Page 91 of The True Garza
Lexi: But did you call or text her? Not about Red Cage stuff, but for her.
True: No.
Lexi: Well, there’s your answer.
True: I don’t get it.
Lexi: Women fall at your feet. You do the bare minimum and they just jump into bed with you. It’s insane. Women court you, take you on dates, buy you gifts. They do the leg work: contact you, arrange the dates, arrange the hookups. So of course your dumbass was expecting London to contact you. You’ve been spoiled that way.
Lexi:Did you two have a conversation about what things are?
True: No.
Lexi: Have you hooked up with anyone since her?
True:Met up with a few for drinks, but no hookups.
Lexi: Does she know?
True: Think so, yeah.
Lexi: If she’s pissed at you for not contacting her, and she knows you’ve been hanging out with other women, then three things: she really likes you. And because she likes you, she’s hurt. And being hurt is a sign that your lifestyle won’t work for her.
True: It worked for her before.
Lexi: From what I’ve heard, she was in a different place back then. And you knew nothing about each other. So it’s not the same. If she was ENGAGED to someone, then she’s clearly not the type to settle for what you have to offer.
Lexi: And I know you must REALLY like her, because you brought her to your house instead of your fuckpad. You lead a weird life and don’t allow women close enough to see you like that. But you can’t give what you can’t give. When the dopamine wears off from whatever exciting rewards you’re getting from being with her and you get bored and disinterested, she’s the one who’s going to get hurt. Let me also remind you that she works at Red Cage, you’re her boss, so that’s just an uncomfortable mess waiting to happen.
Lexi:My advice: Leave her alone. Stick to the women who are fine with having an expiration date. Don’t start a mess.
CHAPTER Twenty-Three
“We’re having a private moment here. Butt out.”
Lonny
London from several years agois shaking her head at me in disgust. As I quietly clean up and get ready, she sits on my shoulder with a giant sign that reads, “WEAK-ASS HOE.” She’s slinging a slew of mean words at me, making sure I’m aware how disappointed she is. But I tune her out, because True is in the room, watching my every move, as if he thinks I’m going to escape through a secret door or something.
With a scowl, he voices his displeasure over the things he bought me still being in boxes and neglected. Then he picks out a dress for me to wear.
While I’m brushing my hair at the dresser, he comes up behind me and runs his fingers through my curls. In a low, quiet voice, he asks me to leave it down, so I do.
In these small moments, he feels like mine. And I want to lock the doors with a million deadbolts and keep him inside so no one else would ever get to see or touch him.
“Where are we going?” I ask once we’re in the SUV.
“Venice.”
“What’s in Venice?”
“Tripp.” He drives off. “But I gotta make a couple stops first.”
“Oh, okay.”
The first stop is at a bed-and-breakfast called Barefoot Runaway, in Pasadena. He leaves me in the vehicle for several minutes, then returns with three medium-sized insulated lunch-bags. Each one has a name embroidered on the front: Tripp, Trent, True.
“What are those?”
