Chapter 46: Hah, Men (Please Recommend! Please Bookmark!)

“What? Are you insane?” Hearing Roan’s words, Lacey’s smile immediately froze, then she shouted angrily, “Of course we know the deaths of Lydia’s previous husbands aren’t normal, but we can’t find any evidence, Roan! Do you really think you can uncover the truth behind all this on your own?”

“Why not?” Roan fastened his seatbelt with a grin and said, “Trust me, Lacey, I have advantages those previous FBI agents didn’t.”

Lacey paused. “What advantages?”

Roan flashed a wide smile, showing his white teeth. “I can experience what Lydia’s previous husbands felt. That’ll let me find clues those agents missed.”

“...FU-K YOU! Roan, you’re such a jerk!” Lacey cursed, a dark line appearing on her forehead, but as a lesbian herself, she didn’t care about the risqué joke. She turned serious and asked, “Are you sure, Roan? Are you really going to investigate this case?”

“Absolutely.” Roan nodded, signaling to Lacey that she could start driving—or let him drive instead.

Lacey firmly rejected Roan’s attempt to take the wheel. She stomped the gas pedal, and the car rolled onto the highway, her face full of irritation. “Since you’ve decided, I won’t try to stop you. But when you’re with Lydia, never turn off your phone. I’ll call you at intervals, and if you don’t answer within a minute, I’ll come with backup to rescue you. OK?”

“What?” Roan was stunned. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

“FU-K, it’s for your own good! I’m afraid you’ll die in Lydia’s bed!” Lacey ran her hand through her hair, regret heavy on her face. “I should have kept an eye on you last night, or sent a girl your way so you wouldn’t get tangled up with Lydia.”

“Thanks for your concern, Lacey, but trust me.” Roan glanced at the system page and solemnly told her, “I’m not the kind of man whose mind is ruled by his lower half. I’ll stay clear-headed when it matters most.”

Lacey tilted her head, glanced at Roan’s lower body, then at his perfectly ordinary handsome face. She turned back to the road, scoffing, “Oh, men.”

Roan: “...”

Five minutes later, Lacey’s car eased to a stop diagonally across from the entrance of the Manhattan “Queen of Flames” bar.

“OK, we’ve arrived at Lydia’s pit of doom.” After parking, Lacey glanced at the bar, its lights flashing, patrons already beginning to enter. She looked at Roan sourly and said, “Tonight I’ll cancel my date and wait for you outside, calling you every so often.”

“Uh.” Roan, unbuckling his seatbelt, was speechless. “That’s really unnecessary, Lacey. Believe me, I never do anything I’m not sure of.”

Lacey ignored him, head bent over her phone, sending messages to someone.

“Fine.” Roan shrugged, opened the car door, and stepped out. Before leaving, he turned back and said, “I’ll have someone send you dinner later.”

With that, he walked away.

“No matter how outstanding Roan is, he’s still a man.” After rescheduling her rendezvous for tomorrow, Lacey rearranged herself in the seat for comfort, watching Roan’s retreating figure and snorting coldly, “Still an arrogant man.”

——

The “Queen of Flames” bar was large. Besides the dance floor, bar counter, and singer’s stage area on the first floor, there were second, third, and fourth floors.

The fourth floor included the bar owner’s office—officially, the manager’s office—Lydia’s, as well as several extremely private VIP rooms.

Downstairs, the lights glittered, people danced, and the decadence reigned.

Upstairs, laughter abounded, glasses clinked, and business was conducted.

Roan entered the bar, followed a female server into the elevator up to the fourth floor, and when they reached the innermost VIP room, she turned and left.

Roan raised an eyebrow and pushed open the door. What he saw was not the imagined table, fruit, and a crowd of hypocritical drinkers, but a vast room that had clearly been combined from several. It was spacious.

In the corners stood sandbags, punching balls, and boxing gloves and dumbbells hung on the walls. There was a treadmill and all sorts of exercise equipment, fully outfitted.

At the center was a red sofa and a simple four-cornered ring. On the sofa sat a woman cuddling a pet dog; inside the ring, two women were boxing.

Roan immediately recognized the woman in the ring—standing at 5'9", measurements 34-24-36, wearing protective gear, twin ponytails, a black tube top accentuating her curves, black sports shorts, long, strong legs.

The bar owner, Lydia Ruth.

Bang bang bang—

Hearing the door open, the two women in the ring gradually stopped. Lydia took off her gear, stepped out, drank some water, then smiled and strode forward to give Roan a big hug.

“Good evening, darling, you’re early.”

“After your call, I left work as soon as I could.” Roan’s lips curled in a smirk. He tilted his head and kissed Lydia, then wrapped his arm around her as they walked toward the ring, smiling as he asked, “So, did you call me over to beat me up, revenge for leaving without waking you this afternoon?”

“Of course not!” Lydia waved her hand, signaling the coach to leave. She whispered in Roan’s ear, “I know you still had to work today. You worked so hard last night—thank you.”

Roan’s eyelid twitched at her words, but before he could respond, Lydia led him to the sofa and introduced, palm up, “This is Mrs. Yoland. I think you know her.”

“Of course I do.” Roan nodded, showing a standard eight-tooth smile, and shook hands with Mrs. Yoland, who never seemed to go anywhere without her pet dog. “Hello, Mrs. Yoland, it’s a pleasure to see you here.”

Mrs. Yoland was the same woman from the clinic in Scarstail, who had played games with the doctor for forty minutes in the ward and, upon finishing, found her car stolen—a Yale senator’s wife.

But why would a senator’s wife come to a place like the “Queen of Flames” bar?

“Hello, Agent Roan.” Mrs. Yoland shook his hand, wasted no words, and pulled an envelope from her bag. “Thank you for rescuing my truant daughter from the criminal on the highway outside Scarstail. Here’s some gratitude money—I hope you’ll accept it.”

Roan’s eyebrow rose. So the girl he saved in the gunfight—whose back was grazed, who was stuffed in the trunk by the killer, and managed to survive thanks to his tourniquet—was Mrs. Yoland’s daughter.

Before Roan could reach for the envelope, Mrs. Yoland took a check from her pocket, pressed it atop the envelope, and fixed Roan with a serious gaze. “This check is for a hundred thousand dollars. I hope, from today forward, you’ll completely forget everything that happened in Scarstail. Will you?”