Free Mint Juleps and Justice by Nancy Naigle

after eight years of being in the slammer was like landing on a new planet. You used to be able to get a courtesy cup of ice water anywhere; now it cost you a buck just to quench your thirst. And nothing looked the way he remembered.
    He leaned back in the seat, fixing a stare on the front of the building. Maybe she wasn’t a customer. Maybe he was getting him a piece of that hot ass right this instant. He closed his eyes. He could almost hear the sounds of it, smell the sweat, and hear the screams. He did love a good scream. Not that kind, but a scream was a scream in his book.
    Goto slapped the steering wheel. Then slapped his face to make himself quit thinking about that girl and sex.
    When he was in prison they’d called him Goto.
    Not Franklin or Frank. Not Daniel or Dan like his mom always had.
    Not Gotorow. Goto.
    At first it made him mad that they didn’t get his name right, but then he’d fallen in love with it because the nickname had come from all the media coverage he’d gotten all those years ago.
    The “Goto Hell Murderer” had splashed national headlines.
    Those news guys—they loved a good story. And he’d loved the attention. He wouldn’t mind giving them another.
    He pulled a spiral notebook out from under the seat and flipped to a back page. Putting pen to paper he started drawing small circles and waves. Three circles and a row of waves. Three more circles and a row of waves. The exercise was supposed to help him get past that feeling whenever it came over him.
    His teeth ground. Three more circles and a row of waves.
    He’d faked it a million times when he was in prison, but now he needed it to work.
    Focus. That’s what he needed. He only had a few weeks to finalize and execute a plan. Not just any plan either. The perfect plan. He hadn’t waited this long to screw it up, but if he didn’t get it done and get the hell out of Dodge, he’d probably end up back in prison and he had no plans to do that.
    There was no room for error, and a woman would be a distraction. He bore down so hard on the next row of circles that he ripped the paper.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    B rooke stood outside the door of Hartman Security and Investigation, LLC trying to push back the swell of nausea. She let out a long, slow breath.
    Was she letting Keith win by letting him get under her skin? Was she overreacting? Sometimes it felt that way, but standing here made the situation last night feel more real, more threatening. More importantly, was the nervousness she was feeling right now an overreaction to Mike Hartman?
    She’d earned the reputation of being in control no matter what, yet these things were leaving her frazzled and feeling a bit helpless, and helpless was not a word she wanted to describe her.
    She patted her sweating palms against her pants. Asking for help wasn’t one of her strong points. With one last deep breath, she knocked and pushed the door open.
    The man behind the large wooden desk looked up and smiled.
    “Hello, again.” His confident smile reached his eyes.
    She extended her hand, almost speechless. She’d hoped she was wrong, but here he was…again.
    “You knew it was me when I called?” She shook his hand. Her skin looked so pale against his. Those fine lines that danced like exclamation marks around his bright-blue eyes made her breath hitch. His muscular frame pulled the shoulders of the white dress shirt tapering into worn blue jeans, his slim waist accenting the width of his shoulders. He cleaned up nice. “Why didn’t you say something on the phone?”
    “Didn’t think it mattered.”
    “I guess it doesn’t.” She hadn’t mentioned it either. Guess that evened the score. She set her purse next to the chair, but remained standing, hoping her nerves would settle and he wouldn’t notice the shake in her voice. “Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice.”
    “No problem.”
    “Connor recommended you. He says you’re good people.”
    “I put that on top of my