Seriously, even from a distance, Micah knew those things had to be ripped. The man’s entire body looked rock-solid. Micah couldn’t quite make out any facial features, but if there was any justice in the world, the man must have had the epitome of a butter-face.

Still, Micah could probably look past it, considering, as Tessa had so eloquently put it: “that ass”.

“Micah,” Tessa hissed into his earpiece. (Speak of the devil.) “I said to quit. You’re not even trying to hide your ogling now.”

“You also said to look,” he couldn’t help but point out, but he obediently dropped his gaze to the ground, anyway. He was wearing a pair of shabby red Converse. There were holes on the top of the right one where his toes threatened to peek out, and the left had a loose outsole that liked to flap when he walked.

Not exactly his usual style, but it wasn’t like Micah had picked them out himself. In fact, he hadn’t picked out any part of his current ensemble.

“I meant metaphorically. You’re in the middle of an undercover operation. You can’t let yourself be distracted by every hottie that walks by; you need to keep your wits about you.”

Okay, first of all, that wasn’t just any hottie. Secondly-

“You’re my handler,” he pointed out. “You need to keep your wits about you.”

“Oh, you don’t worry about my wits, honey. I’m not the one that’s thirsting after some babelicious stranger, completely ignoring the potential john coming in at three o’clock.”

Micah tensed, subtly peeking in the direction she’d indicated.

Tessa was right.

A man dressed in a cheap suit was quickly approaching, the graying hair near his temples and the deep-set wrinkles of his brow indicating he was probably in his late forties or early fifties. His uneven gait and the stumble in his step meant he was probably drunk.

Micah tried not to grimace as the man got closer and he spotted the wedding band on his finger. The guy didn’t really fit the profile they’d come up with for their perp – he was too old and looked to be married to boot.

Most likely, he was just another asshole going through a midlife crisis – not the serial killer going around killing male prostitutes they were searching for.

Micah voiced his thoughts aloud, muttering lowly into the mic hidden in his shirt – if the obscene, canary yellow crop top he was wearing could even be considered a shirt. “I doubt he’s our guy, Tess. Too sloppy.”

“Probably not,” the woman agreed, “but you never know. You of all people should know that looks can be deceiving. Let him pick you up. If nothing else, you’ll be able to arrest him for solicitation.”

Resigning himself to do as she suggested, Micah let himself sink into the brick wall he was lounging against near the mouth of an alley. He winced as the brick scratched against his exposed lower back where his shirt didn’t quite cover the skin, but he forced himself to school his expression as the man moved closer.