She forced her eyes away from his lips and blinked. “Walt is a homeless guy. He lives nearby,” she said.
“Ah. He is a lucky man to have you looking out for him. Come, eat. For me,” he coaxed.
She nodded, following him over to the table. The aroma of the meal made her stomach growl. She slid onto the chair, and the removal of his hand when he released her had her biting her lip to keep in a protest. He sat down across from her and lifted the cover.
She briefly closed her eyes and breathed in the delicious smell. Picking up a hot seasoned fry, she moaned with delight as the flavors burst over her tastebuds. She grabbed several more and stuffed them into her mouth.
“Do you want some?” she asked.
He chuckled and reached over to pick a fry off her plate. “What happened tonight?” he asked.
She lifted a shoulder. “Same as every night pretty much. A kid going through a hard time thought running away and joining a gang would change his misery. The kid’s grandparents were doing everything they could to help him, including hiring me. He joined a new gang in the area. Lots of money flowing to finance them, but they're moving in on an established gang’s territory. The kid was in way over his head.”
“Why do you do this? Why do you put yourself in danger?” he demanded.
She paused and stared at him. “Who else will? What am I supposed to do? Ignore it? Bury my head and do nothing to stop bad things from happening? I have the power to do something about it. I can't look the other way and pretend everything is fine,” she retorted.
“You can trust the police to do their duty.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, how well did that work out for Aimee when Anderson Coldhouse was a cop?”
His eyes widened and she looked down at her nearly empty plate. “I know that isn’t fair to say. Not all cops are bad, but they can't do it all. Besides, this is how I make a living. You go to a hospital and do princely doctor stuff. I find missing people and try to keep them alive. It’s a job and someone has to do it. Why not me?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and opened and closed his mouth several times as he tried to formulate his response. She fought back a grin.
Finally, he shook his head. “Who was Harlem?”
Midnight jerked back in her chair, staring at him in shock before she rose out of her seat with a shake of her head. He stood as well, and she glanced at him before putting some distance between them.
“How do you know about Harlem?”
“Harry mentioned him.”
She swallowed, her glance darting around the room before she remembered where he had placed her bag. She crossed the room and picked it up.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“No!”
His harsh reply spooked her. He paused and extended his hand. “Please… stay. If you don’t want to talk about Harlem, then we will not talk about him.”
She took a few steps closer to the door. He buttoned his shirt—only a few of the buttons were still useable, she noticed with a wince—but though he was making himself more presentable, his eyes flashed with a possessive heat that called to her own feelings in a sudden surge of intensity. She actually took a half-step closer to him before she realized what she was doing and stopped.
“This—whatever it is—would never work between us. Go home, Junayd. I’m not the kind of girl a guy like you brings home to meet the family and I’m definitely not mistress material.”
“I don’t believe anything you just said except that you aren't mistress material. I don’t want you as my mistress. I want more.”
She shook her head with a sad smile and stepped away from him. Her hand surreptitiously groped for the doorknob behind her.
“Go home, Junayd,” she repeated.
She shut the apartment door behind her and took off at a rapid pace toward the rooftop. As she raced up the stairs, she whipped a scarf out, covered her face, and pulled her hood over her hair.
“Midnight!” Junayd yelled after her.
She ignored the desperation in his voice. Tears blurred her vision as she threw open the rooftop door. In seconds, she was climbing over the ledge where hours before she had sought safety.
“Midnight, don’t….”