Page 38 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

"Now you know how my life is."

His hearty laugh fills my ear.

Thankfully, Londyn reaches the Italian restaurant up ahead. It's only 6:30, a half hour before her date. She mentioned wanting to arrive early to scope out the place before her date showed. Can't fault her for that.

She pauses at the entrance, her shoulders visibly lifting toward her ears like her head needs extra support. I move toward a nearby sneaker shop and pretend to examine a display of overpriced shoes while watching her from my peripherals.

Something's off. She's standing just outside the restaurant, peering through the windows while wringing her hands. It's like she's twisting an invisible handkerchief.

I pull out my phone and text her.

Me:Everything okay?

She startles slightly at the notification, then glances around before checking her phone.

Londyn:Yes, just being silly. It's fine.

I don't buy it. Something's bothering her.

Me:What's up?

Her fingers hover over her screen. I can see the hesitation even from this distance.

Londyn:The booth by the exit is taken. I usually sit near exits. It's stupid. I'm fine.

My gut reacts with a sharp jolt like I ate something bad. It's not stupid. It's a survival instinct. One I understand too well.

Me:Step around the corner and pretend to take a call.

She looks confused but follows my instructions. She lifts her phone to her ear and walks around the corner of the building, out of sight from the restaurant's main entrance.

"Mike," I say into my lapel mic. "Slight change of plans. I'm going in. You hang across the street, pretend you're waiting for the bus. Keep eyes on anyone suspicious."

There's a brief pause. "Something wrong?"

"No. Adjusting the approach." I walk toward the restaurant, already formulating a plan.

"Will do," Mike responds, no questions asked. That's what makes him such a good partner. He trusts my judgment, even when I don't entirely trust it myself.

Actually, I wish he'd question me because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Something just snapped in my brain when Londyn mentioned the booth by the exit. That discomfort in her voice burrowed straight through my professional detachment and the need to fix her problem was instant and overwhelming.

Now here I am, walking into this overpriced pasta joint to do something stupid.

The hostess, who is a woman with curly hair and a fake smile, spots me the moment I enter. "Good evening. How many?"

I scan the restaurant quickly. Exposed brick walls. Soft lighting. Candles on every table. The kind of place that thinks ambiance justifies charging $30 for a Caesar salad.

My eyes lock on a family of four seated at the booth Londyn wants. There are two parents, two teenagers, and everyone is dressed well enough to suggest this is a special occasion.

"Actually," I say, gesturing over the hostess's shoulder, "I see my party. Thanks."

Before she can respond, I move past her with the confident stride of someone who belongs. Years of security work have taught me that walking with purpose gets you past most gatekeepers.

I approach the family's booth and crouch down, bringing myself to eye level with the father. No looming. No intimidation. Just a friendly stranger about to ask for a favor.

"Hi there," I say, keeping my voice warm. The smile I offer feels strange on my face because it's wider than my usual reserved expression. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I have a huge favor to ask."

The family exchanges glances, ranging from curious to wary.

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