Page 6 of Relinquish

“She’s fine. It was nothing serious. She thought a kid was robbing an elderly woman who’d been hit by a car. The woman was also fine–barely nicked.” I pointed at the window behind him. “It happened right out front.”

What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I throw her under the bus? This is the perfect opportunity to get her fired. The opportunity I’ve been looking for the last five days.

What do you think you’re going to do? Get in her pants. Dude. She’s not your type.

She wasn’t wearing pants. Fuck. It’s the damned pencil skirt and stiletto heels. They’ve got my head all jumbled.

“I heard the sirens.” He shrugged. “But you know how that is. If a police siren doesn’t go off once an hour, it’s the sign of the apocalypse.”

“Let us remember, I told you this was not a good location for a business.” My jaw clenched. “And hiring her was a bad idea.”

“We’ve been down those roads before.” Truman pressed his glasses tight against his face and rested his hands on the desk.

“She knocked a kid to the ground. Except it turns out he was the woman’s grandson, not someone who was trying to rob her.”

“Shit.” Truman pushed up from his seated position and paced behind the desk. “Did he get hurt? Was she arrested? Son of a bitch. If her dad finds out she got arrested, there’ll be hell to pay. He’ll throw a fit if anything happens to her.”

I bit my bottom lip to keep from smiling. To see Truman nervous pleased me more than I wanted to admit. “To answer your first question, he’s likely sporting a few bruises, but there was no way he would admit it.” I shook my head. “I have no idea how she got him down, but no teenage boy wants to tell his friends that he got knocked on his ass by a five-foot-three-inch pixie wearing Christian Louboutin shoes. High school is bad enough without getting the reputation of being a pussy. Regarding your second question, she was not arrested, so with any luck, her father won’t know a thing.” I leaned back into the chair and rested my right ankle on my left knee. “You never said. How is a United States Congressman okay with his daughter working for a security company?”

Truman’s eyebrows arched, and he stared pointedly. “How exactly do you know what type of shoes she wears?”

Fu-u-u-uck. Breathe slowly. Exhale. Don’t fall for his shit. I’ve endured hours of interrogation training, so I can handle a simple question about shoes without admitting I looked the damned things up because they’re hot as fuck. “She wears the ones with the red soles. Everyone knows those are Christian Louboutin shoes. But you keep evading the question. What is it that you don’t want to tell me about her father?”

He stopped, pulled the chair from the desk, and dropped into the seat, causing it to squeak. “That’s between Lola and me. So, you spoke with the grandmother and grandson?”

Fine. Two can play that game. If he’s not giving anything up, neither am I. “I spoke with the parties involved. Everything is worked out, including Lola apologizing to them.” Heat rises in my chest and causes my armpits to sweat. Stop calling her by her first name. “Ms. Sutherland apologized to them for mistaking him for a criminal. Jeremy, the grandson, said he wasn’t hurt and admitted he would have wanted someone to help his grandmother if she were in danger. No harm was done.”

How in the hell did she worm her way into this job? And how in the fuck is her dad not moving heaven and earth to drag her back to the East Coast?

Forget it. It’s not your concern. I braced my hands on the arms of the chair and stood. “I should be heading to my office. The Johnson case report should be completed for my review.”

Truman tipped his chair back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me get this straight. You aren’t going to push me to fire Lola?” One corner of his mouth rose into a slight smirk. “I apologize. Ms. Sutherland. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head in the brawl?”

Screw you. There’s no way in hell I’m going to admit she’s gotten under my skin because I can get her back out. I will get her back out. Even if I must get a scouring pad and scrub until I’m raw. There’s no way I’m traipsing down that path.

If Truman wants the wrath of Congressman Edward Sutherland or one of his FBI sons marching in here to protect their baby sister, that’s his shitshow.

“She should have been minding her own business.” I marched to the door. With one hand on the doorknob, I turned to face him. “She’s impulsive and a crusader, but as long as she’s not in the field, she should be fine.”

The television drones on as I play back the conversation in my head. Why didn’t I push for her firing? Because it’s futile. For some reason, he’s not listening. Shit. Does he have something going on with her? My stomach clenches. Nah, he wouldn’t have busted my ass about her if he were interested.

I tip my head back and drain the lukewarm beer. The woman has high maintenance written all over her forehead. There’s no denying she’s a do-gooder, but she’s got spunk. I’ve tried to intimidate her, and she didn’t buckle. She pushed back, which is impressive considering she didn’t grow up fighting for her next meal.

How in the fuck did she put down a six-foot-tall kid without breaking a sweat? In high heels, no less.

I pick up the tabloid lying on top of my coffee table and flip through the pages to her headline: Gold Digger Drops Fiancé at the Alter. Who is the real Lola Sutherland? The woman who’s willing to leap tall buildings to protect the public. Or the woman whom the press has immortalized as a gold digger for leaving her groom at the altar. I flick off the television.

Forget about her.

Chapter Five

Lola

I groan and stretch from side to side, causing my office chair to creak under my weight. Staring at a computer screen for five hours is not good for my eyes or back. How do those computer gamers do this for days at a time?

After I pick up three empty Styrofoam coffee cups, I toss them in the trashcan. The top one tumbles off the rubbish and lands on the floor. I bend, retrieve, and lay it on top while shoving the garbage downward to compact it. If the janitorial staff doesn’t collect the trash soon, the room will smell like a frat house. “Do you need anything?”

Jason Kellerman runs a hand through his disheveled hair and uses his index finger to tap his glasses back. Every day this week, he’s worn a faded logo t-shirt and frayed jeans. “Did you say something?”

---