Page 42 of The True Garza
My stomach grumbles as I’m stifling a yawn with my wrist, reminding me how little I’ve eaten all day.
A Range Rover careens into the lot at high speed, then swings around and cleanly speed-reverses into a reserved spot. Impressive driving skills.
The driver storms out and starts toward the building, a paper bag in hand. He pauses when he notices me, pivots, and starts in my direction. And, hell, all he’s doing is walking—justwalkingwith that sexy-ass gait—and my heart is tap-dancing in my damned chest.
He’s just a man, London. Just another man.
No, he’sMateo. The man who took me to heights no one else ever could. All I want to do is spread my legs wide and feel the width of him between them again.
As he nears me, I peel my back up off the windshield and sit upright. “I’ve been here almost twenty minutes. You said you were right behind me.”
“You gotta be somewhere?” he asks flatly, setting the paper bag on the hood. “Like OT’s Bar?”
OT’s Bar is where my attacker works. How does he know I—wait…. “Have you been following me?”
“Yup.” He takes something from the paper bag and thrusts it at me. A sub-sandwich. “So I know that all you’ve had for the day are two cups of iced latte and a pack of trail nuts.”
When I just stare at him, he thrusts the sandwich to me again. “Take it. It’s Italian. Think I remember you preferring that.”
He remembers I prefer Italian subs….
My stomach betrays me, growling loud enough for him to hear.
He arches a brow at me.
Reluctantly, I take the sandwich.
You’re an asshole, stomach. And so are my hands, as they greedily peel the wrapper. Taking a big bite, I fight back an appreciative moan.
Chew, swallow. Another bite. Chew, swallow.
On the third bite, I ask around a full mouth, “Why are you following me?”
He crosses his arms and sits back against the hood. “What’s the first thing you were told at training?”
At Red Cage, we’re a family. We protect each other. We look out for each other. If I repeat that, though, I’ll walk right into whatever trap he’s laying out for me, so I shrug and say, “Don’t remember.”
He side-eyes me, mumbles something inaudible, then turns and flicks me on the forehead with his finger.
“Ow!” I rub my forehead. That shit hurts. “What was that for?”
“You remember now?”
“He’s the ‘nice one,’ everyone says,” I muse, still rubbing my forehead. “But to me, he’s adick.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re a pain in the ass,” he bites back.
So I’ve been told. I take another bite of the sandwich.
“We cover surveillance on the entire street,” he informs me.
“Is that allowed?”
“Permission’s granted. We like the control of knowing what’s going on around us, and the proprietors are happy for the free security.”
I chew slowly, nodding in understanding. “So you saw the attack on me at the bar-and-grill?”
In a second, he has my chin gripped between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look at him. “You’re not a free agent anymore. You’reRed Cage. Here, we protect each other, regardless of if welikeeach other or not. You’re in trouble? In danger? You come to us. No exceptions. No running around doing shit on your own.”
