Keegan slathered mustard and ketchup on his hot dog with one hand while trying to hold it and a drink with his other. He hated the smell, he hated the crowd, and he hated being here just as much as that son-of-a-bitch Johnson hated him being here. Rayma was beginning to get suspicious of his motives for asking about Wesley. When he refused to go the first time she presented the tickets to him, he knew it would be his last time to see her if he said no again. One thing about the woman, she would cut herself off from any man she thought was distrustful. “Rayma wanted me to come,” Keegan said. “What the hell was I supposed to do?” Johnson glowered at him, and Keegan couldn’t help but notice the petite blondes and ample-busted brunettes ogling the fifty-something-year-old. The sonofabitch got more attention from the female gender than he did, and it pissed him off. “If Wesley sees you–” “Then Rayma will understand why I didn’t want to come.
