Page 49 of The True Garza
“Gimme a few,” he says before hopping out.
But I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out behind him. If he didn’t want me to see his girlfriend, he shouldn’t have brought me. The driver’s door of the SUV opens, and a woman gets out, mumbling something. She looks familiar.
As I pull closer, I realize why. It’s Jules.
And now I’m frowning. Because isn’t Jules Reuben’s—a senior vice president and commando at Red Cage—wife?
“What are you doing out here?” True asks her. “You cheating on me?”
“A client invited me to a barbecue thingy at her house,” she answers through a yawn, then slumps back against the vehicle. “I’m so tired.”
“Tired and driving. You’ve been racking up a lot of strikes these days, Jules.”
She kicks feebly at his shin. “Don’t be a freaking narc,narc.”
He snorts. “Pop the trunk, lemme take care of this.”
As she does so, he turns and comes toward the trunk, where I’m lingering. “Not good at following instructions, are you, Bridge?”
“Who’s that?” Jules calls.
I brush past True while flipping him off and head to where Jules is.
She’s fighting another yawn, but her eyes widen when she sees me. “Oh, London, hey!”
“Hey,” I return, moving to lean against the car along with her.
“I see you’ve ditched the extensions.”
Absently, I pat my low ponytail. “Yeah. Not my thing.”
“Did it help, though? With the job, that is.”
“Oh, definitely. You did good.”
She grins. “Perfect.”
The vehicle jerks as True jacks it up.
When another yawn pries Jules’s mouth open, I ask in a low voice, “How many glasses did you have?”
Her mouth quickly snaps shut, slightly widened eyes dodging to True and then back to me. “I didn’t—”
“That’s not a ‘tired’ yawn, that’s red-wine yawn,” I say. “You didn’t notice me when I was standing at the back of your car. You can barely stand without leaning. And we’re right outside a plush neighborhood that I’m guessing is where you went to your client’s dinner party. Yet you didn’t call your client for assistance, even though they’re probably less than a minute or two away. No doubt because you got this flat tire from running over or damaging something in someone’s yard in the neighborhood and fled. If you called them for help, they’d know it’s you, which would likely ruin your relationship or respect with your client.”
“Jesus,” she whispers, blinking at me. “Who are you?”
“You’re not wasted,” I say. “Still lucid, but not enough to drive.”
She grips my arm, tightly, and whisper-begs, “Please don’t tell True. I’ll be in so much trouble if he knows.”
“Fine.” I sigh. “You can stick to your ‘tired’ story. But you’re not getting back behind that wheel. Where do you live?”
“Sherman.”
“I’ll drive you home, then. You’re close to me.”
“Okay, you’re all set,” True says a few minutes later. He returns the tools, along with the flat tire, to the trunk, then strides up to us. “But you’re coming with me. Not letting you drive tired. I’ll have someone come get your car later.”
