Page 81 of The True Garza
“Breaking legs and fingers is boring,” I say. “Slowly driving someone crazy is more fun.”
He wags his bald head at me. “My men think you’re a psycho.”
Dropping the handbrake, I lightly touch the gas pedal. “Call me if he tries to run.”
Ray nods in acknowledgment and backs up from the vehicle, and I power up the window and speed off.
By the time I’m done with Justin Bertin, he’ll be in the psych ward. Men who attack women in parking lots deserve to be driven into the chasm of insanity.
Especially when the woman who’s attacked is mine.
Where the hellare you, Jules?
I’ve been scouring the streets for an aggravating hour, and my skin’s starting to itch. The last ping I had on her was in this area. Just a second, one lucky second, before her location went dark again.
My phone goes off on the dash mount, cutting through my playlist.
“We need to plant a tracking device in Jules,” I answer.
Trent snorts. “I think Reuben would disagree.”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“You’re on your own with that one. Anyway, we’re flying in the Denver transfers next week. We think it’s best you take charge on that since you’re more familiar and have worked closely with them.”
“No prob,” I mutter distractedly as I cruise down Mauve Street, scanning for the runaway.
“That means we’ll be looking foryourinsight and advisement on how to assign them,” my overbearing twin stresses. “Right now, you’re the only senior here who knows each of their strengths and weaknesses. So you’ll need to be a bit morepresent, yeah?”
“Why’re you always tryna make me do shit I don’t wanna do?”
He sighs. “’Cause it can’t always be about kicking ass and near-death experiences, True. I know that’s where you get your thrills, but doing ‘shit’ likemanagingyour juniors is part of the job, too.”
“Am I rich enough to quit yet?”
“I’ll let you know when you are,” he mumbles. “By the way, Lexi told me about London. I’d rather not have to have this conversation with her, so I’ll say it to you: go to HR and fill out the forms stating the nature of your relationship. ASAP.”
For fuck’s sake. “There’s no ‘relationship.’”
“True—”
“If she ever tries to sue for anything, just settle with my shares.”
Ah, there she is.
“That’s—”
“Found Jules. Talk later.”
I end the call and am about to spin around for the nearby parking lot, when I spot a sports car ahead of me struggling to parallel park. I honk and gesture out the window to the driver, instructing him to go forward, straighten up, and try backing up again. When he starts to do as I so helpfully suggested, I swerve into the spot with ease and park.
That’s how you parallel park, idiot.
“ASSHOLE!” is thrown at me as I get out and jog across the street to the jewelry store I spotted Jules walking into.
Inside the store, she’s leaned over a display case, so low her nose is touching the glass. Like a kid in an ice-cream parlor.
She’s sauced.
