The Bronze Garza Page 10

  “You already bothered me. Might as well fill me in on everything.”

  Trent nods and crosses the room to settle in one of the chairs. “True,” he barks. “Step away from the window.”

  True holds his hands up and slowly backs away, and I have to wipe away a smile with the heel of my palm.

  My brothers are a complete pain in my ass, but man...man do I love them. Life doesn’t impress me—I don’t care for it. But if you ask me why I get up everyday, why I still breathe, why I work, why I survive. The answer is the Garzas.

  Take them away from me and life just isn’t worth living anymore. They’re my reason.

  My only reason.

  Though I’ll never admit it even with a gun to my head. Taking that truth to my grave.

  ‘Cause they can’t know.

  They can never know that I need them more than they could ever need me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Noneyabidness.”

  Lyra

  I’M IN THE KITCHEN BLENDING UP a fruit smoothie after a calming yoga session when two burly men emerge from the hall that leads to Torin’s office. Two men who resemble each other to a T, even in stature.

  Identical twins.

  I pause what I’m doing and just stare.

  Because one, they’re hot. Stupid hot.

  And two, who are they and what are they doing here?

  In the time I’ve been here, the only visitor my grumpy keeper has had is a tatted, preppy, suspender-wearing, handsome Italian dude who told me his name was “Guy.” So seeing these two fine-looking men this morning is a delightful break in routine.

  “Good morning!” I lilt a little too loudly.

  One twin grins.

  The other doesn’t. “Mornin’.”

  “You came to see Mr. Grumpy?”

  The serious one’s top lip twitches. “Yeah.”

  “How unfortunate for you,” I say, peeling a banana. “I apologize on his behalf if your morning is ruined. He’s like a soggy blanket, that one.”

  The two men exchange glances, and there seems to be some twin conversation thing going on.

  “I’m making a smoothie,” I interrupt, because having a twin-brain conversation right now is impolite. “Do you want one?”

  The happy twin’s grin widens and he begins striding into the kitchen. “Sure, we’d love—ow!”

  The serious twin takes him by the ear and pulls him in the direction of the front door, all while telling me, “Thanks. But we’ve gotta get to work. Have a great day, Lyra.”

  “That’s not fair,” I call after them. “You know my name and I don’t know yours.”

  “I’m Trueman!” the happy twin replies right before he’s shoved out the door.

  The other one just leaves without giving me a name, shutting the door behind them. Rude much?

  Once I’m done making my smoothie, I climb onto the kitchen island, sit cross-legged, and sip it slowly while I read book blogs on my phone. Torin hates it when I sit on the island countertop, so naturally, I do it all the more to piss him off.

  Some minutes later, he emerges from his office in a hunter-green t-shirt stained with sweat and clinging to his muscles. He stops and scowls when he sees me cross-legged on the island, and I fight my gaze from dropping to his sweatpants to check for a dick-print.

  “What did I say, Lyra?”

  I feign ignorance. “About?”

  His hands jerk at his sides and his long fingers crook inward as though he’s struggling to restrain himself from wrapping them around my throat and strangling the life out of me.

  Then, he takes a breath, shakes his head as if silently reasoning with himself that killing me wouldn’t be worth it, and strides past me to the fridge instead.

  Operation “Piss Torin Garza Off” successful.

  “You’re out of fruits and veggies,” I say before taking a gulp of my smoothie.

  “No shit,” he mutters dryly.

  “Who were the twins just now?”

  He pours coconut milk into a shaker bottle. “My brothers.”

  “Really?” I perk up, latching on to the only opportunity I might ever get to learn more about him. “I don’t see the resemblance.”

  While the twins have more of a tawny tone, Torin’s is richer, deeper, warm. Breathtaking.

  “Same father, different mothers,” he says, adding protein powder to the milk.

  “They’re half-Italian, too?”

  “Father’s the Italian, so yeah.”

  “How many siblings do you have?”

  After adding some cinnamon, he covers the shaker bottle and starts shaking it. “Four.” Throwing me a disgruntled glance, he grumbles, “A little early for your usual string of questions, don’t you think?”

  One in a brood of five? Nice.

  “Forgive my piqued interest,” I retort, “but finding out that you have actual contemporary humans for family and not a bunch of grunting Neanderthals is just a little shocking.”

  He lances me a glare.

  “Now I can’t wait to meet your parents,” I enthuse, teasing. “I’ve got so many questions for them.”

  “You won’t,” he mumbles in a less churly tone and starts out of the kitchen.

  “Why not?” I whine after him. “I promise I won’t—”

  “‘Cause they’re dead.”

  Oh. Oh God. Jesus. I went too far.

  I had no idea.

  As he heads up the stairs two at a time with his protein shake, he barks, “And get the fuck off my counter!”

  Now that I do deserve. Sure, I enjoy vexing him, but not to this extent. I can’t even begin to imagine what losing both parents is like. Would Mom ever be in the running for a “mother of the year” award? No. But at least I still have her, showing up whenever I need her.

  This glimpse into the man behind the grump, though, helps to understand him a little bit. A loss so great could transform anyone into an ill-tempered, misanthrope if they allowed it to.

  After I’ve finished my smoothie, I hop off the counter and clean it with Lysol. Then jog upstairs to get my laptop.

  Our rooms are on opposite ends of the hall, but when I know Torin is in his room, I always tiptoe down to his side like I’m doing now. Because I’m a creep.

  The door is locked. It always is.

  I press my ear to the dark wood, if only to hear him breathing, but all I hear now is the shower running.

  I test the knob.

  Locked.

  As I swivel and pad to my room, I bite back a smirk. He’s smart to lock himself inside. I do weird shit when I’m bored.

  Getting my laptop, I head back downstairs and trek across the backyard to Jo’s, who’s fast becoming one of my favorite people. Externally, she looks so intimidating and unwelcoming, but she’s such a darling. Whereas Mr. Grumpy upstairs looks alluring and warm and handsome, but he’s actually a giant a-hole.

  A yawn pries Jo’s lips apart like a snake getting ready to attack as she detangles the garden hose in preparation for her sprinkling routine.

  “Stephen King kept you up again last night?” I ask.

  “Lee Child.”

  “Another one to add to my ‘To Read’ list then?”

  “Definitely.”

  I skip up onto her porch and settle into “my” chair. “I’m gonna attempt to do something today, Jo.”

  Another long yawn. “What’s that?”

  I open up my laptop. “Write a book.”

  This gets her full attention. “You know how?”

  “Nope,” I say with a giddy grin. “But I do know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ so that’s a start, right?”

  Jo throws her head back and laughs. “Go for it. Something tells me you’ll be good at it.”

  ~

  HOURS FLY WHEN you’re writing words, getting lost in an imaginary world. I’ve no idea where I’m going with the garbage I’m spewing or if it’s even any good, but man is it cathartic creating a world straight from my b
rain. Unlike my own life, I have so much control in this made-up world. No one can hurt me here.

  I don’t realize that the sun has shifted from one end of the sky to the other until a sharp whistle pierces my focus. I pause mid typing and glance up from my computer screen.

  Jo is passed out in the chair beside me, mouth hung open. Confused, I shift my gaze from her to the yard and find Torin standing just outside the sliding glass doors of his walk-out basement. He’s dressed like he’s either going somewhere or he went somewhere. Dark denims, leather jacket with a black tee underneath, and macho boots.

  Having gained my attention, he beckons me with two fingers.

  “What?” I call. “I’m kinda busy.”

  He widens his stance, and even though the distance is too wide to see his expression, I just know he’s glowering. “Get your ass over here, Lyra.” Without waiting for my response, which would’ve undoubtedly been a mouthy one, he turns and disappears into the house.

  “You better go,” Jo’s groggy voice comes from the left of me.

  I swivel my attention to her. “So sorry for waking you.”

  She waves me off. “Eh, it’s just as well. This is how ya’ get neck and back problems.” She straightens up from the chair. “Gonna head inside and get some proper rest.”

  As she plods inside, I save my file and shut down my laptop.

  Deliberately slow and unhurried, I jaunt across to the house.

  I find Torin in the living room, one hand on the back of his neck, the other holding his phone to his ear. “...could be, but just a hunch.” He must sense my presence because he turns and narrows his gaze on me. “Just look into it and get back to me,” he says into the phone then ends the call.

  “What did I do this time?” I ask, resting my laptop on the side-table next to the armchair.

  “It’s almost six and all you’ve had is a smoothie.”

  This again. He’s always on me about food. I don’t know what his deal is. What does he care if I eat or not? He barely even likes me.

  “I know. I lost track of time.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Noneyabidness.”

  “What?”

  I fall back into the armchair and kick my legs over the arm. “You’re out of fruits and veggies anyway, so...”

  “Could’ve ordered something.”

  “Okay, so I’ll order something.” I eye him up and down. I can even smell him from here—freshly sanded wood and rain. “Do you have a Tinder date or something?”

  “Yeah, you mind?”

  An unexpected spike of jealousy pricks at me. Plus a pinch of bitterness that he’s ditching me to go get his joystick wet. “No. But only if Reuben’s the one who will fill in while you’re gone.”

  Something flashes in his eyes. “Why Reuben?”

  “Because I like him,” I reply with a one-shoulder shrug. “He’s nice and kind of pretty to look at.”

  He runs his tongue across his teeth and tucks his phone into his pocket. “Well, sorry to disappoint you.”

  I swing my legs off the arm of the chair and sit up. “It’s Reuben or no—”

  “Go put some jeans on or something,” he cuts me off. “And brush those blossoms out of your hair.”

  “Why?” I ask, absently reaching up to my topknot and coming away with several tiny blossoms and weeds. Huh. These must have landed in my hair when Jo was plant grooming.

  “We’re going to the supermarket.” He turns and walks right out the front door.

  A chilling wave of something unnameable lingers in his wake. Not his usual annoyance or irritation with me. But something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

  I head upstairs and change from my yoga shorts and tank top to jeans and a tee. By the time I’ve made it back downstairs, Torin has already backed his jeep out of the garage and is waiting for me by the main gate, engine running.

  “Put on your seatbelt,” he orders me in his usual clipped and growly tone before I can even get the door closed.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, daddy.”

  “You as much of a pain in his ass as you are in mine?” he asks as he shifts into gear and drives off.

  “I resent that,” I say. “I’m freaking delightful. Like an ice-cream sundae drizzled with strawberry syrup.”

  He snorts at that.

  But after a long while, I tell him, “I’m sorry for this morning. I didn’t know about your parents.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  I gnaw on my bottom lip, wavering on my next question. Curiosity is second nature for me. I can’t help it. “Do you talk about them, or are they off-limits?”

  “What do you wanna know about two dead people?” His tone is flat and indifferent, making it difficult to read his mood.

  “Well, how did they die and how old were you?”

  Minutes stretch by, and I accept the prolonged silence as confirmation that talking about them is off-limits.

  But then he answers, “Mom died from cancer when I was thirteen. Loved my stepdad more than anything. Had a stronger relationship with him than with my biological dad, and since I was all he had left in the way of family after mom’s death, I chose to stay with him. He kept me, taught me, raised me. Then he died in a motorcycle accident a month before my eighteenth birthday.

  “He left me everything; a decent inheritance to start life as a man. But after losing two parents, figured it was time to start working on repairing my relationship with my bio dad and get to know my siblings. So I moved here from Colorado. It took a while but I dropped my resentment and started to like and accept him as a father. He died of a heart attack a year later.”

  Jesus. So much loss in such a short amount of time. That’s enough to make anyone disillusioned about life and its purpose. “I’m sorry. That’s...I won’t even pretend to know what it’s like to lose that many people.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Your stepmom is okay, though, right?”

  “Monica,” he muses. “The glue that holds the Garzas together.”

  “How old are you?”

  A dry chuckle. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “What’s so wrong with trying to get to know you?” I say. “We’re stuck with each other for the next couple of weeks. And it’s not fair that you know everything about me and I know nothing about you.”

  “Who says I know everything about you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I know what’s on paper. Who you were before...” he trails off. “But you’re not that girl anymore, are you?”

  “How could I be?” I look down at my fingers in my lap and pick at my nail polish. “That girl was young and naive and oblivious to the harsh, painful, heartbreaking realities of the world. I miss her. Oblivion is sweet. But at some point we have to wake up. Unfortunately, the awakening is cruelly ruder for some than it is for others.”

  “Who are you now?” he asks.

  With a weighted sigh, I drop my head back against the headrest. “Ask me again sometime.” Then, quieter, I add, “I’m on the road to figuring that out.”

  Silence plumes between us, seeping into the crevices of the confined space like smoke.

  “Thirty-three.”

  I glance over at him. “Huh?”

  “My age,” he clarifies. “I’m thirty-three.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “No. Questions.”

  Lyra

  I PUSH THE CART WHILE HE picks the groceries.

  I can’t remember ever doing my own grocery shopping. We have Gloria for that. When I tried to help him choose produce earlier, he put back everything I picked up and told me to “just push.” Apparently I wasn’t checking for “soft spots” or “browning.” Whatever that meant.

  Torin is meticulous in choosing produce, examining them this way and that. I’d always been under the impression that men made terrible grocery shoppers. Guess not.

  “You can keep fish down, right?” he asks when we’re i
n the poultry aisle. Him ahead, me trailing lazily behind.

  I spy a woman further down the aisle staring at him while he dawdles by the seafood section, gazing down into the freezer, doing his super focused food-selection thing.

  “Just salmon,” I answer, watching her quicken her steps up the aisle, her gaze never leaving him.

  Once she’s close, her plump lips stretch into a sultry smile. “Tor?”

  Torin glances up.

  “Audrey,” he says in acknowledgment, flat and without inflection.

  I can’t see his face, but I know he isn’t smiling. If this dark, beautiful, and enviably curvy woman knows him, then I doubt she was expecting him to, because Torin Garza is not a smiler.

  Audrey abandons her cart in the middle of the aisle and crosses into his personal space, wrapping her arms around him. It’s not a familial or platonic hug, her hands are roaming all over his back.

  Torin returns the hug, but it’s loose and detached.

  “I didn’t know you were back,” she drawls. “You haven’t called.”

  Torin pulls out of the hug, but Audrey keeps her hands on his biceps, slowly rubbing them up and down. Is she trying to warm him up? Or does she just really, really like his muscles?

  “Yeah, just got back. Taking a break.”

  “Well, will you be coming by now that you’re back?” she asks with a pout. “I miss you.”

  “I’ll give you a call,” he replies noncommittally.

  “Excuse me,” a stooped old man interrupts. “Whose cart is this? I would like to get by!”

  Torin jerks his head, silently telling her to go.

  Audrey squeezes his biceps one last time before stepping away. “Come by, okay?”

  Torin grunts in response, then glances over his shoulder to me. “No. Questions.”

  I hold my hands up to convey that I get it. But that’s only because I don’t have any questions. I’m too busy trying to make sense of the strange feeling coursing under my skin. It’s ugly. Angry. Possessive. A feeling that growls in a harsh whisper to me that it doesn’t like that Audrey had her hands all over him. Touching him. All up in his space.

  I’m trying to catch it, this feeling. To wrestle it into submission. But it’s frenetic, zapping me here, pricking me there. I don’t know what the hell is going on inside me right now.