Page 40 of Riggs
At 7:10, we take the service elevator down into the warm thrum of Austin night. Lalo rolls us two blocks shy, then tucks into a slot that lets him see both ends of the alley without turning his head. Vanessa smooths her skirt and looks at me like she wants to be good and terrible at the same time.
“Forty minutes,” I remind her.
“Forty-five if you smile,” she says.
“Forty,” I repeat.
Inside, the restaurant gives off expensive wood and lime. The private room is perfect—long table, frosted glass, a pocket door to the kitchen, a hall to the restrooms that doubles as an exit. The manager flips from brittle to useful the second I speak his language: “line of sight, staff list, who’s allowed back here, who isn’t.” He gives me a lowdown so fast and clean, I give him two extra points of trust.
Fans filter in—invited, pre-cleared, wrists banded by Lina. The energy is good: Austin friendly, not LA hungry. Vanessa does what she does—bright without blinding, generous without bleeding. I stand in a corner and watch.
“Riggs,” a woman says, twenty-five, calm, wristband on. “Can I get a picture of you both?”
“Two seconds,” I say, because I want the room to see me say yes and because I like watching Vanessa like this. We step together. I set my hand at the small of her back. She tilts up. I kiss her present-tense and brief. The shutter clicks. The woman mouths,thank you.My job is to make that real and keep it safe. Also my job is to not think about how kissing her feels like a home you didn’t know you were searching for until you walk in and smell dinner.
Food arrives in small plates that go untouched because cameras beat chips. Brice hovers on a cloud of metrics. Lina hands me water first, then Vanessa. She drinks, gives me the bottle back without looking. We run a rhythm: smile, step, pivot, reset—and it’s smooth enough that I start to consider calling the night an honest win.
Then the air shifts.
It’s tiny. A thread pulled in the corner of the room where the frosted glass throws fuzzy shadows. A shape lingers just a hair too long at the hall’s mouth. You learn to see these things so well they interrupt your blood.
I tap my ear. “Rae?”
“Copy,”she says. “Got you with three cams. Hall traffic light, one static. Street side picking up a guy in a cap who keeps finding line of sight.”
“Describe.”
“Five-ten. Black cap, gray tee, messenger bag backside. He’s filming low. Hasn’t crossed your door. He’s hunting angles, not making contact—yet.”
“Jax?”
“Plate capture two cars down—a white Challenger that followed you for four blocks then kept circling. Same one from Denver? Body style matches, plate different. I’m grabbing a frame off street cam now.”
I give the manager a nod. “Hold the hall,” I tell him. “Staff only.”
He posts two servers like sentries and suddenly they’re a security team. I dislike improvising with civilians. I like it when it works.
“Everything okay?” Vanessa’s near my elbow, voice at the just-us frequency.
“Someone’s shopping for a story,” I say. “We’re not selling.”
She nods. “Use the cover?”
“We’ll give them something to chew on.” Then, because the room doesn’t need fear and because we built this box, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. A small, private gesture that explodes into a thousand quiet squeals. The energy shifts back. We let it stay there.
Forty minutes lands fast. I signal Lalo. “Two minutes.”
We run the exit like a drill. Kitchen door, line by twos, staff door to the alley. Lalo pulls up on cue, right rear door facing the wall to shield the first step. We’re half in when the man in the cap from the sidewalk drifts into the mouth of the alley like he’s wondering how he got there.
He doesn’t get a step closer. Lalo steps out of the driver’s seat and looks at him the way you’d look at a dog considering your steak. The man’s phone droops two inches, then three, then disappears into a pocket because instincts trump entitlement.
We slide in. Doors close. Lalo rolls. Rae hums: “Nice and tidy. Challenger peeled off on Sixth. I’ve got the plate. It’s as real as a wish.”
We’re three blocks out when Vanessa exhales all at once and tips her head back on the seat. The city streaks neon across the glass. I watch it in the mirror, then watch her instead.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I am,” she says, surprising me with how certain she sounds. “Because you are.”
