Page 5 of The Crowned Garza

“True,” I agree, securing my seat belt. “But it’s common courtesy.”

“Drunken late-night party girls aren’t worth thecourtesyof me catching pneumonia.”

It’s barely even drizzling! “But you would’ve for my brothers, right?”

He pulls out of the driveway. “Only the one who signs my paychecks.”

Shifting in my seat, I stare at the side profile of the only other person I’m allowed to call for help whenever I’m in sticky situations and my brothers aren’t available.

Red Cage, the most prestigious security and private investigation firm on the West Coast, is owned and operated by my brothers. Their trust, especially with family, is limited to a select few. And this man, the CTO of the firm, is at thetopof that list, above even Reuben Grant, who falls into the category of “brother” for me.

This man, known to me only as “Guy,” has never given me “trustworthy” vibes. He gives meconmanvibes. Subterfuge slash espionage vibes. Silent psycho vibes.

That niggling “off”feeling about him has always made me hesitant to call him for help. And whenever hedoescome to my aid, he makes it clear I’m an inconvenience by being discourteous, curt, and flat-out rude.

With my brothers, however—particularly Torin—he borderlines on sycophantic, effusing this “yes, boss,” eager-to-please persona that doesn’t resemble the personIsee, not one iota. A persona that doesn’t suit him either. Like an ill-fitting skinsuit he bought for pennies at a personality thrift shop and it doesn’t quite fit no matter how many adjustments or alterations are made.

Icannotbe the only one who notices, right?

Or…maybe he sees me as a non-factor in whatever game he’s playing? No ingratiating necessary for the baby Garza, thegirlwho gets steamrolled by all the macho men in her life?

If that’s the case, it pisses me off. One thing Ihateis when people discount me.

“Piccola principessa,”he drawls when I just sit there, glaring at his side profile. “If you have a question, ask it.”

Little princess. There he goes, letting me know exactly what he thinks of me, confirming my suspicions. Tillie Garza—the inconsequential Garza.

I don’t stop glaring. Let him feel the weight of my stare, my suspicion, my distrust.

But also, his side profile is…nice.

He always looksexactlythe same. There’s never a hair out of place, ever. His beard is never any longer or any shorter. His attire, always the same—pinstripe black pants, crisp white shirt, suspenders, and bow tie. Well, the bow tie changes sometimes, in shades ranging from gray to black.

Who even wears a bow tie except magicians, sommeliers, and groomsmen?

Most would chalk it up to him merely being a perfectionist. But I think he’scalculated. It’s as though he wants to be invisible but also present. Just unique enough to be acknowledged but dull enough to be disregarded.

Twenty minutes later, despite never asking for Lola’s address, he pulls to a stop outside her house.

After helping Lola sneak into her home without waking her aunt, I hang around a bit until she’s showered and tucked into bed.

When I make it back outside, Guy is vacuuming the back seat.

“In the words of my Jamaican mom,‘scornful dogs nyam dutty pudding,’” I say, crossing my arms. “Are you really scorning a victim of sexual assault right now? Or do you have one of those batshit crazy girlfriends who’ll go apeshit if she finds a strand of hair in your car?”

He shuts the car door, regards me for a beat, then heads to the trunk to stow away the apparatus. The trunk door slams, and he comes around to stand in front of me, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. “What’s his name?”

“Whose name?”

“The person who assaulted your friend.”

Ah, crap.I forgot I hadn’t been completely honest about why I needed him to come get us.Me and my big mouth. “Preston Matthews. Just another rich white kid who goes around doing and taking whatever he wants without consequences.” Making a show of looking him up and down, I ask, “Why? You gonna strangle him with your bow tie?”

Not that his build is anything to sneeze at. He’s not jacked and strapping like my brothers, but he’s not puny either. I can’t tell how defined he is under that shirt, but he’s sturdily lean with broad shoulders and a confident, unflappable posture. Not outwardly threatening but not unassuming either.

Oh, and he’s mad tall.

I’m five ten, over six feet in heels, and I still feel diminutive in front of him.