“Oh, they give you such nice uniforms,” she continued and rubbed his forearm again. “I just want you to know we’re fighting for the rights of everyone in this community: Black, Latino, Asian, whatever.” She held her hand out like a job interview candidate—all enthusiasm and fake bravado. “I’m Liza. You may already know my voice.” She cleared her throat. “The only DJ who gives a jam?” When he didn’t respond, she faltered slightly. “And are you full-time event staff? What do you do?”

This was his chance once again to set her straight. He let it pass.

“You mean besides co-conspiring with back-alley activists?” Dorsey quipped and was pleased to see her eyes sparkle. He rarely made jokes that landed. “What do you think I do?” he asked. Why am I trying to prolong the conversation?

“Um . . . audition as the villain in telenovelas?” Liza retorted.

Dorsey let out a genuine laugh at that, surprised by someone for the first time in . . . he didn’t know how long.

“Sell vape pens out of your coat?” she continued.

Dorsey clutched his chest. “Ouch, you think I would vape?”

“I smell the remnants of a nasty habit. And you have a man bun.”

“I smoke when I’m nervous. But I try not to make being nervous a habit.” Why did this woman need a run-through of his insecurities five minutes into meeting? He touched the small bun at the back of his head. His stylist had convinced him this would be “dead sexy.” She flashed him another smile—the charlatan. He could see her on the streets of Cairo, coaxing travelers into just one more follow-the-ball game. He was still surprised at the tiny jolt in his low belly.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. I’m the one who has to stand up to some old white dude—Dorsey Fitzwhateverthehell. It’s truly terrifying to make people with money angry. One snap of his powerful fingers, and I’m poof! Gone!” Her arms flailed like a magician’s.

“Oh.” Dorsey’s breath quickened. Finally, some fun. “Sounds pretty dangerous. How will you know when you’ve found him? Did you look him up?”

“Look at me.” Liza leaned in close. At this angle, if he wanted to, he could see the soft rise of her breasts. But he didn’t want to. He would not look down her bodice. He would not be one of those guys who ogled—

Shit.

He looked down her bodice.

“I’ll know who he is because I can sniff out a self-entitled old-money asshole in three seconds flat. I’ll just follow the trail of ass-kissers and hangers-on.” She was actually swaggering. She was John Wayne with an excellent pair of breasts.

“Good strategy,” was all Dorsey could say.