Page 13 of The Complete Truth Duet
Away from her.
Away from them.
I came to a screeching halt when I saw the two new men standing on the peeling linoleum of what was supposed to have been a foyer.
The taller of the two looked like every thirty-something white guy to walk the Earth. Plain brown hair. Plain brown eyes. He had a nose, lips, even ears, but not a single noteworthy feature on his entire plain face. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt. Plain jeans. And—yep, you guessed it—plain brown work boots. He was simple, unassuming, and completely nonthreatening. I immediately didn’t trust him.
The guy beside him was a different story altogether. While he was an inch or two shorter than his counterpart, his powerful presence cast his shadow far and wide. His skin was tan and his short, brown hair was rich with natural flecks of mahogany and chestnut as though he worked in the sun. His eyes were blue, but not like the indigo of mine. His were…well, heavy blue—deep and hollow. He had the nose of a Roman gladiator, distinguished and slightly crooked from battle, while his jaw was composed of sharp, regal angles masked by a thick layer of scruff. He was made of a million counterpoints that somehow formed a brilliant whole. He was wearing a similar thirty-something white-guy uniform, but there was nothing simple about the way it hugged his thick muscles or covered the intricate black tattoos that traveled down his arms to the backs of his hands.
He was entirely gorgeous. Slightly terrifying. And most likely known as Inmate 401.
But the most interesting part of all was that neither of these men was a Guerrero.
Men were not allowed inside our building. This was one of the few rules I agreed with and strictly enforced. All it would take was one call to the cops—the real ones, not the crooked badges Dante had under his thumb—for the majority of the building to be hauled away in a set of cuffs—myself included. And for me, I was on my third strike. I’d never breathe outside of a prison cell again.
“Um…” I mumbled. “Who are you?”
Marcos stopped beside me while Dante moved to the couch and started cutting lines of coke he’d retrieved from his pocket.
Marcos stared at him in disgust, but he didn’t utter a single admonishment. Clearing his throat, he shook his head. “Meet your new maintenance men. Drew Walker and his brother, Penn.”
I turned my head to look at him. “I’m sorry. Was there a plague that wiped out the entirety of the Guerrero family that I somehow missed?”
“Order came straight from Pop. Seems he became close with Drew while they were cellmates.”
Ah, yes. I was correct: Inmate 401.
Marcos flipped his dark gaze on me. “Apparently, the Walkers used to work construction. When Pop heard about Hugo’s…unfortunate accident, he sent word for me to assign them here.” He paused, his jaw ticking with an intensity that made me fear for his teeth. “Said he trusts Drew like a son.”
Which really meant Manuel Guerrero, Inmate 402, trusted this Drew guy more than he did his own dumbass sons. Something I did not find shocking, but something I found abundantly amusing. I did everything I could to hide my smile, including looking back at Drew and Penn just in case a lip twitch squeaked out—and it totally did.
“Show them your problem,” Marcos ordered.
“My problem?” I parroted because, seriously, he was going to have to be more specific with that. I had more problems than not.
A loud snnnnft came from the couch before Dante elaborated. “Your fucking water leak or whatever’s got this goddamn place smelling like a landfill.” He snapped his fingers at the men and pointed down the hall. “Do your goddamn job and figure it the fuck out.”
Like good little minions, they both started toward the hall with the same foot.
“It’s in the kitchen,” I told their backs.
The tall one, who I assumed was Penn, replied, “The way that wall looks, it’s probably leaking through from a bathroom.”
Oh, shit! Oh, shit.
Oh. Fucking. Shit.
Savannah.
Things I was good at: math, the Dewey Decimal system, and time management.
Things I was not good at: hiding sixteen-year old girls from psychopaths.
I’d planned for that day the best I could. Any time Dante had shown up, he’d always go into River’s room. And he’d come into my room more times than I’d ever care to admit—or remember. There were no doors on any of the closets, and all of our mattresses sat on the floor. There were only so many places she could hide.
However, in all the years I’d lived in that apartment, Dante had never once stopped by for a shower.
With these two assholes convinced that my problem was in the bathroom, my good friend Panic blasted through me.
Jogging after them, I called, “The bathroom’s fine.”
