Biting back a retort, I thought back to our interaction with the deceptively innocent-looking teenage hacker in the scary-as-fuck place, and the deal Cruz had apparently made without consulting me. The deal that came with multiple strings.
When I think of something, I’ll let Cruzito know.
Fuck.
“Tell me,” I commanded, but Cruz was already walking away from me, heading for the car. Picking up the pace, I jogged to catch up with him. “Seriously. What was that back in there?”
“We weren’t getting anywhere, and maybe now we’ll have some answers,” he said in a bored voice.
“What did you promise him, Martinez? Tell me.”
“I don’t owe you any answers.”
Wrapping my fingers around the door handle, I glared at him across the car. “Tell me. I’m involved in this shit now, thanks to you, whether I get any say or not. So tell me exactly what the fuck that was all about, and what the consequences are.”
He glared straight back at me. “I’m not telling you shit. You were there. I took care of it.” Popping the lock on his own door, he ducked inside. “The next time we get a text, Teclas can trace it.”
I slid into my own seat, too livid to speak. How fucking dare he make decisions like that without talking about it to one of us? To put himself in danger so casually?
Neither of us spoke as we drove, the silence growing thicker and thicker as the car rumbled along the streets. Despite my efforts to get him to talk, the stubborn fucking asshole refused to say anything. The man had serious trust issues, and okay, maybe I did too…especially when it came to him, but we were never going to get to the bottom of this shit if he didn’t open up to me.
By the time we reached the hockey house, we’d said a total of three words between us.
Me: “Tell me.”
Him: “No.”
After an hour of lying on my bed staring into space with a headache from clenching my jaw so tightly, I realized I was going to be pissed off with him for the foreseeable future. And that wasn’t the only thing I was feeling when it came to Cruz Martinez. In all honesty, I was worried, too.
Our relationship was strained enough without me inevitably putting my foot in it if I tried to speak to him again, and there was only one thing I could think of doing. Swiping my phone from my nightstand, I unlocked the screen and tapped out a message.
Me:
Could you do me a favor?
Ava:
It’s not a sexual favor, is it?
I fucking wish.
Me:
No don’t worry. It’s for Martinez
Ava:
Maybe I wouldn’t mind the sexual favor
Fuck. I bit down on my lip, adjusting myself in my jeans.
Me:
From me or Martinez?
Ava:
Both?
