“Do you know him?” I ask again.
“Of course, I know him,” she whispers again into the phone. “And if you insist on having a full-blown conversation, I’m coming outside.”
Finally.
I watch as she pardons herself from the table and probably tells her coworkers that she’s taking a bathroom break. The little drama queen can be quite convincing because it seems like they buy her story. The other guy at the table even hands her some clean napkins to take with her to the restroom.
Once everyone at the table turns their attention back to each other, Gigi slips out the exit door, but before I rip into her for ducking me this morning, I take a moment of silence to appreciate just how sexy she looks in her simple outfit which consists of black leggings that hug all her curves in the right places, a simple v-neck white t-shirt, white Converse and some silver hoop earrings.
Dayummm, she’s built like a brick house.
She was always a pretty girl, but when the hell did Gigi King grow up to be this smoking hot?
“This is insane, Knox,” she says upon approach. “I am perfectly safe at work. I don’t need a driver or a watchdog. You’re being ridiculous.”
I’m pretty sure I heard everything that she said, but I haven’t responded yet because I fixate my eyes on the bends and arches of Gigi’s body. Then I look inside the restaurant at her shady ass coworker and remember why I’m here.
“That’s what you wore to work?” I ask coolly.
She looks down at herself as if she doesn’t already know what she’s been wearing all day.
“What’s wrong with this?”
“It’s just that your ass is poking out of those tight pants, and I can see the lace pattern of your bra through that shirt.”
“The students have to touch me as they would if they were giving me a real medical examination. I have to wear something minimal.”
I think I messed up. She seems upset by my observation. I wasn’t saying that anything was wrong with the way she looks. Hell, Gigi is fucking gorgeous. I just don’t think that she should dress like that in front of strange fucking men at work. I don’t like it.
“Why are you blinking like that?” I ask, praying that she doesn’t cry out here. I think she may be fighting back tears.
“I’m not blinking.”
“Then why aren’t you looking at me.”
Gigi’s eyes are going bonkers as if she’s come down with some sort of odd tic. She’s always been able to stare me down with the focused precision of a sniper. Now it seems like she never wants to look at me again.
“Gigi, look at me.” I finally get to the actual point of me showing up tonight. “Do you know that coworker of yours is not Ben Bresnan, but someone named Jake Mitchell?”
“Wait, what?”
“The only real thing he’s probably ever said to you is that he’s from Michigan.”
“He never said where he was from exactly,” she says, stunned by this bit of information. "Just that he was from the Midwest."
“Yeah, well, he’s from the Michigan State Penitentiary.”
“I don’t believe it. He doesn’t seem the type.”
“And what type is that?”
She rakes her eyes along my body from head to toe. Examining each of my tattoos with her judgmental eyes.
“You look more like a criminal than he does.”
“Since your snobby ass seems to have forgotten that your last name is King, I’m going to help you out and tell you exactly what you’re going to do. You’re going to go back inside and tell them that you aren’t feeling well, leave cash for the bill, and hustle your ass out back out here. We’re going home.”
“I can’t do that.”
