebrow. Literally.
“Anyone I know?”
“Doubt it.”
She takes another look and spots the skinny jeans, then inspects what I’m wearing. “A teenager secured your services?” She thinks it over. “Her parents know about it?”
She’s baiting me. She’s knows this shit is male clothing.
“Low blow, Green.”
She giggles. “Hefty price for investigative services.”
I walked right into that one, I guess. So, I step the fuck away from this particular conversation.
“Stop trying to divert the topic at hand and explain to me why a tabloid reporter needs to carry.”
“It’s a free country.” She reaches out to feel the fabric of some tops we pass. Clearly there’s more to this story. And she’s not planning on sharing it.
So, I nod.
“Ex-marine?” ’Cause that’s hot. But when her ears lift, I know she’s smiling even though she’s no longer paying me any mind. She’s on to glancing up at the banners hanging from the store walls.
So no-go on the ex-military. Bummer.
“Assassin?” Still hot, although a little scary.
“Oh, my God.” She side-eyes me and shakes her head.
Okay, we’ve crossed off all the bad-ass reasons for the gun. I narrow my stare and breathe in some hefty curiosity about the woman I barely know but find myself interested in all of a sudden.
When I open my mouth to make another guess that’s more realistic, she asks, “Why do I need a specific reason, anyway? I mean this is America, right? I do have the right to carry a weapon for no reason whatsoever, right?”
Ah.
I see.
She’s playing this off like it’s no big deal. But it’s definitely a big deal. Otherwise, why not just tell me?
Clearly I need to get my Sherlock Holmes on for this one.
“You take some sort of classes for work related purposes and think you’re Dirty Harry now or something?”
She huffs out, almost amused, and shakes her head.
No Dirty Harry complex. Check.
“Used to live in a bad neighborhood, maybe?”
The smile dwindles and she clears her throat.
Getting closer.