The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Michael

T he waiting area at Oleander was as lavish as the rest of the jewelry store. I sat in a brocade wingback chair with a delicate coffee cup and saucer balanced on my knee. The cup was so small it nearly disappeared in my hand, but the strong Cuban coffee wasn’t something you drank in quantity unless you wanted an ulcer. The Sabrina situation was doing enough to gnaw a hole in my stomach already.

At my feet, Onyx, Lee Vance’s black German shepherd guard dog, lay curled up in a tight ball. He’d been excited to see me when I’d arrived, demanding I pet him and play a little well-behaved, indoor-appropriate tug. Now he was wiped out. The dog was a character: goofy one minute, hard-ass attack dog the next. He’d saved Lee’s life earlier this year and earned a lifetime of treats from Derek Sawyer for it.

My assignment, Malcom Wanders, was doing last-minute Christmas shopping at the store. Lee had his undivided attention, showing him expensive baubles from one of her long, gleaming display cases. The top-notch security at the store, supervised by the Smith Agency, meant there wasn’t much for me to do until Wanders was ready to leave.

The muted TV on the opposite wall was tuned to the local noon news. I’d been reading the subtitles on the screen to keep from falling asleep. Most of last night I lay in bed replaying yesterday’s conversations with Sabrina and Quinn, playing armchair therapist to myself. Forty-three was the perfect age for a midlife crisis. Glad I was right on schedule.

On TV, the meteorologist in his red and green seasonally appropriate but still ridiculous jacket predicted sunshine and highs in the seventies from now until Christmas. Fa-la-la!

The next segment began, and I almost dropped my coffee on poor Onyx. Sabrina, in a white chef’s jacket with Viande embroidered in a fancy script on the chest, filled the screen. They were interviewing her inside the bar area with some of the worst damage showcased behind her.

I fumbled for the remote on the side table next to me, turning up the volume. She looked great, with her bobbed blonde hair curving gently around her jawline and a slick of bright lipstick that made me want to kiss her. She wore the chef’s whites like another woman might wear a little black dress and pearls. The inner quality that drew me to her was visible on the screen and had to be part of her success on reality TV. She glowed.

The reporter’s intro gave viewers a quick recap of Sabrina’s accomplishments, from winning Food Truck Fabulous to the success of her popular catering company that provided food for many of Miami’s elite parties.

“Chef Dalton, tell us what happened here at your soon-to-open restaurant.”

“I was the victim of witness intimidation. A criminal gang hoped to keep me from talking to authorities about a crime I’d witnessed by vandalizing Viande. They were sending a message.”

“Are you still in danger?” The reporter placed a sympathetic hand on Sabrina’s arm.

“No. The FBI and Miami PD have been incredible. I wish I could say more, but I’m not at liberty to do so. Just know that the justice system is working. Now, if only my insurance company would do the same.” She rolled her eyes. The silly expression was perfectly in character for her. It made me chuckle.

Sabrina and the reporter shared a laugh. In south Florida, insurance companies were fair game for jokes and disparaging comments. Too many of us had dealt with them in the aftermath of hurricanes to have any sympathy for the bastards. It had been a skillful change in topic by Sabrina getting the reporter off the crime and onto the fate of Viande.

“Aren’t they going to pay?” The reporter tried to wrinkle her botoxed forehead.

“Of course, eventually. After I cover my deductible, and that’s a significant amount of money. Especially since I’d scaled back my catering business in anticipation of opening my new restaurant.”

“How can we all help one of our favorite hometown chefs?”

“I’m not one to ask for donations, but I’ve set up a crowdfunding campaign for supporters that would like to help Viande stay on track for a February opening. There are fun perks for different donation levels that make great holiday gifts for last minute shoppers with a foodie on their list.” Her self-deprecating delivery of the pitch made me want to reach for my phone and send her all the money in my 401K. I was sure I wouldn’t be the only one moved to donate.

“Would you be willing to show us some of the damage your beautiful place sustained?”

On screen, they toured some of the worst of the damage. The cameraman panned between Sabrina’s stressed face and the shattered glass and ruined drywall. Her pained expression triggered an answering pang under my ribs.

“The hardest things to replace are going to be all the custom designer details. You know, having a restaurant in Miami is more than good food. In this city, your space must be as beautiful as the plates your kitchen turns out.”

“I can see this place was on its way to being gorgeous, and we know you make great food. I dream about the lionfish tacos you made in studio for us back in June. Fun fact: your recipe is our station’s most downloaded ever.”

“Oh, wow, that’s incredible.” Despite all the shit that was literally falling down around her, Sabrina’s genuine joy at the popularity of her recipe lit up her face. She pressed a hand over her chest and basked in the moment.

My heart stuttered; the next few beats thrummed so loud I felt the abused organ slam into my ribs. It was cliché, but so was a midlife crisis. A glimmer of understanding took root. Sabrina shared herself completely and openly with everyone. I kept the private emotional parts of me on lockdown. My relationships were transactional and shallow as a result. I was Superman hiding behind a cape.

The reporter wrapped up the segment, quickly thanking Sabrina and repeating the call for donations before flashing the website address for the crowdfunding campaign on the screen.

I leaned down to pet Onyx, my head swimming with scenes from dozens of failed relationships over my lifetime. Different women each asking in their way for me to show them my inner Clark Kent, but I had been hiding behind the cape. I’d been too scared to see that there was more to a relationship than saving the day.

I put the TV back on mute and picked up my cell phone to text Sabrina.

How’s it going? You look great on TV.

A minute or two passed, and I thought she wouldn’t reply.

It’s great and awful. But we’re managing.

I started typing a message asking how to help and delete it. Instead, I clicked the call button.

“I thought you were working?” Sabrina was breathless. In the background, there were the banging and scraping noises of a construction site.

“I’m watching a guy most of the city hates shop for jewelry. Right now, he’s getting upsold on a diamond bezel on his wife’s new watch while I’m petting the store’s guard dog. How about you?”

“We are demoing what can’t be saved. It’s so depressing to see how much beautiful stuff was ruined. The only work getting done in the few days before Christmas Eve is drywall patching and some electrical repairs. I kind of want to scream at George, but it’s not his fault.” She sighed in resignation; I wished I could hug her.

“Want me to talk to him?” I wanted to call back the question the moment it left my lips. Shit. I had to stop trying to fix everything.

“No.” Her delivery brooked no argument. It wasn’t like the times when woman would say no but mean yes. I took Sabrina at her word and buried my desire to help in the bottom of a dark pit.

“I want to apologize. That was a stupid thing to ask, and yesterday, taking over your meeting with George was a massive overreach. It’s hard to admit, but you’re right. I love to swoop in and fix things for the women in my life.” Sabrina had no idea how many times I tried to fix things for my sister, Marney, but not one of my interventions ever got her sober for long.

“Apology accepted.” She breathed a sigh of relief so loud her phone picked it up. “I’ve been fighting sexiest assholes in the kitchen for all my career, so it’s a sensitive spot.”

“How about from now on I’ll offer hugs and back rubs. That’s it. You want more, you have to ask. I mean, I’m not even offering to get the stuck lid off the pickle jar.”

“Pickle jars are no problem. A couple of whacks with the back of my chef’s knife that baby will pop right off. But the painful knot in my right shoulder and many other body parts miss your attention.”

If anyone in Oleander bothered to take their eyes off the glittering jewels and look at me, they would have seen me smiling from ear to ear. This was going better than expected. It was novel to have a woman interested in me and not what I could do to make her life easier. Maybe Clark Kent was on to something.

“How’s the crowdfunding?” I asked.

“Better than I’d hoped. Made me nervous to ask my followers for money. And the TV reporter pushed way harder than I would have. I can send you the link to share on socials, if you want?” I imagined her shrugging her shoulders as if to say we’ll see what happens.

For the first time in my life, I longed for a Facebook account so I could tell her yes, send me that info . Do my part without being overbearing. Act like a normal guy helping but not taking over.

“I’ve not had a social media account since the Myspace days.” It was the truth.

“How is that possible?”

A joke was on the tip of my tongue, something flippant about not being interested in what Kim Kardashian was wearing. Then I stopped myself and decided this was an opportunity to let her in. Give her some of my story like she’d wanted.

“I missed out on social media or fell through the gaps, I guess. Myspace was a novelty, and we all had it in college. My network was other students and a few hip professors. They were all academic types, most planning on PhDs in sociology and teaching careers. I left all that and joined a motorcycle club. Not a status update the people from grad school would have understood.” My throat constricted as I spoke, choking the words.

I’d not even stayed in Gainesville long enough to attend graduation. I was so angry about Marney’s pointless death. Mad at my parents, her drug dealer, the world. Social media and keeping up digital appearances weren’t on my radar.

“Because of your sister,” she prompted, but I ignored the lifeline.

“I didn’t explain what I was doing to anyone. Not even my parents. I threw away one life and took up another. It was a brutal transition from academic to biker.”

My parents were stunned. Already shellshocked by Marney’s overdose, then to lose me to the same outlaw world. The wedge between them and me turned into a frozen-over canyon by the time it was all said and done. Revenge is an ugly business.

“You never told your parents?”

“They figured it out.” I hated the cruel undertone in my words. We’d never spoken about what I did to avenge my sister’s death, but they knew.

“Huh. What about Smith? Did you tell him?”

“No need. He knew.” My loyalty to my sister and the ability to work the long con on The Rogues were what got me the job offer. Too bad I still wasn’t entirely sure that my life as a biker had been a lie. I was like an undercover cop that had gone in too deep.

“That was over ten years ago. And still no social media. Nothing?” She was incredulous.

“I never developed the habit. What did I have to post? No wife, no kids. My job isn’t the kind you can talk about online. I don’t even have a cute dog.” Ugh, I sounded pathetic. This sharing shit sucked. I should have gone for the cheap laughs and made a joke about Kim K’s ass.

“Hold on, that’s not true. Lady Gaga’s bodyguard is huge online. And very hot.”

I chuckled. Only Sabrina would lighten up a somber conversation with a comment like that.

“I’ll have to join one of these time sucking apps and find his account. A guy needs hashtag goals .” I cringed at the cheesy turn of phrase and the Valley Girl accent I’d used.

“Oh yeah, the world needs you on the ’Gram.” She was on the verge of laughing, and so was I.

“I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

“We can do a photo shoot here at Viande. I can see it now. No shirt. Chest oiled up. Muscles and all your ink on display. You’ll have ten thousand followers in no time.”

Now I was laughing. Loud enough I drew a few glares from staff and shoppers at Oleander.

“Want to come over tonight and show me those muscles?”

Her flirty voice and tempting offer had me shifting in my chair, suddenly aware how well tailored my gray suit pants were.

“Unfortunately, I’m working now until Christmas Eve. This is a twenty-four seven gig until Wanders leaves for the holidays up north.” Normally I’d have split the close personal protection job with another Smith Agency employee, but we were short staffed with extra clients during the lead-up to the end of the year. And Noah had managed to get the flu.

She made a sad pouting noise into the phone that again made me laugh.

“I’m booked Christmas Eve. My mom’s holiday party at Silver Palms.”

“I know, I’m bartending.”

“What?” she screeched. “How did that happen?”

“What Minerva wants, she gets… even me.” I didn’t tell her I’d accepted her mother’s invitation when I thought my chances with her were similar to a snowball’s in hell. Then again, I wasn’t so sure I was on stable ground yet.

“I’m going to have a stern talk with my mother.”

“Be nice. I don’t mind, as long as the murder chicken isn’t going to be helping me make my famous cranberry margaritas.” It wasn’t like I was missing a party at my parents’. We spared ourselves the pain of a drawn-out holiday evening by opting for an awkward Christmas bagel on the morning of the twenty-fifth.

“Someday you are going to explain the bird phobia to me.”

“But not today. I have to go. Wanders just swiped his Amex card.”

“See you at Silver Palms.”