Page 33 of A Favor Owed

“Coming!” I call.Damn it, damn it, damn it.I try to fix my eyeliner some more and finally just give up. I take one final look in the mirror and sigh. My eyes look a little smokier than I intended, but otherwise I’m understated enough, definitely not trying too hard. I tamp down the urge to try really, really hard for Brady and head to the living room. I grab my phone from the sofa just as it starts to ring. And, of course, it’s Elisa. It couldn’t have been a telemarketer, right?

“Hey, Elisa,” I say, realizing I’ll have to let Brady in. There’s no way around it. Elisa, who rarely works fewer than twelve hours a day and can be pretty oblivious to other people’s schedules, is already launching into an update on one of my clients that she knows I’m concerned about.

I open my door and mouth, “Hi,” to Brady before waving him in. A faint trace of light cologne and warm Brady sunshine drift my way. I watch his face for a reaction to my complete shithole of an apartment, but he just raises an amused eyebrow at me, makes himself comfortable on the gross brown plaid sofa, and starts scrolling through his phone. I remain by the door, eager to get him out of here as soon as possible.

“Thanks, Elisa,” I say when she pauses for breath. “I’ll work on it first thing tomorrow morning, cool?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” she exclaims. “Oh my God, look at the time. I have, like, a thousand things to do before I leave. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

I end the call and huff out a sigh that’s a mix of relief and nervousness. Brady is in my apartment. We’re going out together. This is a huge mistake, an irresponsible risk, a…

A date.It’s just a stupid date, Angela, I remind myself. I take a deep breath, straighten,and turn around just as he’s standing up from the sofa and heading toward me.

“Hey,” he says, looking down at me like few men can. Most are my height, give or take an inch or two, but Brady is six three or six four. “Damn, princess,” he says, hands in the pockets of his jeans as he looks me over in exactly the way I knew he would, with laughing eyes and unfettered appreciation. And then, there it is. That smile. A big, nothing-to-hide, perfect smile.

The better to eat you with, my dear…

Knock it off, Angela. It’s just a date. He’s just a guy from the Bronx.He said it himself—typical Bronx Irish Catholic, no surprises, no secrets, no drama. He’s just a nice guy.

“Smokin’ hot, Angie Pines,” he says, making me flush with heat.

“Looking pretty good there yourself,” I say. He’s wearing a short-sleeve, green plaid button-down over a white T-shirt with dark, slim-fit jeans. I wonder if he deliberately chose a shirt that brings out his eyes so well, and the thought makes me smile. “Do your mom and sister pick out your clothes, too?”

He smirks and gives me a little nudge. “I’ll never tell.”

“Sorry about that,” I say, holding up my phone. “Work called, and I love my boss too much to ignore her.”

He frowns. “You have another job?”

“Well, no, it’s not a job exactly,” I explain. “They don’t pay me. I volunteer at Legal Aid two days a week on human trafficking cases.”

He looks at me with a mildly inquisitive expression. “You volunteer at Legal Aid, work full time, and go to law school?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Why. That’s a much bigger question than the three little letters that comprise it. How about this, Brady? My dad is the head of a large mafia organization. In addition to your garden variety money laundering, smuggling, and the occasional hit, he operates a couple of strip clubs. As it turns out, they’re not just disgusting; they’re a front for his human trafficking ring. So you might say I have a personal interest in righting the wrongs that he and his associates perpetrate every day.

I shrug, hoping he’ll just let it go and focus on the date. “Bleeding heart, I guess.” I smile the best smile that orthodontics can buy, and that seems to do the trick.

“Want to get out of here?” asks Brady.

Ten minutes ago, I think as he opens the door for me.

We head down the cracked, weed-filled driveway. Brady opens the door of his Cherokee for me and helps me in, even though it’s not really an issue for my long legs.

“Where are we going?” I ask once we’re both buckled in and Brady is pulling away from the curb.

“Finnegan’s?” he says. “Have some wings, play some darts…” He angles a mischievous smile toward me, and I laugh. “Nah, I’m kidding. I thought we’d get out of Dos Torres tonight. What do you think?”

“Whatever you want.” This was his idea. I’m just the nervous, conflicted passenger along for the ride.

“It’s kind of a long drive,” he says, glancing at his navigation. “About an hour and fifteen minutes.”

An hour and fifteen minutes. And we’re heading toward the westbound freeway. “Are we going to the beach?” I exclaim, delighted. I love the beach, even though I’ve never had the fun family trips that Brady had grown up with. We have a place in the Hamptons I escaped to by myself whenever I could, usually in the offseason when my parents weren’t entertaining there.

“Yep. Ninety miles due west, princess. As you already knew, being from here and all.” Something in his tone makes me stiffen slightly. It sounded like he was playing along with my little charade, like when I told him I grew up in foster care. “Oh, and I brought something for you,” he says before I can dwell too much on that. He touches his car’s computer screen and connects it to his phone’s music app.

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