Page 21 of The True Garza
I grab the cross-body clutch that complements my dress from the passenger seat and exit my car. This dress is too flimsy and revealing for my thigh holster, so I’ve stashed my Ruger LCP 380 inside the clutch instead.
After I’ve locked up, I get out my phone and dial True’s number. From my head. It’s pathetic that—although I’ve never rung his number before, nor saved it in my phone—I know all his digits by heart. Yet I barely remember the first three digits of Sacha Allard’s number, and we’ve called and texted each othera lotover the last three days.
True’s name and number have quite comfortably embedded themselves in my brain. He’sinmy head, and I don’t like it.
“Yeah?”
At the sound of his voice, my pulse does a triple beat. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m too damn jaded to be this affected by a man. I seriously need to get my shit together.
“Hey, it’s London. I’m here.”
“I know. Saw you drive in.”
“Where are you?” I walk out into the open and look up at the building, checking for cameras. They must be spectacularly well hidden because I don’t spot a single one.
“I’m just…fuck.”
“What? Is everything all right?”
“Uh… yeah.” He clears his throat. “Just, uh, slammed my finger in the door. Gimme a sec.” He hangs up.
As I wait, I search with squinted eyes for the cameras. I’ve never, ever been unable to locate security cameras before. Cameras are the first thing I seek out wherever I go. But here, nothing. Even though Iknowthey’re there. And not knowing where they are makes me feel exposed, especially in this dress.
“You’ll never find them.”
I jerk around at the voice. True is striding toward me from the building. And I have to bite back a curse, becausewhymust he look so damn good? Even as simply dressed as he is—jeans, plain tee, boots, a leather jacket dangling from his fingers. His eyes seem determinedly fixed on my face.
I straighten my spine, because, bitch, get it together. “Already found them.”
He smiles. And it’s magnificent. “You BIs got any other specialty than lying?”
“YouPIshave any other specialty than overconfidence and undue arrogance?”
He grins. “Think you already know what other specialtiesI’vegot.”
Oh hell. Walked right into that one, didn’t I?
Irritated, I ask, “Are we taking your vehicle, or mine?”
“Neither.” He gestures for me to follow him across the parking lot to a white Cadillac, hitting a key fob as we go. “Our car service.”
From the trunk, he gets out two magnetic signs and slaps them on either side of the Cadillac. “Gold Rims Luxury Car Service.”
“How many fake businesses does Red Cage have, exactly?”
He just winks and holds the passenger door open for me.
As I move past him to get into the vehicle, his familiar scent envelopes me, and with it comes a wave of feel-good memories. He smells the same. Like a toasty cabin during a blizzard. Like springtime. Like unbridled lust. It’s takingeverythingin me to not throw myself at him and sniff his neck and lick his body. Because how would that make me any different from all the other women who want to rip his clothes off? The beloved “nice Garza.”
He hasn’t even commented on my drastic makeover, which proves how jaded he is. Women must all look and sound the same to him at this point.
Even if I wanted another hit of this man like a drug addict needs his next fix, it would be a disastrously bad idea. Better to just focus, get the job done—then, hopefully, I’ll never have to see or talk to him again.
He shuts the door once I’m inside, then rounds to the driver’s side and hops in, igniting the engine. “I’m hot. Are you hot?” he asks, then cranks up the air-conditioning without waiting for my response.
No, I’m not hot, thanks to this dress. But I’m going to be freezing my ass off in a minute from this air-conditioning.
True rolls his shoulders, then shifts into drive. “What’s your plan tonight?”
