I ducked into a tourist shop where I bought a cheap T-shirt and changed it out with the grubby, stained, torn shirt I wore, in a makeshift changing room with one of those curtains that doesn’t quite close properly. The white shirt showed every mark of the last few hours, including a few spots of blood that I had no idea where they’d come from. The new shirt was black with the word Savannah etched across it in silver glitter. Not quite as inconspicuous as I’d like it to be, but then again, a tourist would think I was just another tourist, and a local might even skip over me thinking the same thing. I used the dirty shirt to knock the worst of the mud off my pants and boots.

Maybe I needed to rethink my outfits when I was on a job. No more white, that much was for sure.

Hurrying, I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. My hair was a disaster, my face had dirt smeared across it, and my eyes had bags under them. Crap.

The closest bathroom was at Vic’s Restaurant on the riverfront. I slipped in with the crush of tourists on the bottom floor getting ice cream, slid by and made it to the bathroom. I splashed water over my face; cleaning it off helped a little. I pulled my long hair up into a high ponytail, smoothing back the flyaways as best I could. For just a moment, I looked younger, but it might have to do with the wide doe-eyed look I had going on. Shock was a funny thing but seemed to be working in my favor.

“Crap. You look like crap,” I whispered to my mirrored reflection as I leaned forward. And I was going to Crash’s and I couldn’t help but want to not look like . . . a mess.

“Oh, here, I can help with that.” The voice was followed by a woman who stepped out of the last stall. “Are you going on a date?” She was dressed nicely, pressed pants and a loose blouse that screamed money. She was about my age, but her life had obviously treated her better if the nails, hair, and makeup were any indication. She moved to the sink beside me and washed up her hands, drying them quickly.

“Uh, no. But I’m going to speak with a guy that—” Oh, crap, I had the hots for Crash.

She smiled and opened her purse, pulled out a compact, and turned me toward her. Her hands moved smoothly over my face, and I stood there and let her. Because this was Savannah. You let people help you here.

“Look, I’m a believer that men should love us no matter what, but you want to know the truth?” she said as she swept a brush across one of my cheekbones and then the other.