Just as she said it, the door swung open. The hallway crowd stirred out of their clustering. Other curious Joes had wandered up to join us. The corridor seemed tight again.

Grace edged along the wall for a better view. “Wish I had my phone.”

She was always saying that, but I had to admit, photos would be nice, to show the others. I ghosted in behind her shoulder. “Will we know who’s who?”

“Only by rep. Never seen ’em in person.”

The first out was a very tall dude, straight as a stick and dressed in shiny, close-fitting black that showed off every perfect muscle. The crowd hushed and drew aside to make a path. Multicolored tats covered every exposed inch of him, even his face, so you couldn’t tell what his original skin tone had been. Images of fantastic animals moved as he moved.

I leaned over Grace’s arm. “Got to be Tall Tom.”

She cracked a grin. “Gotta be. Wow. I’d heard he was totally hot.”

He was certainly stunning, but like a work of art. Nothing you’d want to get close to. But Grace was smitten. “Still thinking one of his guys did Rivera?” I teased.

“More like an Adder pretending to be a Tommy.”

“Why pretend?”

“Stir up trouble. Maybe why Tall Tom’s lookin’ so touchy.”

He was at that. His thin, handsome profile was pinched, like he’d tasted something bad but couldn’t spit it out. He stepped aside to share his grouch with his quartet of equally tall and toned bodyguards, two of them women. The four showed more skin, but it was less colorfully decorated.

A woman came out next, leaning back to deliver a final word to Jake just inside. She was medium height, medium build, medium everything, even her clothing. Tall Tom’s total opposite. As she passed behind him, she brushed fingertips across his back, ending with a coy little wave of farewell.

He turned. “Max—you’re alone? Take some of my guys with you.”

“Thanks. I’m good.” The woman patted her hip and kept going. She nodded at us pleasantly as she strode by, but her don’t-fuck-with-me look could’ve stopped a tidal wave.

“That’s Maxine, Ladysmith’s boss,” supplied Grace. “And she’s packing. Wonder how she got it past the door. Rousseau must be fit to be tied!”

“That’s Maxine?” Rubio had been very taken with this woman. Yet, once she’d rounded the corner, I could hardly recall a thing about her, even what color she was wearing. Jenn would be so disappointed. “I expected a lot more . . . style.”

“Style’s wasted on the streets.”

“Good thing for me,” I laughed. “But doesn’t a leader need to set an example?”

“You mean, like Rousseau?”

“Rousseau has a style. It’s . . .” I groped for the right word. “Funky.”