“She walks into a bar alone, follows a table full of women to an Airbnb, has a truck full of her life, and nobody thinks to ask more questions?”
Regan crossed her arms. “I asked questions.”
“You asked feelings. I’m talking facts.”
Her jaw flexed. “Don’t start with me tonight.”
“I mean it. People use pretty faces to get close.”
That was not paranoia. That was history. Clubs, cartels, law enforcement, rivals with more patience than brains—everybody used what worked. A woman alone could get through doors a man couldn’t. A woman looking scared could make good people stupid. A woman with the right story could put a whole room at ease before anyone noticed the blade.
Regan stared at me like I’d disappointed her. “You think she’s cartel?”
“I think I don’t know what she is.”
“She’s broke, scared, scratched up by a cat she still fed, and driving a truck that sounds like it’s coughing up bolts.”
“Or playing broke.”
“You hear yourself?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“And I trust my gut.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Your gut or your damage?”
That landed. I didn’t let it show. “Both kept me alive.”
Regan’s face softened for half a second, which pissed me off more than if she’d thrown something. “Not everything is a trap, Mase.”
“No. Just enough.”
Before she could answer, my phone buzzed again. I pulled it out expecting another cursed snap from Tank and his idiot parade.
It was River.
Not a snap. Text.
Thought you’d want to see this.
Below it was a screenshot from Instagram.
Santa Fe Country Club.
My thumb stopped over the screen.
Rylee.
For a second, my brain didn’t take her in right. The woman in the photograph sat on a shaded patio at a white-linen table, head turned slightly toward whoever held the camera. She smiled with more polish than she’d ever had with me. Everything about her looked curated now. Tan skin too smooth to be accidental. Diamond studs catching sunlight at her ears. Teeth so white and even I squinted.
Veneers?
I actually zoomed in like an idiot.
Yeah. Maybe.
