Chapter 33 – thiago
Thirty-Three
thiago
“Afood truck?”
“Is a food truck beneath you, Remi Isabel?” I ask as I throw the truck in park and turn toward her.
Her nose scrunches immediately. “Don’t you ever call me by my full name.”
I laugh. “Why not?”
“Because only my mom uses it when she’s pissed off or trying to prove a point. And the only other time a man should say it is when he’s on one knee, holding a pretty little box with a ring. So, basically, never.”
She keeps talking before I can respond, which is probably a good thing because I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I’d say to that.
“And to answer your first question, no, of course not. Val and I love trying different street vendors. It’s kind of our thing when she’s back home, and it’s sort of a running joke about my Uncle Derek.”
Derek Cain.
I know enough about the man to understand why his name carries weight, but Remi says it with the kind of affection reserved for someone she’s loved her entire life.
“He’s not a fan?”
“No. Some infamous incident no one is allowed to talk about,” she says with a laugh.
“Not even with his daughter? Or you, considering how close you two are?”
She pauses before answering.
“Uncle Derek is like a second father to me. I grew up splitting my time between his house and mine.” Her smile softens. “But there are some secrets that a man will take to the grave, and Food Truck Gate is apparently one of them.”
I laugh. “Food Truck Gate?”
“That’s what Val and I call it.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Oh, it is. The second anyone brings it up, he changes the subject so quickly you’d think we were discussing classified government secrets.”
“Maybe it is.”
“At this point, that’s the leading theory.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. It’s strange hearing her talk about a man with Derek Cain’s reputation like any other uncle with an embarrassing story he refuses to tell.
Then again, I’m starting to realize that’s exactly what he is to her.
“So we’re just supposed to sit out there like we’re not drenched down to our underwear?” she asks, hopping out of my truck.
I follow, rounding the hood to meet her.
“I have an extra jacket if you’re cold.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
I extend my hand to her, but she purses her lips and stuffs hers into her wet pockets.
“Fuck buddies don’t hold hands in public like a couple.”
“They also don’t go on dates, but here we are.”
She laughs. “Who said this was a date, Braga? I’m just a girl cashing in on a free-food promise.”
“That’s a date.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You voluntarily left work with me, let me drag you an hour outside the city, sat by a lake holding my hand, and now you’re getting food with me.”
“Keep talking.”
“I’m just saying, if it walks like a date and talks like a date—”
She plants a finger against my chest. “Finish that sentence and I’ll push you back into the lake.”
I glance over my shoulder. “We’re nowhere near the lake.”
“Details, details.”
Catching the edge of her jacket, I pull her toward the food truck. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, baby.”
“I don’t date cops.”
I pull her back against me and bring my mouth to her neck. “But you’ll fuck one.”
“Don’t be insufferable, Braga.”
I laugh into her hair as she tries to squirm out of my grip. She can call this whatever the hell she wants. I’m not going to argue with her.
At least not tonight.
We place our order at the window and grab one of the nearby picnic tables beneath a tent strung with multicolored lights. The owners have sectioned off the seating area, giving the place a warm, welcoming atmosphere.
I discovered this spot after one of my nights at the pier.
It was well past midnight, and I was starving.
Few places are open that late, so finding this family-owned food truck was a pleasant surprise.
They serve some of the best pastéis I’ve had outside Brazil.
One bite of the flaky crust and savory filling takes me straight back to summers in Rio.
The only thing that makes it better is sharing it with good company.
While I wait for our food, I glance over at Remi. She’s sitting alone at one of the tables, picking at a loose thread on her shorts. She catches me looking and holds my gaze for a second before turning away like she couldn’t care less.
I smile to myself.
A few minutes later, our order is called. I pay, grab the tray, and turn around, only to find Remi no longer alone. A tall woman stands beside the table, her back to me, and I recognize her before she even turns around.
Elena.
What the fuck is she doing here?
I start toward them, already running through every reason she might have for showing up. None of them are good. She knows I’m with Remi and exactly where we are, despite my ignoring every call and message she's sent tonight.
And now she's approached her without warning.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers gripping my knife’s handle before I realize what I’m doing. Elena is my handler, but she’s an operative first.
I cross the remaining distance between us, unable to shake the possibilities running through my head.
“Remi...”
The moment I speak, Elena turns, a smug smile already on her face.
“Officer Braga. I thought that was you.”
I should respond, but my attention goes straight to Remi, checking her face, her hands, and every visible inch of her.
She catches it immediately, and her posture tenses as she glances at Elena, then back at me. “Thiago?”
There’s a question in my name, but I give her a small nod.
“Commander.”
I set the tray down, release my grip on the knife, and take the seat beside Remi.
“What brings you out here?” I ask. “Pretty far from home.”
“Oh, probably the same as you.” Elena smiles. “Good food. A break from the city noise. The perfect way to spend a Friday night.”
Her attention shifts to Remi. “I see you’re in good company, so I won’t impose and take up any more of your time.”
“Have a good night.”
Elena takes a step back before stopping. “Oh, and Op...Officer Braga.” Her smile widens. “Do check your messages when you get a chance. There are a few notes I’d like to pick your brain about before our next debrief.”
“Of course.”
“Wonderful.”
Her attention shifts back to Remi. “It was nice meeting you. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”
Remi rises from her seat, her expression cold as ice. She stops directly in front of Elena, nearly eye level with her, holding nothing back.
“I didn't give it.”
Neither of them looks away.
I stay quiet and let Remi hold her ground. Elena is used to walking into a room and taking control, but Remi doesn’t give her an inch. And I probably shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do.
Elena breaks eye contact first, not because Remi intimidated her, but because I know Elena well enough to recognize when she’s gotten what she wants. She came here to see Remi for herself, and now she has.
“Monday,” I say.
Elena gives me one last nod, then walks away without another word. When I turn to Remi, she’s still watching Elena as she crosses the parking lot.
“I don’t like her,” she says. “Don’t trust her. You shouldn’t either.”
The words land square in my chest. Because the person she shouldn’t trust isn’t walking away. He’s sitting right beside her.
“She is who she is,” I say with a shrug. “If a power trip were a person.”
“Is she always like that with everyone?” Remi asks, finally turning to me. “Or just you?”
Elena keeps everyone at arm’s length, but whatever is happening with me has nothing to do with whether she likes me. She wants results, and lately, I’ve given her every reason to question whether I can deliver them.
“Everyone,” I lie.
Because lying is what I do. Every lie I give Remi comes with another one buried beneath it, and the closer we get, the worse they become.
Maybe Elena and I aren’t as different as I’d like to think.
“You mind if we take this to go?” Remi asks, glancing again toward the parking lot.
“Whatever you want to do.”
I grab a few containers and bags from the counter, and within minutes, we’re standing beside my truck. When I head to the passenger side to open the door for her, she steps in front of it, blocking the handle.
“Can I drive?”
I blink. “Can you what?”
“Drive. Did I stutter?”
A laugh slips out as I fold my arms across my chest, knowing damn well Remi Cain could probably drive circles around me blindfolded. Still, I play my part.
“You want to drive my truck?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“The guys who think their cars are sacred and that nobody else is allowed to touch them.”
“Hey.” I point at her. “I saw your little collection back there. You know exactly what I’m talking about when it comes to vehicles.”
She smiles. “Then you also know you’re wasting your breath.”
I say nothing and toss her the key fob. She catches it and heads around the hood. By the time I settle into the passenger seat, she’s already adjusting the mirrors and the seat.
“It’s all stock,” I say as she brings the engine to life and pulls onto the street.
“Oh, trust me. I know.”
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It’s not an insult.” Her hand glides over the wheel. “It’s an observation, Braga.”
“You looked offended.”
“I am offended.”
I bark out a laugh. “By my truck?”
“By the wasted potential.” She presses the accelerator a little harder. “And by the fact that you’re driving on factory tires.”
She looks at me, clearly waiting for me to defend myself. But nothing comes out. Because fuck me, she’s adorable. And sexy as hell. Watching her behind the wheel has me thinking about having her again, tasting her again, and all the things I’d rather be doing than sitting in this passenger seat.
I shake my head and rest an elbow against the open window before my thoughts get me into trouble. We roll to a red light, and the rumble of another engine pulls Remi’s attention toward the lane beside us.
Looking past her, I spot a middle-aged man behind the wheel of a vintage baby-blue convertible.
The car is definitely not stock. It’s immaculate, the kind of machine someone has poured years of money and obsession into, but the guy behind the wheel isn’t interested in my truck.
His attention is fixed entirely on Remi.
He leans back in his seat, one hand draped over the wheel, trying a little too hard to look cool as he tips his chin in greeting. Remi scoffs and faces forward again, but that only seems to encourage him.
When he revs the engine twice, I watch Remi reposition her hands on the steering wheel.
I know exactly what that means.
“Remi. No.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The sweetness in her voice might be convincing if I didn’t know her better. The convertible revs again as we wait for the light to change, and I can practically feel her restraint slipping beside me.
“Remi.”
“Braga.”
“Don’t.”
She turns to me with wide eyes and an expression so innocent it’s complete bullshit. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Are you really trying to street race? In my truck? With me sitting right here?”
“Why? Are you going to arrest me?” She bites her lip. “Cuff me again?”
The woman plays dirty, and my mind immediately goes back to her bent over the arm of the sofa.
“Not helping, Remi.”
“He started it.”
“What happened to my shitty stock truck? You think you can beat that?”
“Your words, not mine.” She glances my way. “And you don’t always need mods. Sometimes it’s all about who’s behind the wheel.”
“So not only do you know your way under a hood, but now you’re a professional driver too?”
“Most guys, when they learn that about me, they either get hard dicks or bruised egos. Which one are you?”
I laugh. “Take a guess.”
“Confident answer.”
The light turns green a moment later, and Remi takes off. The rear tires chirp on the pavement as the truck propels forward, throwing me back into my seat. Engine roaring, within seconds, we’re half a car length ahead of the convertible.
She laughs as she shifts, smooth and fast, without taking her attention from the road. I grab the handle above the door.
“I’m never letting you drive again.”
“Well, then I better get my money’s worth.”
The convertible starts gaining on us, its front bumper creeping forward until it’s nearly even with my window.
I look at Remi, expecting her to push harder, but she doesn’t. She checks the mirror, looks ahead, and eases off the accelerator.
“What are you doing?”
“Driving.”
“He’s passing you.”
“I can see that, Braga.”
Remi lets him pull ahead, but there’s no frustration or desperate attempt to catch him. She waits until the road opens up before pressing on the gas again.
The truck shoots forward, and this time, I’m mostly prepared for it.
We’re beside him again in a few blinks, and the man looks over, surprise replacing the smug expression he wore at the light. But Remi doesn’t even spare him a glance.
She keeps her attention on the road, driving a truck she’s never driven before as if she already knows all its limits. There’s nothing reckless about the way she handles it. Every move is deliberate, from how she controls the throttle to the distance she keeps between us and the other cars.
I knew Remi could drive, but I didn’t realize just how fucking good she was.
Waiting until the road is clear, she gives the truck everything it has left. And just like that, the convertible falls behind us. When I check the mirror again, the distance between us is only growing.
“Relax.”
“You’re the reason insurance agents drink.”
Her laughter fills the cab.
The sound does absolutely nothing to ease my concern, but it does plenty of other things to me. I should be annoyed that she just raced my truck through the streets and worried about the possibility of flashing lights appearing behind us.
But I can’t stop watching her.
This is the same woman I found at her range earlier, trying to hide that she’d been crying. Now her hair is whipping around her face in the open window, and she’s laughing as if the last few hours never happened.
I wanted to get her out of her head tonight. I just didn’t expect seeing her happy again to feel this damn good.