I turn toward Timmy and say, “Timmy Tuna, we need some single men.”
From his perched spot on the hood of the Wagon, he shouts, “Word on the street is, some of the single players from the Vancouver Agitators are in town and they’re staying at Moxy Miami. The bar serves the best rum runners in town. Tell them Timmy Tuna sent you, and get your first drink for free.”
The girls squeal and take off. Bet some hockey players get lucky tonight.
I turn to the right and spot a beautiful man—tall, broad-shouldered with blond hair and a menacing scowl. He’s dressed in stark black dress pants and a black button-up dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, displaying ink wrapped around his thick forearms. His presence feels threatening, like someone is about to get into a world of trouble. Thankfully, it’s not me.
“Looks like someone didn’t get the swimsuit memo,” I say as I walk up to him. “Dear sir, do you realize it’s summer in Miami?”
His chin juts out as his jaw grows tight, displeasure written all over his face. Maybe someone needs to grab a rum runner with the ladies.
“I need to speak with you,” he says in a low tone. The type of tone a father would use when he catches his teenager partying past curfew.
But, hey, I’m here to help, despite the puzzling expression on this man’s face.
“Sure,” I say into the microphone. “What can I assist you with? Looking for some cigars? Maybe a decent lap dance to help you loosen up? Not saying I’m willing, but I have been known to offer a lap dance with the right drink in me.”
His eyes narrow. Nostrils flare.
Man, he might need more than a drink and a lap dance.
“Privately,” he says through clenched teeth. “I need to speak with you privately.”
Oh, okay, psycho. Yeah, let me just go somewhere private with the angry man. Sounds like a really good idea.
Keeping a smile on my face, I say, “Flattered, but I fly solo.”
I turn to talk to someone else when I hear him say, “It’s pertaining to your mom. Margret.”
My body freezes, my muscles stilling from the mention of my mom’s name.
Slowly, I turn back around and remove my headset so my conversation isn’t blasted for all of Ocean Drive to hear. “What did you say?”
“I need to speak to you about your mother. I doubt you want to do this with a crowd.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black card. Printed in gold is a singular address. When I look back up at him, he says, “Eight tonight, meet me there.” His eyes scan my body before saying, “Wear something decent.”
“Excuse me?” I say. “How fucking dare you?”
But he’s turned around and walking away before I can expand on my tirade.
“What the actual fuck,” I say as Timmy walks up to me, the crowd now dispersing.
“Who was that?”
“Some sicko,” I say, still clutching the card. “Says he wants to speak to me privately, something to do with my mom.”
“Your mom who passed away when you were seventeen? Seems sketch. Need me to call the cops on him? You know Luis would be more than happy to do his blonde goddess a favor.” He isn’t wrong about it sounding sketch. Mom died when I was seventeen.It’s been a long time since I’ve heard someone speak her name.
I watch as the man gets into an unmarked black sedan, my mind reeling. “He knew my mom’s name. He said,Margret.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah.” My hand shakes as I look down at the card again. “915 Washington Ave. Is that—is that the Moxy?”
“It is,” Timmy says. “Does he work there? Maybe he wants to hire you. Or maybe hire the Wagon for a private event.”
“But what would that have to do with my mom?” I ask.
“Not sure, but there’s only one way to find out.” He flicks the card in my hand.
