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“Even if I did let her out, she wouldn’t lunge. She’s all bark.”
I’m waiting for him to say, unlike me, but he doesn’t add that.
Lo scans the quiet street, then looks to me. “Xander is staying home from school today. He didn’t want to deal with the students asking him about Beckett. It made the news.”
“I heard that,” I say tensely, knowing reporters are calling it a “mugging” that Beckett’s bodyguard thwarted, but no one has any real leads on who did it. Some strangers in the night, they’re speculating. It’ll be forgotten tomorrow, blamed on things that just happen in big cities.
Lo peers back at the shut door. “Unless he changes his mind, he’s just hanging out at home, so you’re off-duty unless he requests someone at the house.”
Xander is the only client who’s had 24/7 security posted inside his house and even in the secured neighborhood, but nowadays, it’s mostly upon request. It used to be for his peace of mind, but that’s gotten better.
Still, I’m confused why I’m just now hearing about this. “No one told me—”
“Because I wanted you to come here,” Lo cuts me off. “I wanted to talk, too.” His voice cuts like a knife, and I feel him on the offensive. “You said you can run, Paul. What size shoe are you?”
Turns out, we’re the same size. He also lets me borrow a pair of his running shorts. Fits me better than some of the clothes I own.
It’s been a warm fall season, and the morning isn’t cold enough to see breath, but I’m wondering if he’s hoping I’ll freeze my balls off. I’m honestly wondering a lot of things.
Like where we’re going.
I’m in the passenger seat of Lo’s red Bugatti. He’s driving.
He called off his bodyguard and said, “I have security with me.” He meant me. I keep my radio and gun on me, since I’m unofficially his bodyguard at the current moment. Paparazzi isn’t following us too badly. Lo maneuvers well enough, and four red lights separate us from the tail.
It’s not a relaxing car ride. He’s on edge. I’m tensed.
It’d probably be more comfortable to kiss a mouse trap—which, yes, I’ve done on a dare. Would not recommend.
I’m thinking he’s taking us to a gym. Or maybe a nearby college. Where we’ll run around a track.
He drives further out of Philly and then some minutes later, he slows into a parking lot and turns off the car. We’re at Neshaminy State Park. That’s what the sign says.
I’ve never been here, though.
When Lo stretches his quads near the Bugatti, I loosely swing my arms and assess the situation. No one seems to be out this early. We’re the only car parked. I can’t tell if the area is densely wooded, but if he came here to murder me, why would he give me his shorts and shoes that fit.
I’d think he’d miss his clothes.
“You want to race or what?” I ask him.
He straightens up, the clenching of his jaw noticeable. “Just run with me, Paul.”
I really should talk to him about my cousin, but some instinct in me says, wait. Patience. And so when Lo begins jogging on the paved trail, I follow. He has good form since he’s been running since his early twenties. My running stride isn’t too bad either.
Lo seems surprised I’m not flip-flopping out here like some eel. More surprised, even, when I overtake him.
He catches up pretty easily and keeps my pace—which is whatever you call between a jog and a sprint. Blood pumps through my heart and veins, and the ground changes between firm cement and softer dirt. The weaving, tree-lined path grows denser and more wooded, and some dark green leaves are changing into reds and oranges.
We’ve been running side-by-side, but midway down this dirt path, Lo slows with his hands threaded against the back of his neck. He’s breathing harder, but I’m not sure it’s from the run or his churning thoughts.
I rest my hands on my sides, my chest rising and falling. We’re alone on a park trail, and the only thing I hear is his breath, my breath, and rustling of squirrels in the trees.
“You know that saying,” Lo says slowly, still intaking breath, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Yeah,” I nod with an imprisoned breath. “I’ve heard that one.”
“Well, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Lo says, heat in his eyes and something else I can’t detect. His hands drop to his sides. “I’m not some naïve parent who thinks my kids aren’t trying drugs or drinking alcohol or screwing whoever they want to screw, so I’m going to ask you a very important question, Paul. And don’t lie to me.” He stares me down again. “Did you hook up with my daughter in the attic last night?”
My stomach knots. He didn’t get much of a word in at the party, so I can’t be that surprised he’s asking this. I start shaking my head, and with a shallow breath, I say, “No.”
