The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

I sit up, suddenly interested.

“Those private investigators are obviously fucking useless; they are doing nothing.”

“That’s true.” I frown. “But I don’t know anything about computers. Where would I even start trying to track those transfers?”

“I don’t know, but finding out where that money has gone yourself does seem like the only way you are getting Jameson out of this.” Molly shrugs. “We could help?”

I think about it for a moment. Why couldn’t I do this myself? I’ve cracked cases before—big cases too.

“You know what—you’re right.” I feel a fire start in my stomach. “I am going to find out who’s doing this.”

Molly and Aaron smile.

“And when I do”—I punch my hand into my fist—“they will wish they were fucking dead for messing with my man.”

“Attagirl.” Molly smiles. She and Aaron high-five each other.

I smile as I sip my coffee, and for the first time in days, I feel hopeful. I hold my coffee cup up, and we all clink cups. “To Operation Hero.”

Jameson

I run down the street as fast as I can, my mind a clouded fog. With every step that I run . . . the better I feel. It’s been three days since I’ve seen her . . . three days incarcerated in hell.

I can’t see her. I can’t put myself in that position ever again.

Nobody is worth feeling this bad for . . . nobody.

I turn the corner and run past a row of restaurants and get to a park, and I see a person up ahead in the darkness.

Their stance seems familiar, and I squint my eyes to try and see.

As I run, a cold sense of realization hits me as to who it is. Gabriel Ferrara. He’s on the phone and smoking a cigar as he leans on his black Ferrari. He hasn’t seen me.

I stop running and pant as I approach him. Fucking dog.

I’m furious that he put that photo of Emily on the front page of his paper. It was a direct attack on me . . . and it hit the target.

Turning, he sees me, and his face falls. “I’ve got to go.” He hangs up his call.

“Look what crawled out of the gutter,” I pant.

He smirks as he inhales on his cigar. “Miles.”

I glare at him.

“How’s that girl of yours?” he asks with a wink. “You should put her on a leash.”

I glare at him.

He flicks his cigar at me; my fury begins to bubble.

I step forward.

“You know she made a move on me. Seems like you’ve lost your edge with everything: the company, the bank accounts. Sex. How does it feel to have your woman search for someone who can satisfy her needs?”

All I can see is red . . . blinding anger.

I lose control and punch him hard in the face, and then I hit him again and again in quick succession.