The Bronze Garza

by S. Ann Cole

  His arm around my shoulders tightens, and, unhurriedly, we climb the long, concrete stairway up to the house on the rock.

  Outside the door, I watch unseeingly as he keys it open, a wave of inexplicable sadness wrapping around my heart like barbwire.

  “Torin?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s someone I trust, isn’t it?”

  He holds the door open for me. “Yes.”

  I search his eyes to see if they would tell me who, but they’re impassive, giving nothing away. Maybe because he knows more than I do that I’m not ready to know.

  With a resigned sigh and a nod of acceptance, I walk into the house. And mentally prepare myself for the imminent revelation of betrayal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Because I care.”

  Lyra

  I EMERGE FROM THE BATHROOM TO the smell of pizza sauce on the air.

  Torin’s phone became a freaking hotline after we came in. Every call was apparently “important” and I couldn’t get his attention for more than two minutes before another “important” call came.

  Peeved, I’d left him alone and came upstairs for a bath. Which I ended up dozing off in and almost drowned, swallowing a mouthful of my own filth. But, whatever.

  Feeling marginally less nettled, I don the purple, silk short set Torin bought me. It feels seductive against my skin, and as I look at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall, at the sliver of skin between the hem of the lace-trim camisole and the waistband of the shorts, I’m thinking I’ll start wearing sleepwear like these more often. They make me feel sexy. Sexual. Confident. Like a woman who knows who she is. Someone different. Someone better. Not the childish, floundering me that I’ve been clinging to.

  With a spritz of mental self-love, I head downstairs to see what the bronze god is up to, the scent of pizza getting stronger with each step.

  Although I can’t eat pizza, I’ve no problem watching him eat it for the both of us. I love watching him eat...and drink...and talk...and breathe... Yeah, it’s possible I’m obsessed with him.

  He’s in the kitchen, leaned against the counter in front of the oven, still on that stupid phone. Annoyance bites at me like mosquitoes, and I imagine ripping the damn thing out of his hand and pelting it to the waves outside. If only I were so brave.

  As I approach, his gaze coasts over me with heat and lust, and my irritation with him slowly dissipates. He likes what he sees.

  I brush past him to the fridge and get out a bottled water. Twisting the cap off the bottle, I ask, “So, all these people who keep calling you, do they know you’re on vacation?”

  He slides me a side glance as he says into the phone, “Yeah, that’s her.”... “Okay, I’ll tell her. See you tomorrow.”

  “Who was that?” I ask when he ends the call.

  “Your father.” He sets the phone down and moves to the oven. “He’s coming back tomorrow.”

  I blink at nothing. Tomorrow? My heart sags like an old beanbag. So that’s it. Tomorrow. I thought I’d have more time with him; Daddy never returns from his trips earlier than planned, but rather extends them for longer.

  Things are different now, I guess. He’s worried about me. But he’s also cramping my style. I’m not done taking advantage of this hot-as-sin man he hired to keep me safe.

  Like a kicked puppy, I watch dumbly as Torin sticks his hand inside a mitten and takes a large pizza out of the oven, setting it on the counter.

  “Pizza baking skills,” I murmur sulkily, moving to sit on one of the bar stools. “Another thing to add to the ‘Skills of Torin Garza’ list.”

  He tugs off the mitten. “What’s ‘skillful’ about baking a pizza? It’s dough and sauce and toppings. Not that hard.”

  It pisses me off that he doesn’t seem bothered that tonight is our last night together. “Not everyone is perfectly multi-talented,” I snipe. “Taking down a bad guy and saving a woman at sundown, then baking a homemade pizza by dinnertime. All while safeguarding some other hapless woman.”

  He lifts a brow at me as he takes two plates from the dish rack and sets them on the counter. “Everything okay with you?”

  No, I want more time with you! I want you to want more time with me. In response, I jerk a half-hearted nod then gulp down some water.

  As he gets a pizza cutter and runs it across the pizza, making perfect triangles, I ask, “Where did you even get the ingredients for this anyway? Did you go to the supermarket or something?”

  “Yes,” is all he says.

  Arrgh. Chafed by his nonchalance, I take another gulp of water.

  He lifts one slice onto one of the plates, two slices onto the other, then he slides the plate with the single slice in front of me.

  I stare at it. It’s a fat slice. Pepperoni, extra cheesy, with toppings of sliced olives, mushrooms, spinach, broccoli, bell peppers, and tomatoes. Lifting my gaze from the pizza to Torin, I ask, “What am I supposed to do with this? Pick the veggies off? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just make me a salad?”

  With an impassive stare, he plants his palms to the counter, his muscles flexing from the action. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Stop being a bitch to me for two seconds.”

  “I’m not being a bitch to you,” I snap.

  “You’re ticked off at me for some reason, and instead of telling me what’s bothering you, you’re nipping at me like a little fucking chihuahua,” he says. “Until you’re ready to tell me what’s going on with you, just stop, yeah? ‘Cause I don’t do this childish shit.”

  “Nothing’s bothering me,” I lie, feeling chastened—and liking it. At least I’m getting some kind of emotion from him now, even if it’s annoyance. “I just don’t understand why you’d put a slice of pizza in front of me when you know I can’t eat it.”

  “When I made it, I wasn’t expecting you to be in this kind of mood,” he mumbles more to himself than to me as he takes a seat on one of the barstools. “Do you still like me, Lyra?”

  What kind of question is that? “A little.”

  “What about when I touch you? Kiss you? Fuck you? How much do you like that?”

  Something darkly arousing unfurls under my skin. “You already know how much I like that.”

  “Well, think about that as you eat this slice of pizza,” he tells me.

  Frowning, I look down at the slice, then back at him. “But I’ll throw up.”

  “I’ll hold your hair.”

  “Torin...” I eye the pizza again. “I don’t like the nausea that lingers even after throwing up.”

  “I’ll hold you in my arms until it passes.”

  Wavering, I lift the pointy end of the slice with one finger. It looks and smells delicious, and my mouth is definitely watering for it. But the aftereffect that I know I’ll suffer makes it equally repulsive to me. “Why are you making me do this, Torin?”

  “Because I care.”

  But not enough to be upset that this is our last night together? You should be hugging me and making love to me all night long instead of forcing me to eat freaking pizza.

  With a resigned sigh, I lift the pizza from the plate and take a bite. Flavors burst on my tongue, and I close my eyes and sigh with all the appreciation in the world. Eyes still closed, I take another bite before I’ve even fully swallowed the first one. “Ohmygod, this is so good.”

  “Good. Let me know if you need another slice.”

  Oh, I’m definitely going to need another slice.

  Opening my eyes, I find him watching me as he bites into his own slice.

  “I’ve been on the hunt for nutritional psychologist,” he says around a mouthful, “but the top recommended said they’ve tried working with you already.”

  “Told you,” I mutter before taking another bite.

  “So I spoke to Jules, and she had a theory,” he goes on. “If you associate the problem foods with something you equally crave, like, or even love, it might not have a negativ
e impact. It’s not your body rejecting the food, it’s your mind—your subconscious most likely. Maybe a part of you still thinks you’ll get punished for eating it, locked in a room and starved. So, I chose something I knew you loved eating before. Pepperoni pizza. Made it myself instead of ordering and added things you love to eat now.”

  “Crave, like, or love, huh?” I muse with a raised brow. “Pretty big assumption.”

  “I’ve not assumed anything,” he replies easily. “But we’ll find out soon enough…”

  I take another big bite. “If this works, doesn’t that mean you’ll have to be the one to prepare my meals from now on?”

  “Am I the only one you crave, like, or love?”

  Yes. But I don’t tell him that. Instead, I finish my pizza.

  And then another.

  And then another.

  ~

  “HOW DO YOU feel?”

  The beginnings of a smile tugs at my lips, but I roll them together to stave it off. “About the same as I did two minutes ago when you asked.”

  We’re sitting on the floor outside the bathroom in the hallway. His back against the wall, me between his legs with my back to his chest, his arms around me.

  We’ve been like this for the past fifteen minutes, waiting for the aftereffect of eating pizza. Normally, I’d be hurling within the first five minutes. Shockingly, however, the only thing that’s happening in my body right now is an intense craving for another slice of pizza.

  But…I’m loving being here on the floor with Torin holding me in his arms, so I don’t tell him how I’m really feeling. Right now, he thinks I’m “slightly nauseous.”

  “Your tattoo,” I start, “do you mind if I ask what it means?”

  “No, I don’t mind,” he replies. “But I also don’t know what it means.”

  I frown. “So you just got a tattoo for the fun of it?”

  After several beats, he says, “On the day my father died, he took me and my brothers to the tattoo parlor. It was his birthday, and he insisted that for his gift, he wanted us to get ‘bonding’ tattoos. Don’t know if you know this, but he was a big-time professional poker player. A C-list celebrity. A card pack was everything to him, so he chose what we each would get. Trent, ace of spades. Tripp, ace of hearts. True, ace of clubs. And me, ace of diamonds.

  “When we asked him how he decided what symbol we each got, he said he would speak to us individually about why he thought each symbol represented us best. But later that day, he had a heart-attack. So I never did find out why he thought I was an ace of diamonds.”

  “Wow, I-I’m so sorry,” I say, wanting to punch myself. “I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s all right,” he assures me, his arms tightening around me. “We lost him that day, but when I think of that day I don’t feel sadness, because we had such a great day together. All of us. And I’m glad we got the tats, ‘cause having it feels like having him with me.”

  “That’s really beautiful. That you all had a great last day with him,” I murmur. “I’ll try not to ask anymore probing questions.”

  “I don’t think you can help yourself.”

  I snicker. “That’s why I said ‘try’, not ‘promise.”

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Still sightly nauseous,” I lie.

  “I think it’s gonna work,” he mumbles into my hair.

  It has, you surprisingly thoughtful and benevolent bronze god. “You think you’re better than all those top-rated food psychologists, huh?”

  “No, but some misinformed part of your psyche is convinced I’m a hero, so...”—He jerks with a shrug—“wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Ah, so you want to be a hero only when it suits.”

  Silence for a long time, then quietly, he says, “I only want to be your hero.”

  This time, as warmth rolls in waves under my skin, I can’t fight my heady grin. Torin Garza, my hero.

  “What do you want, Lyra?” he asks after a while.

  On a sigh, I answer honestly, “For you to care that our time will come to an end tomorrow.”

  “Is that why you were upset with me earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think I don’t care?”

  “I don’t know. It just…it just feels like you don’t.”

  He glides his right hand along mine and lace our fingers together. “Do you know that, in almost ten years, this is the longest I’ve ever been so…static?” he says. “I haven’t had a vacation in years.”

  “I’m sorry for ruining it.”

  “You haven’t. To be honest, I probably would’ve gotten restless after a week and went back to work,” he confesses. “I’m just telling you this so you understand what my life is like. My family will tell you how often they don’t see me. I take jobs that keep me away for up to months at a time—in your case it was well over a year. I’m wi—”

  “I get it,” I interrupt when I realize what he’s doing. He’s trying to let me down easy. But I’d rather throw up everything I just ate and suffer hours of nausea than feel what those words would do to me. “You’re not a relationship man. It’s painfully obvious, so I wasn’t expecting that from you. Maybe if I was still a dreamer I’d have conjured up unrealistic fantasies of a happily ever after with you. But I’m not anymore. I just...I guess I just wanted to know that the past couple of days meant something to you. Because it meant a whole lot to me.”

  He brushes his thumb back and forth over mine. “It does.”

  “Thank you.” With a satisfied sigh, I relax into his chest. “For making me feel alive again.”

  Emitting a deep sigh of his own, he drops his chin to my shoulder. Nuzzles my hair.

  Ten minutes later, when my body shows no signs of rejecting food crafted by the hands of the man that gave it so much mind-blowing pleasure, he picks me up and carries me off to the bedroom.

  And as he makes love to my body, making me writhe and moan and claw at his skin, I know that he’d been right about all three.

  I like him, and I crave him.

  But most of all, I love him.

  And that realization brings me nothing but an echoing wave of sadness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “You’ll do it. For her.”

  Torin

  HENDERSON IS SEATED AT THE CONFERENCE table in the meeting room with True, Reuben, and Guy when I walk in.

  “Henderson,” I greet, shaking his hand. “Sorry I’m late. Got a little caught up...” In your daughter.

  “That’s fine, fine,” he says, waving me off. “I’m just happy that you have information. I knew you were the right man for the job.”

  “Not gonna be so happy when you hear what we’ve found.”

  Forehead creased, he shifts his gaze to the others in the room then back to me. “W-What do you mean?”

  Settling in a chair across from him, I signal for True and Guy to get started.

  Guy points the remote at the flat-screen on the wall ahead, and eight faces fill the screen.

  “Meet the ‘Six-Six Hook’,” True begins.

  “I don’t understand,” Henderson interrupts, frowning at the screen. “What’s my—”

  “Just listen,” I tell him.

  True continues, “This group of eight are the last of what used to be a ring of twenty, called the ‘Six-Six Hook’. They’re grifters. Con artists.”

  “Oh my God,” Henderson whispers, slumping back in his seat.

  “Two of which you know quite well: Eloise, whose real name is Irina Popov, and her nephew Patrick, whose real name is Yuri Popov. Both are Russians. And you are their current mark,” True goes on. “Eloise arranged Lyra’s abduction with a Mexicali gang. Why she did it is anyone’s guess.

  “Our guess is that you were taking too long to tie the knot. Maybe she thought if she got your only child out of the way you’d have no one to turn to but her and Patrick, probably even start a new family with her. Which—if our assumptions are corre
ct—worked, to an extent; we dug around and found that you added both of them to your will five months after Lyra’s abduction.”

  “My God,” Henderson repeats, ghostly pale.

  “Obviously, Lyra’s return wasn’t supposed to happen. They panicked. Probably thought she knew something or would figure it out. So they paid to have her killed. Yet another failed attempt to get rid of her.”

  On the screen, Guy clicks on one of the faces and zooms in.

  True asks, “You ever seen this woman around?”

  Henderson jerks a nod. “Yes, that’s Keri. Patrick’s on and off girlfriend. Or…she isn’t?”

  “Her name is Susan Creke.”

  Guy clicks again and Derick Wilson, Holly’s father, comes up on the screen.

  “She’s been working at your buddy Derick’s company for the past fifteen months. She’s his mistress.” True stands and starts pacing the room. Fucker never could sit still for more than two seconds.

  “We’ve been surveilling both Holly and Patrick,” he goes on. “He stalks and corners her at least twice a week; their conversations are generally rough and heated, and she’s left in tears each time. We figured she knew something and he’s been blackmailing her with evidence of her father’s affair to keep quiet.”

  “What do you mean?” Henderson asks. “She helped them hurt my daughter?”

  “No,” I answer. “Had a little...’chat’ with her last night. Made her tell me what she knew. On the night of the accident, her and Lyra were holding hands. The car would’ve hit them both. She said Patrick pulled her back and held her in place so the car would hit only Lyra.”

  Henderson’s face twists with rage. “And she thought protecting her father’s reputation was more important than my daughter’s life?”

  “Clearly, you Hendersons are terrible judges of character,” True comments, still pacing.

  When I lance him a glare, he holds his hands up and mouths, “Sorry.”