Free Choked Up by Janey Mack Page A

fell asleep.

Chapter 9
    Monday morning at 0500, I came out of the closet buttoning my navy blue poly-blend Parking Enforcement Agent uniform over my bra holster. Hank lay propped up against the pillows reading the Wall Street Journal on an iPad, sheet crumpled at his waist. Even at ease, the muscles of his abdomen and chest were sculpted from stone. “Call in sick.”
    His lazy order released a fleet of butterflies in my chest. I would have if I hadn’t joined the BOC. “I . . . I can’t.” I scooted back into the closet and dropped down onto the teak bench. “Does it ever bother you that I’m a meter maid?” I asked in a rush to distract him.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œReally?” I started lacing my work boots.
    â€œMaisie, what you do doesn’t define you as much as how you do it.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIf you’re happy, I’m happy. Besides,” he teased, “at least you’re not a cop.”
    He’s kidding. He’s got to be kidding. I stared at myself in the mirror. Cripes. Keep it together. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the closet.
    Hank crooked a finger at me. I trotted over and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “Can’t be late—” I turned away. His fingers snagged the waistband of my pants. He jerked me back, kissed me hard and fast, and let go.
    He picked up the tablet.
    What was that? “Um . . . The Super Bee’s in impound, and my Honda’s racking up a small fortune in the ramp . . . Can I take the G-Wagen?”
    â€œWon’t need it.”
    Huh?
    The doorbell rang.
    â€œYour ride’s here.” He looked up from the iPad, a gleam in his cement-gray eyes. “Serve ’em hell, Bluebell.”
    Â 
    Ragnar, my chauffeur and shadow, informed me we’d be leaving my Honda in the lot until after work. And he was going to tail me. The entire day. And every day after until Mant’s number was up.
    â€œGee,” I said. “That’ll be . . . cozy.”
    â€œEver vigilant, kid. I got the heads-up on Mant. That dude is one sick fuck. You carrying?”
    â€œYep.” I opened the door.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œTo stow my gear, clock in, and get my ticket gun.”
    Ragnar’s eyes narrowed.
    â€œWanna check in with Hank?” I asked sweetly.
    â€œHurry up.”
    I closed the door on him, jogged up to the gate, and waved at Chen in the bulletproof guardhouse. The gate raised and I loped across the barbed-wire enclosed lot. I entered the office from the rear, bypassed the break room, and pulled my ticket gun from the charger. A hot pink Post-it was affixed to the butt.

    McGrane—
Sanchez is out sick. You’re up.
Leticia

    Happy Monday. Crap.
    My first day of undercover work and I had to hit quota on a route I didn’t know. Ability to gather photographic evidence on as many tow trucks as possible? Nonexistent.
    Sanchez’s route was Ashland and Belmont. The hippie hippie shake. Vegan restaurants, head shops, hookah bars, and fetish stores. Zero parking and tie-dyed muumuu-clad bitch-’n’-moaners. Groovy.
    I spent most of the morning cruising the outskirts of the route, feeling more than a little conspicuous with Ragnar tailing me. Still, I managed to lay a decent number of tickets before getting to what had to be Sanchez’s sweet spot, because parking offenders don’t stack up in front of establishments that don’t open before ten. But they do at 11:07 a.m. I turned on to Belmont.
    Ahh, nothing like the fragrant combination of patchouli and piss.
    I tagged a couple of fish taking more than their allotted time inside The Hookah Hub. I hadn’t seen one tow truck. Not one. Not even driving by. In four hours and forty-three minutes.
    Of course, ancient Buick Skylarks and rusted-out Chevy Aeros probably weren’t real high on the Serbian shopping list. I cracked my neck, and out of sheer boredom,