She waved her hand. “That’s all right.”

He kept walking, wandering down a street full of theaters advertising their latest plays and musicals. He’d had no idea that live theater was such a draw in the Q. He made a note to share that later. People would love it.

His dad would love it the most, actually. His father used to take him and his sisters to the theater all the time when they were younger. Lennon would always get in trouble for making too much noise while eating his candy, or for falling asleep.

He paused in front of a sign for Mamma Mia! It should have been his dad who was dropped in here for seventy-two hours. He would have already started brokering peace between north and south, and earned the devotion of a good chunk of the population.

Lennon, as usual, was just the crappy substitute. The son who looked like his father but could never compare.

He sighed as he turned away.

He eventually made it back to Maisie’s apartment, and went around to the side of the building, where there was a shaded stoop. As he sat, stretching his legs out in front of him, he overheard a man talking.

“Is Maisie in there?”

Lennon leaned forward, peering around to the front of the building. Two men stood at the bottom of the stairs, and a third man stalked up to them. He was in his early twenties, broad and muscular, with thick dark hair. He looked like the kind of guy who talked about protein powders and had very firm opinions about proper dead lift form.

“No one answered when I knocked,” one of the others said. He had tattoos covering both arms. “She must still be down at the family meeting.”

The broad man cursed. Lennon started to get to his feet.

“Don’t worry, Declan, the guys know not to hurt her,” the tattooed man said. “They know Maisie is your girl.”

Lennon stopped, glancing back at the men again. Declan was the name of the ex-boyfriend whose clothes he was wearing. Why was he worried about Maisie getting hurt at the family meeting?

Also, it suddenly made sense why this shirt was a little baggy on him. He tried not to feel self-conscious about his pecs, which he’d always been quite proud of up until about thirty seconds ago.

“What’s the word on Lopez?” the man with a mustache asked.

“Still unconscious.” Declan leaned back, taking a look around, like he wanted to make sure no one was listening. Lennon quickly sat back down, hidden from sight. “I really didn’t want Maisie anywhere near that meeting. I don’t want her getting caught in the cross fire.”

Lennon stiffened. The cross fire?

“You know Maisie,” the tattooed man said. “She can take care of herself.”

“Go down to the end of Cypress,” Declan said. “Catch the stragglers. I’m going to wait for Maisie at the garage.”

“Sure thing.” The tattooed guy began to walk away, but he stopped, turning back to Declan. “What do you want to do about that guy? The one who got dropped from an airplane? I think Maisie was put in charge of babysitting him.”