“Cody?” Rio asked.
Jon stepped closer, lowering his voice even more. “The detective who’s been assigned to... help me, use me, get me killed. Multiple choice, including all of the above. At least that’s the name he’s using for this op. I don’t know what his real name is. But no, Luc, sorry, before I go there, and there’s a lot of there to get to, I just need to know, Casey’s really okay? And why the hell did you leave her in LA if you think Frank tried to kill her?”
Okay, so Casey clearly hadn’t told her brother that Rio wasn’t Luc, or any details about what had happened between them last night. Was that a good or bad sign? Rio didn’t have a clue.
“I left because she asked me to,” he answered simply. It was none of Jon’s fucking business as to why. “I’ve got some friends who are helping to keep her safe, and you said Ella’s with her, too, so she’s in capable hands.” He hoped. “As to why Frank would target her like that—you tell me. Were you really stupid enough to tell him that Casey Esparza’s your sister?”
Jon winced. “I don’t... I honestly don’t remember, but... Back in the day, talking about Casey would pay for the next round, if not the entire rest of the night of drinks.”
“Jesus, Jon.” Rio sighed. “Does Frank think you’ll have access to Casey’s bank accounts if she’s oh, you know, dead?”
Jon got very still. “I don’t know. He knows we’re close—were close, before I fucked that up. And for the record, I’m not her beneficiary. She made that clear after the first intervention. But I don’t know if Frank knows that.”
“Maybe drop it into a conversation, if you can.” Rio glanced toward the lounge’s open door. “Is he in there now?”
“No. But a few of his guys are. And he sometimes comes here for lunch, so... It seemed as good a shot as any.”
“Is it possible he’s gotten a tip that you’re working with the police? Because Casey almost getting run down could also be a message,” Rio pointed out. “To you. Stop what you’re doing, or you’re next.”
Jon was just shaking his head. “I don’t know. I mean, anything’s possible.”
“Be careful,” Rio advised.
“Believe me, I’m trying. That’s.... actually the reason I texted you.” Jon glanced back at the open door then reached out and tugged at Rio’s folded arms. “Will you do me a favor and look a little bit less like you came here to kick my ass? More, you know, happy to see me?”
Rio uncrossed his arms and relaxed his face into as much of a smile as he could manage. “Better?”
“A hug and a kiss would be nicer.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” Rio kept smiling.
Jon laughed a little. “Worth a try.” He reached out to brush something off of Rio’s shoulder. “Sorry. You had a little...”
“What’s going on, Jon?” Rio asked. “Stop fucking around and tell me how I can help.”
“I kinda need you to... well, to pretend to be my boyfriend...?”
Rio laughed. Although, really, that request shouldn’t have surprised him at this point. He’d been everyone else’s fake boyfriend, why not Jon’s?
Meanwhile, Jon was groveling. “I know you don’t trust me. I know you think I’m a terrible person, and I am, I know I am, but this really isn’t some ploy to mess with Dave, and see, if Dave was in town, I would’ve asked him to do this instead of you, but I don’t know where he is and… God, Luc, you gotta help me out. Cody—that cop who’s going with me to meet with Frank, he’s... Well, look at him. He’s not someone I would be friends with. Ever.”
Jon held out his phone, which had a slightly blurry covertly-taken photo of a large, shaved-headed, ruddy-faced, older white man whose arms were covered with... fuck, white nationalist tattoos.
“The tats are part of his cover,” Jon continued. “At least I hope they are. These days with the police, you never know. But the bottom line is that even though Frank doesn’t know me all that well, he definitely knows that I’m not having a casual conversation, let alone striking up a friendship with someone who’s got an eighty-eight and a Nazi war eagle permanently etched on his forearm. Best backstory I can come up with is that I met Cody through my Navy SEAL boyfriend. AKA... you.”
“What, so I’m supposed to be friends with a White Nationalist?” Rio asked. “Thanks a million.”
“Like with the police, odds are higher in the military,” Jon said with a shrug. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s a fact. At least in a state like California. Do a little research.”
“Jesus, Jon, you don’t have to be friends with the people you sell illegal drugs with. You could’ve met this guy anywhere—shit, in rehab.”
Jon shook his head. “No, I thought of that, but... Frank has eyes everywhere. Cody being a friend of yours, someone you—” he corrected himself “—my alleged boyfriend met in the Navy, that would be harder for him to disprove.” He laughed grimly. “Maybe.”
Rio sighed as a van—nondescriptly white but beat up, like it had done some pretty hard time—pulled into the lot, creeping slowly toward the back. “So what exactly do you need me to do? As your Nazi-friend-having fake boyfriend?”
“You’re kind of already doing it,” Jon confessed. “Don’t look at the guy in that van, but... he’s one of Frank’s dickheads.”
Rio laughed again as he realized... “So even if I say no, I’m still your fake boyfriend right? Just by being seen, standing here with you.”
