Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,31
shorter, with far less reach. But she’s got impeccable instincts and the ability to dart like a hornet away from his first kick.
And his second. And his third.
He circles her to try again, and no one can look away. Every matchup is fun to watch, but Max versus Scout is fascinating. They look impossibly mismatched. It’s a lie, though.
At least Max is no longer distracted. He knows he can’t afford to let down his guard.
Scout dances and weaves. She pretends to lunge for him, but it’s a trick. The moment he moves to block, she flits away. Circling. Waiting. Trying his patience.
I understand Max’s frustration. It’s like trying to swat a fly. It’s right there, and it’s smaller than you are. This ought to be easy.
Spoiler: it’s not. Max tries a spirited kick which almost connects with Scout’s shoulder. But she executes a gorgeous spinning jump-kick, which lifts her high into the air, putting her bare foot right into Max’s face.
The crowd lets out a gasp of appreciation as Max’s head snaps backward. His arms shoot out to the sides as he hops awkwardly backward, struggling to stay upright.
It doesn’t work. He tumbles onto the mat with a thump and an “oof.”
“Knockout!” Duff says gleefully. “Sorry boss.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Max says, leaping to his feet. “Best out of three?”
But Scout has already peeled off her protective gear. “Spicy chicken it is!”
Max takes off his headset and sighs. “Good on you. That was the fastest loss I’ve ever sustained.”
“I can probably top that next time.” She gives him a blinding smile. “You want that lamb dish that you always order?”
“Sure.” He flips open his wallet and pulls out a c-note. “Get whatever Gunnar and Pieter want, too. I need to chat with all of you.”
“Will do.” Scout reaches into the V-neck of her T-shirt and slips the money into her bra. “Chicken Tikka, Gunn? I’ll text Pieter. Meet you upstairs in forty-five?” She leaves the ring looking very pleased with herself.
Max watches her walk away, and then he shakes his head. “Gunn, let's get a beer upstairs before dinner.”
“I was going to grab a shower.” I gesture toward the locker rooms.
“Use mine. There’s something I need to show you.”
I grab my gym bag and follow Max to the elevator banks. He puts his hand on the scanner and his private elevator opens up. Then he flips open his messenger bag, extracts a copy of the Post and hands it to me.
The front-page story is hard to miss. Brutal Downtown Murder Appears Linked to Overseas Crimes. “Oh, shit. Right here in New York. You think this is …?”
“Keep reading.”
It only takes me a minute to skim the article. The deceased was a thirty-six year-old computer security expert. His brother sent police to his house when he failed to answer his phone for several days. Officers found his body in his garden-level apartment.
The deceased was clutching a red ribbon.
“Could be a copycat,” I grunt. “This red ribbon business is awfully melodramatic.”
“But very splashy,” Max insists as the elevator doors part into his apartment. “Our perp doesn't want his clues to be missed. He's on a mission.”
“With what goal, though?”
“Intimidating anyone who gets close to the hardware hackers.”
“Do you know what the dead guy was working on?” I ask.
Max shakes his head.
“But if this murder is linked, your informant should be bragging about it already, right? Did anyone post—”
Max takes the newspaper from me and tosses it onto an antique sideboard against the wall. He drops his bag there, too. “At eleven-sixteen today, a post went up from The Plumber. It was made from the pie shop.”
My skin begins to tingle. “Right under my nose? Really? What's on my body cam at eleven-sixteen?”
“Well …” Max lets out a sigh. “The camera shows the hand pie you were eating on your break. Looked like ham and cheese.”
“Fuck!” I’m so frustrated that I punch the air. “I was in—”
“The back alley. I saw.”
“Damn it! Max, I only took fifteen minutes. How could he possibly have picked that time slot?” I drop my gym bag onto Max’s thick Persian carpet in disgust.
“Probably just a coincidence,” Max says. “If the perp was trying to avoid you, he would have used someone else’s WiFi.”
“Hundreds of coffees,” I moan. “I’ve made so many lattes that I dream about it at night. And this asshole comes in on my break?”
Max shrugs. “It’s rough luck, Gunn. But we’ll get him.”