She introduced herself and informed the person on the other end that she was filling in for Greg, who had an emergency.
"I'll bet he did. This is Mayor Wilhelm's chief of staff, and he wants me to send the message to Greg that he needs to tell that red-haired little piece of ass to stop sticking her nose where it don't belong."
Harper gathered many things from this statement. One, the person on the other end had no idea he was speaking directly to the nosy red-haired piece of ass. Two, there was no way anybody legitimately working for the mayor would ever talk like that.
Not wanting to give herself away but also still feeling extremely curious, as was her nature, Harper egged him on. Right after attaching the old-timey telephone recording device to the receiver. She stalled long enough to get it working and did a little celebration dance when she saw the little red light flicker to life. "Remind me again who you're referring to and what she's not supposed to stick her nose in?"
She braced herself for the person on the other end to lose his temper. She knew his type, and his kind was most definitely not a pencil pusher at City Hall. That was a wise guy of some sort or another. There were just too many to name these days.
Instead of blowing up, the voice dropped to a deep register and went quieter. The hairs on the back of Harper's neck stood up.
"Listen very carefully, sugar tits. Those tunnels will get filled when they get filled. Streets get fixed when they get fixed. It takes money, and we don't got it yet. You tell Greg the mayor's office called to remind him who runs this city. It ain't that rag of a newspaper. You tell Greg, and have him tell that little chippy, to leave it alone or end up so far underground nobody will ever find 'em. You tell him that."
Click.
Harper sat back down at her desk and downloaded the audio recording to her work-issued laptop, attached it to an email to the real mayor's office, and hit send, with the words, "Is this how your staff addresses the public? Please reply with a comment for a story I'm writing. You have 48 hours until I go to press. Thanks!"
After such a long-ass day, Harper knew she should just go home and spend the weekend resting and avoiding Dash's lips. Monday would undoubtedly bring fallout over her email to the mayor's office.
Still, her car seemed to drive itself to the place her treasonous body could not resist going to.
"You can't be here, Harper."
Harper leaned against the bar and addressed the bartender, ignoring the tall beanstalk of a man glowering down at her with his silly Crow Bar Brute Squad tee-shirt stretched over his ripped chest.
"Griff? Do you want me to leave?"
Griff, the bartender, handed Harper her usual—a whiskey sour made with her family's special recipe—and said, "Nah. I don't want to piss off our bourbon supplier."
Harper took her drink and swiveled toward Dash, shooting him a victorious grin.
Dash shook his head. "Unbelievable."
"Look," Harper said. "I just came to tell you I'm sorry I hit you."
He glared at her. "Oh, that's right. You did hit me."
Harper looked around and noticed that the pool tables were surprisingly unused. The usual rowdy types had taken the night off, she supposed. "Can we go somewhere and talk?"
Dash looked down at her, and his glower turned into more of a suspicious frown. She stared back, mimicking his face.
"Fine. Let's go."
Leaving his station, Dash led her to the nook in the brick wall around the corner from the pool tables. The spot was a favorite for the Brute Squad when they needed some one-on-one time with a customer. It was shadowy and oddly quiet.
"I'm sorry I kissed you like that," Dash started.
Harper asked, "Why, how did you intend to kiss me?"
"I mean without asking permission."
She sighed dramatically. "I accept. And I'm sorry I hit you."
"Don't be sorry for hitting an asshole who kisses you without permission. You should always defend yourself."
She looked at him oddly. "But you didn't. Not the first time. I kinda wanted to kiss you, too. It makes sense that you'd want to do it again."
He ignored this and went on. "I'm sorry for telling you the world revolves around you."
"I know. I knew you were sorry as soon as you said it."
"Then why did you stomp off after I said that?"
"I was still mad about it," she said, taking another sip of her drink. The aged liquid warmed her insides, lubing her up for whatever else she and Dash needed to discuss.
"But you're not mad now?" Dash asked.
"Not really. Truce?"
"Truce. But you can't keep coming around here, Harper."
Exasperated by his one-track mind, she blustered, "I don't even have a petition this time!"
Dash shook his head and lowered the register of his voice. "That's not why."
"Then why don't you fucking tell me?"
"Because it's not safe!"
She reared back. "Excuse me? Why is everybody suddenly trying to protect me? Are you telling me you know something about the disappearance of those women—"
Dash cut her off. "Did I say I did? All I said was—"
"You said it wasn't safe. That implies that there are sketchy characters around. Unless, of course, there's some trap door underneath me, and I'm about to vanish into the gaping maw."
Dash snorted. "You're so weird!"
Harper chuckled. "You mean I'm funny."
"Whatever."
"You know, I owe you another apology. I shouldn't have called you guys gorillas."
Dash dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "I didn't even register that, I—"
Suddenly, his eyes cut to the end of the hallway.
"What is it?" Harper asked.
"Nothing," he said, grabbing Harper under the arm and dragging her into the storeroom. "But I'm serious when I say you can't be here talking about that
