Page 21 of Rio (Redcars #3)

“This is the best thing ever.” I forced the words out between chews. “What did you do to this?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not me. Simon next door; not sure what he does to them, mayo, salt, pepper.” He examined his ham and cheese. “It’s just a sandwich.”

I slowed down, partly to savor it and partly because my body wasn’t accustomed to consuming so much food at once right now. “Well, it’s a fucking revelation.”

He smirked, amused at how easily impressed I was.

I glanced at Rio, took a breath, and asked the question I’d been wondering since I got here.

“So, are you from around here?”

He shot me a look as if I’d asked if the sky was blue. “You’re telling me you haven’t researched me?”

I lifted a shoulder. “Your name and this garage came up when I was trying to track down Jamie, but other than that? No. I know you’re ex-cons,” I said carefully. “And I guess this place is… like a rehab thing?”

That made him laugh. A low, warm rumble from deep in his chest. “Don’t let Tudor hear you call it that.”

“Tudor?”

He nodded. “Owned Redcars before Logan, whom you haven’t met because he’s down in San Diego with his new partner, daughter, and Tudor -- long story.

He ran the place for years. Old-school. Taught us more about engines than any textbook ever could.

But he gave us more than that—picked us out of prison and gave all four of us space to be something other than criminals. ”

“Four…”

“Logan, then Enzo, me, Jamie. All here because of Tudor.”

I remembered the name from my review of the files related to Jamie. Tudor Barrera. A couple of archived articles hinted at a rough past, including a prison stint and references to street racing in the past, as well as shady deals, but provided no solid details. Still, people respected him.

“What would he say about you being here then, if not rehab?” I asked.

“That we needed a family,” Rio said simply. “And he let us have one.”

He let the words hang there for a beat, then looked straight at me .

“Eight years in High Desert for murder,” he said, voice steady.

I stilled, and he waited—watching me, waiting for flinch or recoil. As if he’d seen it before. As if he expected it.

But I didn’t flinch.

“Okay,” I said.

He blinked. “That’s it?”

“I’m not judging you.”

“Before you think I was wrongly accused, or I’m some saint, just know I did it.

” He said it without hesitation. “I regret it every day. It wasn’t deliberate; I wish it hadn’t happened, but it is what it is now.

No one else would’ve given me a second chance.

Tudor did. Logan does. Jamie and Enzo are brothers, and as for Robbie, he loves it here.

And now, weirdly, you’re sitting here eating a sandwich in our kitchen, and I don’t quite know what to do with that. ”

We kept eating in companionable silence for a moment, the only sounds the rustle of chip bags and the occasional sip from a can. The food settled warm in my stomach, and the silence hanging between us wasn’t awkward—it was something real, and I found myself exhaling tension.

Rio had that effect on me—grounding, not because he said the right things, but because there was no pretense or expectations. He was a big wall of man with an inexplicable need to feed me sandwiches and get between me and trouble.

After he’d stopped wanting to kill me, of course.

Our standoff was a delicate balance, straddling caution and curiosity.

I’d stopped seeing him as a threat the moment he’d offered me food with no strings attached, but there was still a whole lot of territory between someone not wanting to kill me and someone I could trust. He didn’t ask personal questions, didn’t crowd me, but his eyes were sharp, always watching.

As if he were trying to figure out what I was made of.

And me? I couldn’t stop watching him either. I didn’t know if it was gratitude or lust or the strange peace I found in the quiet between us, but I found myself settling more than I should have. There was something oddly intimate about eating lunch across from him, and not once did he push or pry.

“And you’re gay?” I asked before I could rethink that.

He stopped eating, comically still. “Bi,” he said after a beat. “Leaning toward guys, y’know.”

“Good to know.” I smiled faintly and thumbed at my chest. “Gay.”

He raised an eyebrow, raked a glance from my head to my chest and back again. “Good to know,” he repeated, then shrugged. “But useless information, because you’re clearly you…” he waved a hand at me, “… and I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“Sure, I do. And I’m not some giant dude built to toss around pretty little twinks.”

My mouth dropped open. “I’m not a twink.”

He wrinkled his nose, clearly regretting the phrasing. “I meant—y’know—small and delicate and… bendy or whatever.”

I snorted a laugh. “I’ll admit that I’m smaller than you, and yeah, I’m bendy when I haven’t been shot and nearly strangled.”

He dipped his head, and his cheeks flushed, which was so freaking cute.

Cute? The hell, Lyric.

“But, Rio, what the fuck makes you think I’m delicate?”

He met my gaze, the heat still in his cheeks. “Well, you’re… y’know… I can lift you and shit, and you can’t walk right and?—”

I stood before I could think twice, the scrape of the chair loud in the kitchen. He stayed seated, eyes lifting to meet mine, but he didn’t lean away when I stepped close. I bent down, slow and deliberate, until my mouth hovered beside his ear, close enough to feel his breath hitch.

“Give me a day,” I murmured, my voice low, rougher than I meant. “And I’ll have you on your knees before you even fucking know it.”

He sank back in his chair, loose and quiet, not saying a word—but I saw it. Submission, flickering in his gaze. A secret. He was melting right there in front of me, and fuck if that didn’t make me want to chase it, press my mouth to his, and see how far I could push him before he broke.

I straightened, pulse loud in my ears, and stared at him.

He didn’t look away.

And neither did I.

But when his hand drifted to his crotch and he adjusted himself as if he’d forgotten I was still watching—or didn’t care—I knew this wasn’t just idle flirting.

It wasn’t a game. His breath was shallow, pupils blown wide, the faintest pink creeping up his cheekbones.

He wanted me . And he wanted something from me he didn’t think I could give him.

“Lyric…”

The sound of the back door creaking open and the unmistakable scuff of heavy boots across concrete stopped him in his tracks. The tension snapped, both of us turning toward the noise. Jamie’s voice followed, clipped and low, talking to someone.

And when I looked back, he was normal-stoic Rio again.

But I adjusted myself as well, right in front of him, and I saw the desire flash in his eyes.

Fuck.

If he only knew what I wanted to do to him.

Something bright, hot, and completely fucking dangerous.