Troy waited for a response, but all he heard was the clicking of heels on the pavement.
Troy held up a finger. “Wait for it, this should be good,” he uttered.
“Fine,” the valet puffed, “I’ll just call the tow truck.”
Sin flashed a badge, peered over her designer sunglasses, and snarled at the valet. “Fuck off, John-boy, or I’ll kick your ass all the way back to the farm.”
The valet glanced at the badge, his lips twisted in a look of feigned disgust, and he strutted off in the opposite direction.
“Be careful, Doc,” Troy laughed, “in this case—her bite is worse than her bark.”
The rider sauntered over to the table—Quincy’s eyes never straying from her form—and sat in an empty chair next to Troy.
“I hate when a guy can wiggle his ass better that I can,” she commented, watching the valet storm away.
Without warning, she slid the cloth napkin off Troy’s lap, dipped it in his water glass, and emitted a soft, satisfying moan as she wiped the icy cloth across the back of her neck. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Stubbs?”
Sin watched the older man blink and veer his focus elsewhere.
Troy leaned over and kissed Sin on the lips. “Damn, you’re sexy when you’re sassy.”
“See what you’re going to miss,” she mouthed, biting his lower lip and moving away.
“Eh, hem,” Quincy cleared his throat and glared at Troy.
“Sorry, Doc,” Troy said. “Dr. Melvin Howard, known to his friends as Quincy, I would like to introduce you to FBI Special Agent Sinclair O’Malley, known to her friends as Sin.”
Quincy, a bit tongue-tied, managed to extend his hand and grunt a hello.
Sin slid her shades from her eyes and peered at Quincy as she shook his hand.
“I don’t think I have ever seen eyes as jade green as yours,” Quincy said as he continued to hold Sin’s hand.
Sin arched a playful brow. “Most men don’t concentrate on my eyes. So I’ll consider that statement a commentary on your strong moral character.”
Quincy laughed as he let go of her hand and sat back. “In that case, I better alter my thought process before you change your mind.”
Sin and Quincy were soon bantering back and forth in comfortable conversation, and she soon had him eating out of the palm of her hand. They were entwined in small talk when the three of them heard the voice of a man bellow behind them.
“That’s a state vehicle and I’ll park wherever I goddamn want,” he barked. “I walked a beat on this street when it was nothing but Hasidic Jews and Mariel refugees.”
“No wonder it took so long for the area to develop,” the valet shot back.
“Sorry I’m late,” Rand said. “I was on the phone fighting with the local FBI office. They wanted to send in someone to take over the case. And get this,” he said, sitting down, “they wanted to send in some chick.” He motioned a quick glance toward Sin, and continued, “I had the peckerwood all straightened out and was ready to leave when I received a call from Washington. Can you believe that shit—Washington? Some jackass who said he was the Director of the Bureau. I told the lying son of a bitch that the director of the FBI would never make the call himself, and then I told him to kiss my ass and hung up.”
He waved over a server. “Sweetie, a glass of iced tea, extra lemon.” Rand leaned over the table. “Get this, the bastard had the balls to call me back and said that his agent would be in touch. I laughed at him and hung up again.” His tea arrived, and he drank it down in one swallow. “Keep them coming, honey,” he snapped, “and make sure the refills are free.” The server gave him a dirty look, a fake smile, and tugged the empty glass from his hand.
Rand’s attention finally honed in on Sin. He gazed at her with a slow burn and smug expression. Troy began to make the introduction, but Rand cut him off. “Listen, babe, I’m not sure why you’re here, but unless it’s to take my order or wipe down the table, scram.”
Sin was about to fire back when Troy reached under the table and squeezed her thigh.
“Captain Jonathan Rand let me introduce you to Special Agent Sinclair O’Malley—of the FBI.”
Rand’s posture deflated when he heard Troy’s words.
“You’re looking a little pale, Jonathan,” Quincy chuckled.
Rand shot him a look. “Not now, Mel.” He turned and faced Sin, shaking his head. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said.
Sin could almost see him put two and two together. She sat silently as she witnessed the light bulb moment in Rand’s eyes.
Rand dropped his head into his hands, and moaned, “You’re telling me that really was the Director of the FBI I told to kiss my ass?”
“Yes, it was,” Sin answered. “He called me right after you hung up on him—for the second time—and he was pissed.” Sin took out her ID, showed it to Rand, and repocketed it. The left corner of her full lips rose in a one-sided smile.
Rand lifted his head and saw her smirk. “What’s that all about?”
Sin’s smile broadened. “I’m just picturing Frank Graham’s face when you swore at him and then had the balls to hang up on him—twice.”
Rand dropped his head again, and mumbled, “There goes my pension.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sin slapped him on the back. “Frank is used to working with me. He knows the bullshit that goes along with it. I’ll talk to him. You’ll be all right.”
Quincy watched the give-and-take between his old friend and Sin. “This is going to be fun to watch.” Turning toward Troy, he said, “Are you sure you want to miss this?”
“Good question,” Sin said, catching the server’s attention.
Troy decided silence was the better choice of responses.
“Hi, Jinny,” Sin said with a warm smile, reading the waitress’s name tag, “we’re
