Page 59 of Don't Trust Him

We’re in California. Bali’s a paradise for another day, but…well, it isn’t the destination for today. We’ve got moves to make in this part of the world, still.

We’re playing it as safe as we can.

The cool leather of the Mercedes on my skin while we glide up and down the San Francisco hills, the picturesque Edwardian architecture rolling over the hills and the sparkling crystal blue bay, the salty air, it’s all too perfect that even danger isn’t enough to pause our fervently beating hearts.

Grayson’s hand squeezes my bared knee—I’m wearing shorts at his request, though he will find me in a skirt soon after. For now, let him think that shorts are the best thing. I can wear a casual skirt, not just the ice demoness attire.

Grayson tells me how he likes seeing me relaxed, and I’m certainly happy to make him happy. We share something warm between us that I don’t even have words for, but it satisfies me deep in my soul. I’d do anything for him.

But, yes, we’ll have to fight. And we will, until we spit the last drop of blood out at their corpses.

Because we have more than just our own lives to fight for. Grayson’s hand trails up to my stomach, to the unborn life we’ve fostered inside me, and we know.

Family. What neither of us truly had before. We became each other’s family, and know we’re growing it.

I can’t imagine anything more perfect.

We drive down to the Ferry Terminal by Bay Bridge.

Everyone else loves Golden Gate, and she’s doubtless a big, red beauty. But I love and adore Bay Bridge more than anything else. We had this surreal normal moment where we were like just any other couple, eating falafel and talking about our future. We put to rest to our pained pasts and put them behind us, and we celebrated our future.

Happily Ever After isn’t a right.

It’s a privilege.

It’s a privilege to love and be loved by Grayson Teague.

To carry his baby.

To fight our war together.

Thirty-Seven

Zario

It’s a hard job, being me.

I’m fucking serious. You don’t believe me?

I run a fucking cartel. You don’t get to where I am by being a boring little asswipe. You gotta take risks. You gotta be a little loco. You need to be willing to be an animal.

Comprende, bonita?

See, I don’t think you do. I don’t think you understand that this shit isn’t checkers. Its chess.

And in chess, you gotta be three moves ahead of your adversary. You need to think what they do and what you’re gonna do to them.

For example, let’s take my sicario and that little errand girl of his.

I knew that bitch didn’t have the cajones to play this game. She wouldn’t kill Grayson Teague. She loves him. I left two soldiers behind, knowing they were dead men.

That was my fucking trap.

Because I didn’t have the formula. I just had a small bump of coke squared. Think of how much trouble it would take to get the shit and then test it in a lab and then trial and error it all out to build the infrastructure needed to get it out on the streets.

No. Bonita Muerte doesn’t do research and fucking development. We break skulls.

We don't create. We destroy and take.

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