“If I go home drunk again, Mom’s gonna be pissed then rat me out to Tor,” I slur. “Can you take me to get something to eat somewhere, help me sober up a little?”
His grunt is unwilling. “It’s a quarter past two in the morning on a Wednesday night.”
“So?”
“Only fast-food restaurants are open right now. You hate fast food.”
Hmm.He’s got a mental folder on me, huh? Well, Torindidassign him as my “virtual guard” for several years now. He’d used a lot of technical words and terms to explain why this man needed to be all up in my business, which all boils down to him being permitted to virtual stalk me “for security reasons.”
Guy has access to all my security trackers and routinely logs into my accounts to conduct a “clean sweep.” Invasive, yes. But that’s my normal. At this point in my life, I’ve gotten used to having zero privacy. When I was fifteen, I was attacked and almost sexually assaulted by one of my classmate’s father, who’d apparently been stalking me through my social media. After that, my brothers invaded and monitored every crevice of my life, and that was the end of privacy as I knew it.
Now with Guy being their most trusted tech man, he pretty much spearheads the privacy invasions. He strikes me as the meticulous type, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows every single thing there is to know about me.
And maybe he hasn’t been as disregarding of me as I thought…
“This is LA,Guy. Somewhere’s gotta be open.”
“Nowhere suitable for your snobbish tastebuds.”
“My tastebuds aren’t ‘snobbish,’” I defend. “I likequalityfood. What’s wrong with that?”
“I’m taking you home. Monica will be asleep.”
“No. Take me somewhere to sober up.”
“Tillie—”
“Oh, so youdoknow my name.”
A low, frustrated sound rumbles in his throat and he mutters something in Italian.
“If you don’t get me something to eat, I’ll tell my brothers you slapped my ass and tried to touch my no-no spot.”
He rips his attention from the traffic and throws it at me. “They will never believe that.”
Arching a brow at him, I ask around a daring smile, “Wanna risk it?”
Granted, my brothers can tell when I’m up to no good and would see right through the lie, but if Guyisplaying a long game, he won’t risk it. No chance.
Behind those black-rimmed glasses, his eyes frost over. “You’re a fucking brat.”
My grin is broad and unrepentant. “Thank you. I try.”
Eighteen minutes later, he parks in a reserved spot outside Myrandi, one of two upscale restaurants that opened in this area just over a year ago and is already doing amazingly well. Myrandi has been on my list of restaurants to try out. But at 2:47 a.m., they’re very much closed.
Guy exits the vehicle without a word and disappears around the side of the building. When several minutes pass and he doesn’t return, I fish out my phone to call him. Before I can, a text comes in.
Fraud: Are you waiting for me to open your door for you?
Me: OMG. You could’ve at least SAID smethig!
Fraud: Something*
Ugh, what a dick!
I slam out of the vehicle and follow the path he took until I spot him. Arms crossed, back pressed against a magnetic-lock steel door, keeping it open.
Stomping up to him, I hiss, “You’re adick.”
