Page 41 of Shadow Of Sin

I wait five minutes, then text again. Still nothing.

For the next ten minutes, I pace the sidewalk trying not to look like someone who’s pacing a sidewalk when a black Honda Accord pulls up to a parking spot in front of the building. I turn as the door opens and Wolfe gets out of the driver’s seat.

My breath hitches.

I almost don’t recognize him.

He walks around the front of the car and sweeps a hand through his damp hair. I have to keep my teeth clenched to hold my lips together. He’s not sporting his signature band shirt layered over a long-sleeve t-shirt look. He’s not wearing a coat or his glasses. Just a dark gray wife beater with sweat stains, a pair of basketball shorts, and Jordans. His skin is flushed a deep pink, and he’s breathing like he just ran five miles, fought someone, or both.

I almost choke on a breath as my eyes trace over the ripped biceps his layered look has been keeping from me.

Sweet Lord.

I’ve been filing this man under “nerd with a laptop.” Glasses, Cheerios, messy hair, taps his thumb when he’s stuck. Clark Kent. Safe. Cerebral. The kind of guy who fights with binary code, not his hands.

But the man standing in front of me right now is not that guy. His shoulders are broader than the band shirts let on. His arms have definition that doesn’t come from typing. And his knuckles on both hands are red and raw, the kind of raw you get from hitting something hard enough to leave marks.

There’s a scar on his left forearm that I’ve never seen because it’s always been covered. And I spot another one just above his collarbone that’s smaller.

Holy shit.

Looks like I need to re-categorize him.

Actually, I need to come up with an entirely different system to process all of this.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“Y-you’re half naked on a public sidewalk,” I sputter, scanning the street behind him out of habit. Nobody watching. No cars I don’t recognize. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I was working out.” He pulls his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on. The Clark Kent mask slides back into place, but it doesn’t fit the same way anymore. Not now that I’ve seen what’s underneath.

And I’d like to see it again. Very soon.

“Working out,” I repeat. “Working out where? There’s no gym in this area.”

“There’s a MMA gym where I meet my brothers. Not too far away.”

“A boxing gym?”

He looks at his knuckles. “Among other things.”

“Among other things.” I stare at him. “Who taught you to fight?”

“My brothers.”

“Your brothers,” I repeat.

The ones he won’t tell me about. The ones whose last name I don’t know. The ones who apparently taught the cereal-eating, metal-listening, glasses-wearing computer genius how to throw a punch hard enough to split his knuckles.

“We should go inside,” he says. “Because I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss my workout routine.”

I scrape a hand down the front of my face, my brain still a little scrambled. “No, I came here because we have a problem.” I follow him up the stairs, trying very hard not to look at the way his shoulders flex when he climbs.

Trying and failing.

“Dmitri knows about Sal’s debt,” I say.

He stops on the landing and turns. “What did he say?”