Page 63 of The True Garza
“Know only this,” he says, “he’s a kingmaker. He can put people at the top, and he can drop them to the bottom in a snap. He can make the impossible happen. And the truth is, none of us know how. That’s why he’s the boss. We just work for him.”
That pulls an eyeroll from me. “People always make him sound like he’s a god or something.”
“His wife’ll tell you that he is.” He smiles. “She calls him her ‘bronze god.’”
Another eyeroll. “I’m starting to think I might’ve joined a cult.” I shift back around on the lounger and close my eyes. “You can sit out the lunch meeting, you know. I’ll handle it. Hopefully, it will be the last one.”
“A job is a job,” he says. “I’ve gotta do it even when it’s hard. Couple weeks ago, I narrowly escaped death. This won’t kill me.”
“In that case, how aboutIsit this one out, then?”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I might die if you aren’t there.”
Here he goes with the bullshit again.Eyes snapping open, I shift on the lounger again to look at him. “Why? What am I to you? You barely even know me.”
He regards me for a moment. “Who was the guy?”
I’m nonplussed. “What guy?”
“The guy you hooked up with after I left.”
What on earth is he on about?“After you left? When?”
“I went back to your cabin. Two weeks after I left,” he expounds. “You were with someone else. He spent the night.”
My heart takes a break from its duty to gape in disbelief. He’d returned to my cabin? How did I not know this? And how would he know if someone spent the night? Does that meanhestayed all night?
Pushing up to sitting position, I jog my memory back to that time. It was such a dark period for me that the only memories I ever revisit are the ones of him. When looking back, that single week with him is like a single ray of light slicing through an abyss of darkness.
Our fling ended. He left. And two weeks later….Oh. Kent.
Even after True left, a lingering high had remained. So when a close colleague of mine called, I’d picked up. Gave him my location.
“Kent,” I answer.
“Someone you picked up at a bar, like you did me?”
That has me scowling. “I didn’t ‘pick you up.’Youspoke tome, remember?”
“Right, Ispoketo you,” he replies. “Youwanted to fuck. That’s a pickup.”
This little shit…. “Whatever.”
“Kent was…?”
“Why do you care?”
“Got it.” He nods. “Another random you picked up.”
“He was a colleague, you asshole. A close friend that I had promised to give a haircut for his wedding, then disappeared. He came for that haircut. Stayed the night only because his fiancé—nowhusband—demanded he do so after we drank too damn much while commiserating over my dad.”
As if to gauge if I’m lying, he studies me for several beats.
And what the heck; why do I even owe him an explanation?
“Are your haircuts really as good as they say?” he asks.
“What do you know about my haircuts?”
