Page 83 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Aponi

I didn’t think much of Tag when we first met.

Okay, that’s a lie. I thought plenty. Quiet. Controlled. The kind of man who kept his pain tucked behind his ribs like a knife he didn’t intend to use—unless you gave him a reason.

He reminded me of me. Which was probably why I kept my distance.

Until now.

The wedding weekend was over. Faron and Blue were off doing newlywed things somewhere in the mountains, and I was back in L.A., sitting in a squad car that smelled like old coffee and regret, staring down a case that made my skin crawl.

Two missing girls. Both under fifteen. Last seen near a bus stop on the east side. The same neighborhood where the rec center was opening in a week.

The department was dragging its heels. Not enough evidence. Not enough funding. Not enough give-a-damn.

So I called him.

Tag picked up on the second ring. “Lightfoot.”

The sound of my last name in his voice made something twist inside me. Something I wasn’t ready to name.

“It’s me,” I said. “I’ve got a case the brass won’t touch.”

“You want backup?”

I hesitated. Then: “I want you.”

Silence. Not cold. Not uncomfortable. Just… waiting.

“I’m on my way.”

No questions. No hesitation. Just like that, he was coming.

I stared at my phone after the call ended.

What the hell was I doing?

Ten hours later, Tag stepped off a late-night flight at LAX with nothing but a duffel bag and that unreadable expression of his. He didn’t offer a hug. Didn’t smile. Just met my eyes and nodded like we were already in this together.

And God help me—I think we were.