Page 67 of The True Garza
“My fault. I assumed Trent told you everything. Apparently, he didn’t,” he says, pulling into traffic. “I can’t drive for long periods. I’ll one hundred percent zone out and crash. Driving makes me jittery and impatient. Unfocused and distracted. Compelled to take risks and seek thrills. So I speed. Recklessly. I’ve gotten into more accidents than I can count. My insurance is through the roof. I made you drive for your own safety, not because I’m ‘lazy.’”
Wow. I return my seat to an upright position. “Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why get behind the wheel?”
“You kept bitching under your breath, so I figured you were tired of driving.”
“Iamtired. But I don’t want you to do something that’ll be hard for you. Or dangerous for the both of us.”
“It’s fine. Just stay awake and alert,” he says. “Talk to me. Tell me about your time in Germany.”
“Can’t. I’m gagged on that.”
“Tell me about Denver, then.”
“Like what?” Hiding a smile to myself, I ask, “Do you want to hear about how my ex-fiancé and I—”
“Fuck no.”
I laugh.
“Tell me about the cases you worked. The interesting ones.”
“Oh, there was a lot…”
For the sake of both our lives, I unlock the door that hides the memories of my years in Denver, allowing only a select few memories out at a time, regaling him with the juiciest ones.
It’s not until I see the sign for Santa Monica that I realize how eventful my life in Denver had been. Because I haven’t even scratched the surface yet, and the drive is almost over.
“I’m thinking security detailing won’t hold your interest for long,” True comments. “Why didn’t you ask for a position in our PI division?”
“Because I wanted to do something opposite of what I was doing before. Something low stress. At least for a while.”
“Understood. Just let Trent know when you’re bored. Don’t quit. They’d love you in PI.”
“Where are you going?” I ask when he turns off of the main road.
“You should’ve stayed behind the wheel if you wanted control of where we go.”
The time on the dashboard glows 11:21 p.m. All I really want to do right now is get out of this vehicle and into a warm bath with a finger of whiskey on the rocks. Those long hours of meetings have been mind-numbingly exhausting, so whatever games he’s up to right now, I’m not in the mood.
Several minutes later, he pulls up outside a lush, gated complex; scans a keycard on a metal panel built into the right column, then drives through the large gates after they’ve opened.
There are only six houses in the complex. All glassy, sharp-edged, uber-modern style. True swings into the driveway of the house on the right, just a block from the cul-de-sac, and switches off the engine.
He gets out of the vehicle. “Come on.”
“I don’t—where are we even going?” I call after him.
But he’s already crossed the paved pathway to the house. Jogs up the steps to the front door, opens it, and lets himself inside.
Is this where he lives? I start to get out of the car, but halt when a bout of nerves zips up my spine. If I go in there with him, all plans of resisting him—of breaking his hands—will go out the door. I’m well aware of my weaknesses, and True Garza is one of them. A big one.
I’m not sure how much time passes, with me sitting there deliberating whether I should go in or hot-wire the SUV and speed home, when True emerges from the house. He comes straight to the passenger side, jerks open the door, and lifts me right out, kicking the door shut.
There’s more than enough energy inside me to fight him off. To punch him in the nose and make a run for it. Enough energy and skill, but no willingness whatsoever. Because my body is a traitor of the highest degree. What do I do instead? Wrap my arms around his neck and let him carry me to the house.
Once we’re inside, he sets me on my feet and lifts a dark brow at me. “You a coward now, Bridge?”
Nerves have me scratching my arm and glancing around the foyer. “Why are we here?”
