Page 43 of The True Garza
“I’m fine.” I try to jerk my chin out of his hold, but his grip is firm. “I don’t need your help.”
“Then you’re fired.”
With force this time, I slap his hand away. “You can’t fire me for not accepting your help.”
“Can. Check the contract.”
For real? Why would I have signed something with such a dumb clause?
“Then I’ll file a sexual-harassment lawsuit,” I say. “That you followed me outside of work and rubbed your erect cock against my ass.Soinappropriate.Soindecent, Mr. Garza.”
He grins, and it’s brilliant against the night. My heart sighs. “When will you tell the court that this ‘harassment’ happened? After you did a B-and-E and planted bugs in a civilian’s home, invading his privacy?”
Asshole. “I’ll go above you, to your boss,” I return. “I heard he’s the one who insisted I was hired.”
He crosses his arms again. “Good luck trying to get to him.”
Yeah, I heard he’s hardly seen and only speaks directly to a select few. Anything crossing the line of vice presidents to get to him must be of urgent or life-and-death importance.
Accepting defeat, I sigh. “I think the mole from LX-BI sent him. Probably came down from Jamal Grigoryan.”
“The feds wantedJamaltaken down. But there were bigger heads who wanted that entire operation to be dug out from the root. And we were being paid a fuck of a lot to do it,” he divulges. “That’s what we were working on when you decided to go rogue on us. Once you fucked that, we had to act fast, aggressive, before they could go underground. Probably one of the most dangerous missions I’ve ever been on.
“But with sturdy help, we got to the root and ripped it out. Deep enough that there won’t be any more flesh trade in LA for a while. All that to say, the attack on you wasn’t an order from Jamal. He’s a gaping, dead fish floating in the sea right now. He’s got zero power, backing, or protection. If the LX-BI mole sent someone after you, they did it on their own.”
I shift my gaze to his left bicep, which is bulging under the cotton of his black, long-sleeved shirt. I’d heard the whispers about him getting shot on the job. And, yeah, I feel a pang of something about it. Guilt. Not regret. Because I won’t regret going after what I wanted. But I do feel bad about the ripple effects of my actions. So instead of muttering the S word, I stuff my mouth with another bite of sandwich.
He’s fine. He survived.
“I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that Justin Bertin was a cheap hire. The type that’s loyal to money, not people. If the mole has managed to remain undetected all this time, then he’s either higher up or extremely calculated. Based on that, it’s highly unlikely that he hired Justin directly. Not someone who’d squawk for the right price. The mole hired someone quiet, expensive—someone who’d be strict on loyalty and wouldn’t ever talk, no matter what. Then that contractor hired another contractor who hired Justin. You might be able to get Justin and the contractor who hired him to talk, but the main man won’t.”
“So basically,” I say as I chew, “you think I’m at a dead end.”
“You believe I’m wrong?”
No, he’s right. A part of me already knew that, which is mostly why I haven’t kicked that punk’s teeth in already. But having it spelled out like that feels defeating.
I should ask Charles and Uncle Walter to help investigate this, but I can’t. My partner died because of me. I can’t lose anyone else I care about. As much as I resent my family, I’d rather have the Red Cage men’s lives on the line than theirs. These men have a much better chance of coming out ahead, anyway.
So, looking up at True, I ask, “What do you suggest we do then?”
He smiles, and it feels as if he can see my thoughts. See all the words of thoughtlessness, defiance, and conniving floating around in my head. It feels as if heknowsme… more than just sexually.
I see you, London. You can’t hide from me, those dark eyes coo at me. And it makes me nervous. Panicky.
“Stop looking at me,” I snap, feeling exposed.
His grin widens. “You asked me a question.”
“But you haven’t answered. You’re just fucking staring at me like a weirdo.” I wrap up the rest of the sandwich and toss it into the paper bag. “You know what, just forget it. I don’t need your help.”
I swing my legs off the hood and jump down. I’m about to open the car door when he grabs my arm to keep me still. He yanks me, hard enough that I stumble, my shoulder crashing to his chest.
At my ear, he says, “You’re used to getting your way, aren’t you?”
“Let go of me,” I say, then wince at how breathless those words came out.
“Remember that time you begged for a job here? To become my subordinate?” he continues. “Or even an hour ago when youbeggedfor my cock?” His grip tightens when I attempt to move. “Don’t rail at the choicesyoumake, London.”
