Page 38 of The True Garza

True:When was this? And is that Hullub Bar & Grill’s parking lot?

Guy:Last night. Yeah.

True:Thanks for sending. But Guy?

Guy:Yeah?

True:She’s not my girl.

CHAPTER Eleven

“You… want me.”

Lonny

Brooklyn is dressed for workand filling her to-go mug from her fancy coffee machine when I emerge from her basement gym.

“Morning,” I say, grabbing both ends of the towel laid across my shoulders.

She looks me over as she snaps the lid onto her mug. “Jesus. Look at you. Abs all popping and shit. I wish I could enjoy exercise like you do. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve actually used that gym since I built it.”

“It’s more therapeutic for me rather than something I enjoy,” I say, heading to the kitchen and grabbing a mug. “Keeps me leveled. If I go too long without it, you won’t wanna be around me.”

I set the mug under the machine to fill, and as she grabs her handbag and keys to leave, I ask, “Do you have your piece with you?”

“In my car, why?” She pauses, glances over her shoulder at me. “Don’t tell me someone’s trying to hurt one of you again?”

“Sorry.” I shrug. “Someone’s after me. So just be a bit more vigilant until I get it sorted.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the ropes.” She blows out a long-suffering sigh and stomps to the door. “It sucks being related to you people.”

“Love you, too, sis.”

She leaves, then pops back in two seconds later. “Oh, heads-up, Charles is on the way over.”

“Forwhat? You’re leaving.”

“He’s coming to see you, not me.”

The door clicks shut with a beep before I can get another question out.

Roughly half an hour later, after I’ve had my coffee and showered, the beep of the front door fills the house, followed by Charles bellowing my name.

Inwardly, I groan. What does this clown want from me this morning? The last time we saw each other, we exchanged some not-so-nice words after he called me a “sellout” for going to Red Cage.

“Why you gotta be so goddamn loud, asshead?” I grouse as I head down the hall and out to the open-plan living area where he’s dawdling with a duffel bag in hand.

“So you don’t try to hide from me, evil spawn,” he returns.

His hair is all grown out and touching his shoulders, his beard scruffy and ungroomed. “You look like a hobo. What happened, did you bore your barber to literal death with your personality?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” With a broad grin, he strides to the dining area, plunks his duffel on top of the table, zips it open—and then out come the shears, hair clipper, razors, prep tools, cape… the whole works.

This son of a bitch.

“No,” I say firmly. “My haircuts are for people I actuallylike.”

“I’ll pay you.”