His plan was to hang around the D.A.’s office all day, an attempt to avoid the college, and the protests, and the mayhem. But he had a sneaking suspicion that trouble was about to find him. A moment earlier, Sam had turned his car radio to a local news broadcast describing the burning of a New Orleans Islamic Center. It happened in the early morning hours. A horrific act that made national news. A hate crime with no suspects identified. No leads. And most likely, no end in sight for the subsequent protests.

When the broadcast ended, Sam slammed his steering wheel in frustration.

Fucking idiots . . .

Some troglodyte with half a brain must have thought he was making a statement against the refugee crisis. A “you’re not welcome” sign spelled in flames. And considering the current political tension of New Orleans, let alone the whole country, those flames would no doubt spread and inflame reactions from the opposite camp, the kind of people he and Dave had tried avoiding. Now this was something worth protesting over. There were solid arguments on both sides of the refugee influx, but this, the destruction of a religious site, could be supported by no one but the worst kind of bigots.

Sam had heard it all before, the clichés of racist and intolerant white folk. But so far, having mixed it up in quiet a few different cultures and communities in New Orleans, he’d found that those stereotypes were wholly inaccurate. In contrast to what the media said, everyone here just got along. He could feel it on a surface level, a street level, the way people interacted in grocery checkout lines, the politeness extended across racial and religious lines. Everyday circumstances and every day people. Everyone, Americans.

It almost seemed naive. But if anyone could identity a false front, it would be Sam. He could strip away all the outward signs, the forced mannerisms, the bullshit. And still, after stripping that all away, the racism he’d heard about was surprisingly difficult to find.

But there was nothing confusing about a burnt-down Islamic center. And it cast some doubt into his initial assumptions about the people he’d been living amidst for the last month.

So where were all these racists? Were they living outside the city, in the quiet backwaters? He hadn’t gone out that way yet. He likely wouldn’t get the chance. He would just be happy to close everything out again and focus on Clara. It was his way of shutting off the world, including Jackson and DARC Ops, and especially Washington D.C. It wasn’t a very patriotic thing to do, of course. Especially with the current domestic tensions, and whatever Jackson would suggest they focus on as the next foreign threat. But damn it, Sam was on vacation. He had convinced himself of it last night after walking Dave back to his office. He would have to stop wasting time. This whole time in New Orleans he had been half-working and half-vacationing. It was time to decide one or the other.

Sam plugged in his Bluetooth and drew up Clara’s name on his phone’s contact list. Before calling, he checked the road ahead. All clear. Maybe he should pull over somewhere, even while talking hands-free. Just the fact that he was talking to her would eliminate about two thirds of his capacity to concentrate on the road. It was hazardous enough driving while thinking about her. Hearing her voice might bring a whole new level of over stimulation, enough that he might forget to keep his eyes open before drifting silently into the opposite lane.

He brought himself out of her fog just in time to realize he’d missed his turn for the government buildings near town hall. It proved his point about him with Clara on the brain. No one was safe on the road when that happened.

Sam looped around with three left-hand turns, finally meeting up with his road, a main artery that brought traffic into the downtown sector. It was normally very busy. But today, this artery was completely clogged. Bumper to bumper for as far as he could see.

His wait at the back of the line began patiently enough, until he was no longer at the back. Several rows of cars had pulled up behind him. It happened so quickly, getting wholly submersed in the traffic jam.

He rolled down his window and the honking grew louder. He heard voices, too, the drivers around him, cursing. But there was something else. Something familiar, like what he’d heard back at the campus.

Sam called for the attention of a pedestrian walking the opposite direction on the sidewalk next to him. “What the hell’s going on up there? Accident?”

“No. On purpose.”

“What?”

“They’re blocking the lane. They’re protesting what that asshole did to the mosque this morning.”

Of course . . . Of course . . . A few minutes ago he was in full support of such a reaction. But now he was caught in the middle of it.

Sam steered left, carefully edging out of his parking space in the middle of the road before throttling up and squealing the tires in a loud and smoky u-turn. With the window still down, he could hear a few cheers of appreciation for his act of defiance. Maybe it would be the start of a new movement. The motorist uprising, all of them perhaps following in his blazed path. But when Sam looked in his rearview, everyone else had remained pinned in a long line of wait.

After a few more turns—blind guesses, really—Sam found an alternative route with fewer cars and far fewer protesters. And then he made the call.

“Hey, you,” he said, cool and casual. He hoped, anyway.

“Sam.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just trying to inhale lunch,” Clara said.

“Not just a cigarette?”

She laughed. “Come on. I mean lunch. Food.”

“Should I call later? I don’t want to—”

“No, no. Let’s talk.”

“Okay.” He felt better instantly. The traffic and the protesters and the mosque no longer existed. “So what’s for lunch?”

“Uhh . . .” She sounded almost a little nervous. “It’s actually my take-home from the restaurant the other night.”

“Oh, nice. You get my shrimp? I snuck it in when you weren’t looking.”

Clara laughed. “I saw that. How generous.”

“I figured I’d give you a little love note.”

“Love note, eh?”

“Well, uh . . .” He didn’t mean for it to come off like that. Suddenly his cool demeanor began faltering. And she was laughing again. “An affection note,” he said. But it sounded so fucking bland.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Well, in that case, I accept . . . your affection.”

He thought of the other ways that she had accepted it, especially their time on the bench afterward, his mouth on her neck. His cock hardened and he had to adjust his sitting position, squirming in his chair.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m glad.”

She chuckled softly over the phone.

He’d better pull over.

“So how’s your day going?” she asked.

He quickly adjusted himself and then grabbed the wheel, taking a deep breath while looking for somewhere sensible to park.

“Sam?”

“I have to say, my day got off to a strange start.”

“Mine, too.”

“Oh?”

“Hey, uh, Sam? I actually don’t have that much time, but uh . . .” He heard her breathing again, it almost sounded like her mouth was pressed against the phone. What was she doing?

It was turning him on.

“I was wondering,” she said. “If we can maybe meet up tonight? Just something real casual. I was just . . . I’d really like to see you.”

He sat in his car, in the parking lot of the post office, trying to keep his heart rate down while trying not to scream yes into the phone.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I’d love to.”

“If you want, I was thinking we could have a little dinner here. Maybe watch a movie?”

He was so glad to hear that.

“Sam?”

“Clara, that sounds like perfect.”

She laughed. “Yeah?”

“It’s just what I needed.”

“Yeah, me, too. And Molly’s been asking about you.”

“Really?” He found it a little hard to believe, though it was nice she’d said it.

“Yeah,” Clara said. “She’s been wanting me to bring over more of my friends lately. But I can’t think of anyone else but you. Even though she said she doesn’t care for anyone from court.”

Sam laughed. “Well I’m not really from court. I’m from Washington.” He expected to hear a laugh at that, or something. But Clara had gone silent. “So, uh . . .”

“She’ll be sad when you go back.”

“I know,” Sam said. “I’m working on it.”

“Good. In the meantime, can you be here at seven?”