Page 95 of The True Garza
These fucking Garzas. “On second thought, I’ll take that drink you offered.”
Smile widening, he gives me a salute before leaving.
My phone vibrates just then, and I get it out.
Brook: Charles and Uncle Walter are here. Just a heads-up since I don’t know what time you’ll be home.
Me: OK.
Brook: Btw, you and True freaking Garza??? Why didn’t I know this?
Me: Long story.
True appears in front of me with a cold beer. “From Tripp. Thought you said you didn’t want another one.”
I take the beer. “That’s before he told me I’m a hot topic in your family group chat.”
“Ah.”
“So, what are they discussing about me?”
“Dunno.” He shrugs. “I’ve had the group on mute for over a week now ’cause they kept pestering me about you.”
“I don’t get it. Why justme? Aren’t you some notorious womanizer?”
“Because you were at my house.”
Huh? “I still don’t get it.”
He rolls his shoulders. Scratches his jaw. Rubs the back of his neck. What’s all that about? Discomfort? Anxiety?
“You ready to go?” he asks.
Ah, he’s ‘muting’ me like he muted the group. “If you are, yeah. These are your people.”
“Let’s go, then.” He takes my hand, leading me out. “And avoid talking to Tripp when possible. He’s a shit stirrer.”
“Dude,”—I’m laughing now—“you’re the one who brought me here.”
When we reach his SUV, we get into an argument over who’s driving. I’m not budging. He can test his nine-lives theory on his own, but not with me.
Five minutes later, we’re still arguing.
Oh, screw this. Swift and direct, I kick him in the shin, then snag the keys from him while he’s distracted from the unexpected attack.
Dirty play, but I’m not above it.
When I go to open the door, he shoves me back against it and crashes his mouth to mine.
Being caught off guard doesn’t stop me from meeting the attack of his mouth with equal fierceness. He tastes like brew and mischief. Our lips move against each other with fervor and hunger. By the time we part, with quick breaths and reddened lips, all I’m holding are fistfuls of his shirt. Because the keys are now inhishand.
Bastard. A dirtier player than I am.
With a victorious wink, he assures, “It’s a fifteen-minute drive. You’ll be fine.” He opens the passenger door for me. “Get in.”
Sore loser that I am, I get in. Sulking so hard that his “fifteen-minute drive” comment doesn’t even register until, well, fifteen minutes later when he’s drifting intohisdriveway.
Anticipation unfurls in my stomach. The last time I was here, I had some amazing orgasms.
