The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

"You would be right," I admitted.

"Well, go get him. The storage closet in the back is perfectly sized for a quickie," he added. "Want to ask me how I know?"

"I can fill in the blanks," I told him.

"Alright then, go get it," he demanded, grabbing my ass with both hands and shoving me forward hard enough that I actually stumbled into the man in question, hands reaching up to steady myself by grabbing his arm and shoulder.

"You alright?" he asked as I righted myself, feeling a heat on my cheeks, then promptly getting horrified by it. I didn't blush. I wasn't a blushing woman.

"Floor just reached out and grabbed me," I told him, releasing his arm and shoulder, and taking three steps back.

"Looked like your friend pushed you," he said, making me realize that while it hadn't looked like he was, he'd been watching me just like I'd been watching him.

"Yes, well, as a member of the Alphabet Mafia, he is the only man allowed to grab my ass without permission."

Finn had nothing to say to that as his gaze moved around the room. I noticed then that there was something tight in his jaw, something that made a muscle there tick. There was a similar tension around his eyes, making him squint a bit. Curious, my gaze moved over the rest of him, finding his posture pin-straight and his hands clenching and unclenching over and over.

Anxiety?

That seemed like anxiety to me.

I wasn't overly afflicted with it myself, but my mom had always struggled, so some of the signs seemed pretty obvious to me.

I guess it made sense. This was a new scene with new people.

But, I noticed with growing confusion, his gaze wasn't actually on any of the people. If anything, it almost looked like he was studying the carpet and the couches and the windows?

I mean, yeah, the place was a little shabby, but everyone seemed to just accept that the ambiance of it suited our ragtag team of fake detectives.

"So, you came," I said, trying to cut into the tension. "Finn?" I called when his gaze seemed to start hopping between the windows, carpet, and couches at a trippy pace. "Hey, do you want to step outside for a minute?" I asked, reaching out, touching his shoulder. As a whole, I had a pretty firm 'don't touch people without permission' rule, but I figured when you were trying to help someone shake off an anxiety attack, it was permitted for a second.

And at the touch, his gaze snapped over toward me instead of the surroundings. It seemed to take a full couple of beats, though, before his gaze cleared and focused on me instead of whatever was going on in his head.

"What?" he asked, tone a bit curt.

"Do you want to step outside for a minute?" I repeated, already starting to pull him toward the stairs since he was still tenser than seemed normal. I had needed to bring my mom outside with me more than a few times in the past when her anxiety was bad, but her fear of making a scene by leaving was worse.

I had no proof of this, but I figured the situation was likely even more uncomfortable for men who were taught that emotions were weaknesses.

If he needed a helping hand, I was going to give him one. I was wasn't going to let myself think about it too much. I knew what I would figure out if I did. That it was completely unlike me to step in. There was a safety saying in the true crime world. A man will never ask a woman for help. It sounded incredibly sexist, but the more any of us thought about it, the more it made sense. Men asked other men for help, not women. And if a man asked you for help with something, it was probably a surefire way to end up shoved in the back of his van, raped, and murdered.

So helping random men was out of the question.

And yet, there I was, leading a man I didn't know away from the safety of a crowd, and down and out to the all but abandoned side parking lot.

Yep.

Real smart move.

If I ended up in someone's freezer, I was going to be so pissed.

"Better?" I asked as we stepped out into the crowded with cars, yet empty of people, lot. The wind was kicking up, carrying with it ocean air and the slightest trace of a mist off of the water.

Back when I was younger—and too stupid to know better—I would walk all the way from Navesink Bank to the shore with friends, and we would spend all day on the beach, and all night walking around the town, getting food, having coffee, and never paying any mind to the creepy dudes who followed us around or screamed at us from cars, or invited us to parties we were all clearly too young to attend.