Page 34 of The True Garza
Vice President: Tripp Garza.
Director of Tech: Guy.
Below that are various managers and supervisors of different divisions.
Voice flat, True at last replies, “Don’t think I’d be in here if I was.”
“I just haven’t seen you since…‘the meeting.’”
“You’ve seen Trent?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’ve seen me.”
True Garza is “one of the good ones”—I’m repeatedly told—so I’d like to think the pool of people hated by him is rather small. And, sadly, I’m in that pool.
“Not the same,” I say.
“No?”
“Of course not. You’re two different people. You’re not the same.”
“You didn’t think I was him when you decided to stomp over here just now?”
So, hehadbeen aware of me the entire time. “Yeah… and then I realized you weren’t.”
“How?”
“I….”Because your lookalike doesn’t make my breath hitch and my heart stop like you do. “I’d like to think Iknowyou, um, in a way that I don’t know him. In, uh, a kind of way that makes it possible to tell….”
Regarding me, he idly twists a platinum ring on his index finger. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about ‘knowing’ me.” He frowns as if in thought. “In fact, I specifically remember you not wanting us to talkat allunless it’s about work.” He looks around the bar. “We ain’t working now. So…?”
“Are you mad at me or something?”
He raises a brow at me.
Right. Stupid question. Of course he’s mad at me. They all are. Sacha still hasn’t forgiven me.
“If you’re expecting an apology, you won’t get one,” I tell him. “I saw an opportunity, I took it, and I have zero regrets.”
The busty waitress returns with a cold beer and a small bowl of cashews. She’s shameless in the way she flirts with him, and he’s all for it. He twists the cap off his beer and takes a swig as he watches her go.
It stokes a flicker of ire in me, and I feel an inexplicable urge to chase after her, grab her by her frizzy hair extensions, and slam her face into the nearest table.
Well, shit. This man is doing my head in. What the hell? Not only am I sexually repressed, but I’m tragically coocoo for True.
Words—careless, ridiculous word—are spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You’re taking her home after this? Like you did me?”
“Maybe tomorrow night.” He shrugs. “Got other plans tonight.”
“This is a regular thing for you, then? Picking up women in bar-and-grills?” That’s how he picked me up. Or was it me who picked him up?
He regards me with that steady, inscrutable gaze. Takes another swig of his beer. Then studies me some more. “So, what, are we talking about it now, London? We’re no longer forgetting it happened? What’re the rules this time?”
To that, I have nothing. Because I’m the one who snapped at him to forget what happened between us. But “forgetting it” is not only a ridiculous expectation—it’s impossible. Andshouldwe even be talking about it now that there’s a boss-employee shift between us?
What’s my damn problem, anyway? What right do I have, asking him about his personal life? So, sure, my loins are on fire for him again, but that doesn’t mean I have a right to him. And, sure, we fucked like starved animals for an entire week over a year ago, but that wasover a year ago.
