Page 20 of Don't Trust Him

But, again, if I was going to do that, did I really have to pick the person who was undeniably my most inappropriate attraction ever?

I can’t exactly have breakfast in bed with Grayson Teague.

He punched me, I punched him...he choked me, and then he killed someone for betraying me. Fucking Juan, gives me all that shit in San Diego and really he’s secretly jealous and decides to kill me and steal my mission?

What the fuck?

It does get me thinking, though. Other people are going to be looking for this formula. Other people in my cartel are probably going to want this job.

Maybe having a ready to murder for me sicario is the best I can do right now.

At least when he looks away I can look at his ass. How it ripples with power.

And when he looks at me, it makes me want to melt. Seriously, the way he smiles at me does something wicked in my panties, like he’s tearing them off with his teeth just by looking at me.

I’m only human, so how could even I resist a man who has that effect on me?

Eleven

Eliza

Compromise.

Sometimes, it’s all about compromise. You know when you simply can’t decide if you want to buy those Louboutins or the Jimmy Choos? And then you simply buy both, plus a pair of Manolo Blahniks?

That’s compromise.

Alright, admittedly I’m not very good at it. But I’m making an effort with Grayson. I mean, if we want to make some progress, we have to start working together. No way in hell am I going back to my boss empty-handed, and that right after collaborating with the enforcer of one of our fiercest rivals.

Yeah, that would go well for me.

“And here he comes,” Grayson whispers, sitting up straight on his seat, binoculars glued to his eyes. I’m sitting on the driver seat, legs folded and a Chinese takeout bag on my lap. What? A ‘stake out’ sounds similar to ‘steak out’, and so I decided to bring some food with me. I agreed to do this, but it doesn’t mean I have to go hungry.

And it isn’t that bad, really.

Sure, sitting inside a car for hours isn’t my idea of fun, but...being this close to Grayson has its perks. For a psycho, he can actually hold a conversation. And, well, he’s as hot as they come. So, anytime I can I steal a glance at him, burning the memory of his strong arms in my mind, all just so I can remember it tonight...you know, for research.

Sure, okay, I know I was being a bitch about watching this guy we’re after. And now you know that I relented and let Grayson run surveillance on this asshole.

Now, I won’t tell Grayson, but he’s right—watching Alejandro before we make a move is the right call.

See, our little friend Alejandro, now trying to act all stealthy while he moves toward a storage unit, is an accountant. Not just any accountant, but one that’s very, very good at laundering money for one of the cartels. Once good old Benjamin Franklin passes through this guy’s hands, he comes squeaky clean on the other side—and that even if his face was muddled with blood and cocaine. Good grief, who knew Benjamin Franklin was such fun?

Anyway, we got the drop on this guy because of Taylor, apparently Grayson’s best friends and a member of Bonita Muerte. I guess that even stone-cold killers need friends, huh?

Well, turns out that he visits multiple self-storage places where drug money is kept. We don’t know who exactly his employer is. It’s not any of the cartels that we know of. Alejandro is always escorted—two non-descript black SUVs always trail after his car, each one of them packed with thugs eager to unload a magazine onto somebody.

What these thugs don’t know is that Alejandro is a very naughty boy. Every night at 1 am, he likes to go for a drive and visit one of the storage containers they have...and he always leaves with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Yup, that’s right. The asshole he’s stealing from his employers – whoever they are.

“Are you sure he’s alone?” I ask Grayson as I use my chopsticks to pick up a small shrimp. Stakeouts are fun. I just wish I had brought a bottle of Don Perignon as well.

“Yeah, this time he is,” he replies, his voice all business-like. Wiping my chin with the back of my hand, I throw my chopsticks inside the bag and sit up straight.

“So, showtime?”

“Showtime,” he agrees, opening the door on his side and stepping out of the car. I follow after him, and...cue the music.

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