Still half watching the game that would decide the fate of his fifty bucks, Brad answered his cell, “Hello, this is…”

A breathy voice cut him off, “I need you.”

Eyes wide, he checked the phone. Unlisted number, already hung up. With the force of an angry bass drum his heart beat a tempo for the rest of his body to follow as he raced to get dressed. She didn’t usually use that word, part of the beauty of their relationship as far as he was concerned. This must have been serious.

The phone buzzed as he tugged on combat boots over mismatched socks: a text, “1172 Broadway. Kisses.”

He had to smile at that. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad. Still, he shrugged his shoulder holster into place while tromping out the front door. His battered Indian Scout roared to life as he considered she’d give him a hard time for bringing the Baretta, clinging to the past as she’d say.

Belching exhaust from a thrice rehauled engine Brad raced across the city, ready for once to be needed by a woman who could do anything.