The Ferrari didn’t like the rain. Neither did my hair, but one of us had a choice about it. I slid across the hood—red as a Honolulu sunset, wet as a drowned mongoose—and dropped into the driver’s seat. The leather sighed. So did I.
He set the glass down. His hand shook. Mine would too, if I’d run that far into a lie. Magnum P.I.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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