A Flighty Fake Boyfriend (Men of St. Nachos #2) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,56
do with any handy wall, painter’s tape, and yarn. But Epic had a point about decompression sickness. I got a headache when I tried to wade in as if I’d never been away.
I spent the afternoon rereading my notes and reacquainting myself with several news stories I’d been watching. From 1980 to 2012, a staggering sixteen percent of female homicides in Canada were indigenous women and girls, even though they represented only four percent of the entire Canadian population. Native American women were murdered every year in the US at an equally high rate per capita.
Many of these women and girls were being lured into a lifetime of drugs and sex trafficking, if not outright kidnapped and beaten or tortured into it, only to be thrown away like garbage if they were too rebellious, or strung out, or sick to be profitable.
There were grassroots organizations attempting to publicize this fact, but marginalized people got little traction. You had only to look at the cases of LaToyla Figueroa and Natalee Holloway to see where the media put its attention.
When StolenLives went after traffickers, I liked to believe we were doing something positive before the fact, not after. But for every trafficker we caught, every pornographer or sexual slave trader, there were ten more people waiting to step into the vacated shoes. Marginalized women and children were easy pickings in every country in the world.
I didn’t end up eating dinner at all. When Epic called to find me, I was already late.
“Did you fall back to sleep?”
My mouth was dry. Jesus. Even my water bottle had gone untouched.
“I think you may have been right about me getting the bends.”
“Oh no. You still want to meet up? If you’re tired—”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. I lost track of time. I’ll be there in a few, okay?”
“We’re drinking and having fun, no worries. Glad I called though.”
“I should have set an alarm.”
“Just haul that sweet ass of yours down here and all is forgiven.”
That boy. A hot flush crept over my body while I changed into something decent. I turned to give my ass a look.
“Not bad for an old guy.” Great. Now I was talking to myself.
There wasn’t parking on the street, so I used the veterinary clinic’s lot again. I walked the rest of the way.
Low clouds had swept in, blanketing the coastline. Visibility wasn’t a problem, but a translucent mist hung in the air, creating spheres of light around the streetlamps and moistening my skin. Salt laden air competed with the aroma of frying tortilla chips and roasting meat.
I itched for a cigarette. I should have gotten a patch if I was really going to quit. As I approached, I saw Epic on the boardwalk and waved.
“There’s my guy. Come and kiss me before I do something rash.” He bit his lip. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I said the word too fondly. There was no lying about this anymore—not to others and not to myself. Epic was a perfectly pristine lagoon on a tropical island. Every time I saw him, I happily drowned in the cool blue of his eyes.
“You ready to drink?” he asked.
“Um—”
“You didn’t eat, did you?” He caught my chin. “I knew I should have taken you something on my break.”
“I should have set an alarm.”
He took my arm and towed me to the restaurant. “If you’re going to be Batman, you’ll need to get yourself an Alfred. You have a cleaner. Hire a chef when you get back or at least subscribe to a meal service.”
“That’s a pretty good idea, actually.”
“Duh.” He opened the door of Nacho’s Bar for me. Live music thumped through my chest as we walked inside. He pointed out his friends, who had pushed two tables together. The waitress was serving drinks, beers, and shots, and the mood was raucous already.
“Hey, guys.” Epic clinked his glass loudly with a fork. Every eye turned his way. “This is Ryan Winslow. He’s the one I went to the wedding with.”
“Hello.” I waved my hand.
“Oh my God, he is a Disney prince. Too bad Cinderfella had to come home. I heard the resort was amazing.”
Epic grinned. “It was.”
“And you know Lawrence Dunbar?” one of the girls squealed. “Oh God. Why couldn’t you have been looking for a fake girlfriend?”
“That’s Bea,” Epic said, pointing. “She’s my roommate.”
“Nice to meet you.” I put my hand over the table to shake hers.
She shook it and then pretended it burned. “So hot.”
Epic got me a chair from somewhere. “Bea’s friend over there is Muse.”