Question.
Answer.
Submission mistaken for cooperation.
Grant stepped closer.
“You always this difficult?”
Brooke’s eyebrows rose.
“We've spoken for less than a minute.”
“That was enough.”
The second officer spoke.
“Grant.”
Grant ignored him.
Brooke looked toward the second officer.
His nameplate read ELI DAWSON.
Eli’s expression was uncomfortable.
Brooke filed that away.
Grant asked, “You got identification?”
Brooke looked back.
“Am I being detained?”
Grant laughed softly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The lawyer question.”
Brooke almost smiled.
“That isn't a lawyer question.”
“Everybody online knows that one now.”
“Then answering should be easy.”
Grant’s face tightened.
“You're not detained.”
“Good.”
Brooke moved to walk around him.
Grant shifted sideways.
Blocked her.
Brooke stopped.
“You just said I’m not detained.”
“I’m still talking to you.”
“And I’m leaving.”
“Why the hurry?”
“I have somewhere to be.”
Grant looked at the burgundy dress again.
“I'm sure you do.”
Something in the tone changed.
Brooke felt it.
Not police work.
Something else.
She slowly removed her sunglasses.
“Officer, if you have a legitimate question, ask it.”
Grant’s smile returned.
“Legitimate.”
“Yes.”
“You telling me how to do my job?”
“No.”
“I’m telling you how to have a conversation with me.”
Eli turned fully toward them now.
Grant stepped closer.
Brooke stepped back.
He followed.
That was when she became angry.
Not afraid yet.
Angry.
“Back up.”
Grant stared.
“What?”
“You’re standing too close.”
He glanced down at the distance between them as if Brooke had invented it.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Doesn't look like it.”
“Back up.”
Grant did not.
Instead, he leaned slightly toward her.
Brooke smelled coffee on his breath.
Not alcohol.
Coffee.
Mint gum.
Sweat beneath cologne.
He said quietly:
“That dress doesn't exactly say you hate attention.”
For one second Brooke was not sure she had heard correctly.
Then she did.
Her face hardened.
“What did you just say?”
Grant smiled.
“Nothing.”
“No.”
“Say it again.”
His eyes dropped toward her body.
Then he looked over her shoulder toward the motorcycles.
“You walk out of a biker bar dressed like that, people are going to notice.”
Brooke stared.
“What does that have to do with anything you stopped me for?”
Grant shrugged.
“I’m making conversation.”
“No.”
“You’re making yourself a problem.”
His expression changed instantly.
There are moments when a sentence becomes more dangerous because it is true.
That was one.
Grant stepped even closer.
Brooke moved sideways.
He moved with her.
“Officer.”
“Brooke.”
He had read her name somewhere?
No.
She had not shown identification.
Her handbag carried no visible label.
He had heard it inside?
Maybe.
Or the bartender had said it.