Michelle
I felt stupid, to say the least. I picked up the phone and threw it at him, but the man didn’t stop laughing.
“He’s at the port because he’s paying off that guy—Henry Winesteen is his name. Henry, or rather Harry as he likes to be called, but frankly, I don’t even know the difference. The guy’s just a fucker, in my opinion,” Bruce mumbled under his breath, reaching into his pocket to pull out a cigar. He didn’t light it; he just played with it, placing it between his lips and drawing in a breath, as if he were going to smoke.
Somehow, his actions drew my attention not just to his lips but to his chest. Every movement he made—breathing in, shifting—strained the muscles beneath the flannel shirt he was wearing. It was supposed to be an oversized shirt, but on him, it wasn’t. The
