Page 29 of Wild Catch
“No.” He grins. “Certainly not my eyes. Anyway, can I come in?”
Well, so much for a quiet evening.
“No.” I try closing the door, knowing exactly what’s going to happen.
Dude wedges himself between the doorframe and the door. “It’ll just be a second.”
“You said the same last time and parked your ass on my couch until two in the morning watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle reruns.”
He opens his eyes wide. “Don’t you love feeling like a child again?”
My teeth grit hard enough to catch his notice. There isnothingI hate more than feeling like a child again. Nothing. Not even that ridiculous post on the team’s social media that makes me look like a sap.
“You have ten seconds before I shove you out the door,” I grit out.
“Okay, okay. Cade’s in a pickle and needs our help.”
That’s unexpected enough that it gives me pause. I really thought this was gonna be about more childhood TV show marathons.
Slowly, I ask, “What kind of pickle?”
“A bad one. Only we can help him.”
“Any more details so I can make a decision?” I frown.
“No, he just called me all panicky and I sprung to action.” He shrugs, hands raised and palms facing up in the universal gesture of what-else-can-you-do.
Deadpan, I ask, “Has he called nine-one-one?”
“Oh, it’s notthatkind of an emergency, trust me.”
Which means this is probably a chick emergency. He screwed something up with Hope and now needs our help to get his head out of his ass. We should probably do that before it fries his brain and we have to bench him for more than one series.
“Fine, let’s go,” I concede.
“Nuh-uh. Not like that.” He points up and down at me. “You need to put on some clothes, pendejo.”
“You’re the pendejo,” I shoot back, knowing very well what the word means. “Of course I’m getting dressed first.”
This means that I end up letting him into my apartment. I also have to pause my book so Rivera doesn’t fall asleep on my couch while I get dressed. The whole thing takes maybe five minutes and in two more, we’re down at the parking lot where he gets in his Escalade and I hop on my Ducati. He didn’t give me the address but I follow him closely enough that I don’t need it. In fact, I can almost hear the reggaeton blaring in his sound system every time we stop at a light.
The sky is doing its show of colors for dusk. The rainy season hasn’t started yet, so the sun and the clouds treat us to quite the masterpiece. I barely even register that we enter a posh neighborhood in Winter Park, so distracted I am by the purple, pink, and yellow hues in the sky.
That’s when something more important occurs to me. Since Rivera showed up at my door, all the thoughts about my relatives vanished in thin air. My heart rate returned to normal, my breathing evened… I even forgot to keep playing my audiobook.
Rivera parks by a random building that looks like a bunker in between pretty houses. I sit back on my bike behind his vehicle, watching as he steps out and walks around.
I bet he’s one of the few, if not the only one, who has realized I’m due for a trade. Rivera’s way smarter than he pretends—something I’ll never acknowledge aloud.
Wait, what is he doing?
I unstrap my helmet and remove it, the better to watch him retrieve some shopping bags from the back of his SUV. And they sport the unmistakable logo of Publix.
“What kind of emergency would require you buying groceries for Starr?” I narrow my eyes.
Rivera smirks at me, then presses his finger to the doorbell of a door that looks like something out of prison. The door opens and sounds spill out. The problem is that I can’t really discern them.
“Aren’t you coming?” the Boricua asks, jerking his head toward the door.
