Rio (Redcars Book 3), page 12
I watched him warily, but he didn’t act as if he was gearing up to interrogate me.
“How’re you doing?” he asked.
“Good.”
“You need more meds?”
“No, I’m okay.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was easy, companionable—as if we both knew we weren’t quite ready for the next thing, and that was okay.
“You like cars?” he asked after the pause.
“Some,” I lied. As long as a car started, ran, and wasn’t registered to me, so no one tracked me down, then I liked cars just fine.
“That one’s a Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat, Supercharged 6.2L HEMI,” he said, nodding to the silver beast parked closest to the rolling shutter that Enzo had his hands in. “Rare. Worth a lot.”
I blinked at him. “You know cars?”
He huffed a small laugh. “The guys tell me stuff, y’know, and I remember things.” He tapped his head and quirked a smile. Rio cursed loudly, and Robbie chuckled. “He’s pissed off because someone tried to hot-wire it with a fucking spoon. A spoon.” He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “He’s been grumbling about it all morning. Said the wiring looks as if someone took a blender to it. He growled for a long time.”
“Rio growls,” I said, and wished I’d kept my mouth shut when Robbie side-eyed me.
“Well, the car you can’t take your eyes off,” he began and smirked as he pointed at the black muscle car… Rio’s job. “That’s a 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am—black, original trim, even the gold decal on the hood. Exact model from Smokey and the Bandit. It’s a collector’s wet dream, or it was, until some wannabe mechanic got his hands on it,” Robbie said, shaking his head. “Rio’s been cursing in three languages. Says whoever maintained it should be banned from touching anything more complex than a toaster. Wiring’s fried, ignition barrel’s cracked, and he found melted candy in the fuse box.”
He didn’t ask why I’d come down or what I’d seen or if I was going to cause trouble. He just sat with me in the quiet, the hum of tools and the occasional clank from Enzo underlining the stillness between us.
“I like it down there,” I said, surprising even myself.
Robbie didn’t look at me, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “So do I.”
We sat in silence for another moment, and then Robbie tilted his head toward the Firebird. “I hadn’t even seen Smokey and the Bandit until last month,” he admitted. “They all found out and made it movie night. Popcorn, soda, the whole deal. Rio knew half the lines.” I smiled despite myself. “Do you have a favorite movie? I love The Lord of the Rings. Big Sam fan. He’s the real hero.”
“Same. Samwise is the best of all of them, Strider in second.”
Robbie held out a fist, and I bumped it without thinking. “I knew I liked you,” he said.
After a quiet beat, I added, “But some of my favorite movies are probably The Matrix trilogy.”
Robbie frowned. “I haven’t seen them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Jamie tried once, but he and Killian got distracted kissing, and we never finished.”
Before I could tell him how criminal that was, Enzo let out another sharp string of profanities that echoed off the walls.
“Motherfucking asshole shit-fucking mess!” Enzo barked, loud enough to make Robbie wince and, then, grin at me as Enzo shut the hood of the Charger and leaned against it, arms braced, face thunderous.
“He needs some Robbie time for lunch,” Robbie said, already up, waggling his eyebrows. “And I need some Enzo time,” he said with a bright smile and rushed downstairs to drag his man through that door, which they closed behind them.
Leaving me alone so I could stare at Rio without being disturbed.
Rio emerged from under the hood, wiping his hands on a rag, and as he turned, he caught sight of me on the stairs. Our eyes locked. His hair was sweat-damp, and his brows rose when he realized I’d been watching him.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough.
“Hey yourself,” I murmured back.
He leaned on the fender, rag slung over his shoulder, and I stared.
“You shouldn’t be down here,” he finally said.
“Probably not.”
He sighed, then backed over to the only open rolling shutter and pulled it down. “Lunch?” he asked, indicating the kitchen.
“Not upstairs in that room, please.”
“Nah, come down. I shut us in.”
“Thank fuck.”
I managed to get to the main floor, ignoring the twinge in my side that still hadn’t faded, and followed Rio toward the kitchen. He didn’t wait for me to fuss or limp, just assumed I’d join him, and somehow that helped. I kept my chin high and pretended it didn’t hurt, and he let me have that.
The kitchen surprised me. It was cleaner than I expected—a mix of utilitarian and dated, with tan cabinets and a Formica counter, all of it worn but scrubbed to a shine. The kind of place that said people actually used it. A table dominated the center of the room, six mismatched chairs crowded around it.
Rio went to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. He set them on the table and followed with a selection of Dorito snack bags, and some canned drinks—lemon soda and root beer.
“You choose first,” he said, cracking open his can. “One’s ham and cheese, the other’s chicken salad.”
I stepped closer and hesitated for a second, then noticed something scribbled on the wraps. Each sandwich had my name written in small block letters. My chest tightened.
“You labeled these?”
He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “Enzo can eat forever, and Jamie’s not far behind. Didn’t want your food walking off. One’s yours, the other one is mine.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Either is my favorite.”
I chose the chicken salad, unwrapped it, and took a bite—and holy hell. My eyes widened.
“This is the best thing ever.” I forced the words out between chews. “What did you do to this?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not me. Simon next door; not sure what he does to them, mayo, salt, pepper.” He examined his ham and cheese. “It’s just a sandwich.”
I slowed down, partly to savor it and partly because my body wasn’t accustomed to consuming so much food at once right now. “Well, it’s a fucking revelation.”
He smirked, amused at how easily impressed I was.
I glanced at Rio, took a breath, and asked the question I’d been wondering since I got here.
“So, are you from around here?”
He shot me a look as if I’d asked if the sky was blue. “You’re telling me you haven’t researched me?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Your name and this garage came up when I was trying to track down Jamie, but other than that? No. I know you’re ex-cons,” I said carefully. “And I guess this place is… like a rehab thing?”
That made him laugh. A low, warm rumble from deep in his chest. “Don’t let Tudor hear you call it that.”
“Tudor?”
He nodded. “Owned Redcars before Logan, whom you haven’t met because he’s down in San Diego with his new partner, daughter, and Tudor -- long story. He ran the place for years. Old-school. Taught us more about engines than any textbook ever could. But he gave us more than that—picked us out of prison and gave all four of us space to be something other than criminals.”
“Four…”
“Logan, then Enzo, me, Jamie. All here because of Tudor.”
I remembered the name from my review of the files related to Jamie. Tudor Barrera. A couple of archived articles hinted at a rough past, including a prison stint and references to street racing in the past, as well as shady deals, but provided no solid details. Still, people respected him.
“What would he say about you being here then, if not rehab?” I asked.
“That we needed a family,” Rio said simply. “And he let us have one.”
He let the words hang there for a beat, then looked straight at me.
“Eight years in High Desert for murder,” he said, voice steady.
I stilled, and he waited—watching me, waiting for flinch or recoil. As if he’d seen it before. As if he expected it.
But I didn’t flinch.
“Okay,” I said.
He blinked. “That’s it?”
“I’m not judging you.”
“Before you think I was wrongly accused, or I’m some saint, just know I did it.” He said it without hesitation. “I regret it every day. It wasn’t deliberate; I wish it hadn’t happened, but it is what it is now. No one else would’ve given me a second chance. Tudor did. Logan does. Jamie and Enzo are brothers, and as for Robbie, he loves it here. And now, weirdly, you’re sitting here eating a sandwich in our kitchen, and I don’t quite know what to do with that.”
We kept eating in companionable silence for a moment, the only sounds the rustle of chip bags and the occasional sip from a can. The food settled warm in my stomach, and the silence hanging between us wasn’t awkward—it was something real, and I found myself exhaling tension.
Rio had that effect on me—grounding, not because he said the right things, but because there was no pretense or expectations. He was a big wall of man with an inexplicable need to feed me sandwiches and get between me and trouble.
After he’d stopped wanting to kill me, of course.
Our standoff was a delicate balance, straddling caution and curiosity. I’d stopped seeing him as a threat the moment he’d offered me food with no strings attached, but there was still a whole lot of territory between someone not wanting to kill me and someone I could trust. He didn’t ask personal questions, didn’t crowd me, but his eyes were sharp, always watching. As if he were trying to figure out what I was made of.
And me? I couldn’t stop watching him either. I didn’t know if it was gratitude or lust or the strange peace I found in the quiet between us, but I found myself settling more than I should have. There was something oddly intimate about eating lunch across from him, and not once did he push or pry.
“And you’re gay?” I asked before I could rethink that.
He stopped eating, comically still. “Bi,” he said after a beat. “Leaning toward guys, y’know.”
“Good to know.” I smiled faintly and thumbed at my chest. “Gay.”
He raised an eyebrow, raked a glance from my head to my chest and back again. “Good to know,” he repeated, then shrugged. “But useless information, because you’re clearly you…” he waved a hand at me, “… and I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“Sure, I do. And I’m not some giant dude built to toss around pretty little twinks.”
My mouth dropped open. “I’m not a twink.”
He wrinkled his nose, clearly regretting the phrasing. “I meant—y’know—small and delicate and… bendy or whatever.”
I snorted a laugh. “I’ll admit that I’m smaller than you, and yeah, I’m bendy when I haven’t been shot and nearly strangled.”
He dipped his head, and his cheeks flushed, which was so freaking cute.
Cute? The hell, Lyric.
“But, Rio, what the fuck makes you think I’m delicate?”
He met my gaze, the heat still in his cheeks. “Well, you’re… y’know… I can lift you and shit, and you can’t walk right and—”
I stood before I could think twice, the scrape of the chair loud in the kitchen. He stayed seated, eyes lifting to meet mine, but he didn’t lean away when I stepped close. I bent down, slow and deliberate, until my mouth hovered beside his ear, close enough to feel his breath hitch.
“Give me a day,” I murmured, my voice low, rougher than I meant. “And I’ll have you on your knees before you even fucking know it.”
He sank back in his chair, loose and quiet, not saying a word—but I saw it. Submission, flickering in his gaze. A secret. He was melting right there in front of me, and fuck if that didn’t make me want to chase it, press my mouth to his, and see how far I could push him before he broke.
I straightened, pulse loud in my ears, and stared at him.
He didn’t look away.
And neither did I.
But when his hand drifted to his crotch and he adjusted himself as if he’d forgotten I was still watching—or didn’t care—I knew this wasn’t just idle flirting. It wasn’t a game. His breath was shallow, pupils blown wide, the faintest pink creeping up his cheekbones. He wanted me. And he wanted something from me he didn’t think I could give him.
“Lyric…”
The sound of the back door creaking open and the unmistakable scuff of heavy boots across concrete stopped him in his tracks. The tension snapped, both of us turning toward the noise. Jamie’s voice followed, clipped and low, talking to someone.
And when I looked back, he was normal-stoic Rio again.
But I adjusted myself as well, right in front of him, and I saw the desire flash in his eyes.
Fuck.
If he only knew what I wanted to do to him.
Something bright, hot, and completely fucking dangerous.
SIXTEEN
Rio
A pickup in the afternoon, Jamie on guard duty, and it meant I didn’t get to talk to Lyric anymore today—at least that was the excuse I gave myself, because sure as fuck I was avoiding him. A day, he said. He was going to give me a day and put me on my knees.
Jesus. His voice—his threat, his promise, whatever the fuck it was—chased me in my sleep as if it had teeth.
Not even ten minutes in the shower the morning after that declaration, one hand on the wall and the other between my legs, fingering myself, pushing hard, trying to chase the edge, got me there. With scalding water pounding, I imagined someone pinning me down—him pinning me down—making me feel everything I swore I didn’t need.
Still wasn’t enough.
I was antsy, edgy, and spent all of Saturday dodging Lyric as if he were a live wire—which, to be fair, he was. Easiest thing in the world with him and Jamie holed up doing whatever digital wizardry they were buried in. I didn’t understand half the words they used, and I didn’t try to. We all had our uses. Next time someone needed to swing a bat, or a crowbar, or walk into hell with fists up? That’d be me. But tech? No thanks. My phone was about as much circuitry as I trusted myself with.
Well, that and the complicated wiring looms in nineties cars, I could handle some of that. The rest was on Jamie, and Robbie, our electrician-in-training.
Strangely, the fight with Bruno wasn’t dominating my thoughts. Sure, the usual adrenaline was there—excitement tangled up with nerves that made my skin itch—but it didn’t feel as if it was the main event. Not with everything else clawing through my head. Still, when the clock hit five, I was damn glad. Time to move. Time to fight. Time to shut my brain off and let instinct take over.
I headed out into the main garage where Enzo was hunched over the gutted front end of a boxy old Volvo, elbows deep and cursing under his breath.
“You doing overtime?” I asked, even though that wasn’t really a thing at Redcars. We got paid well and did what needed doing—clock-watching wasn’t part of the deal. Still, it was a way to open the door to some banter.
Enzo snorted. “If by overtime you mean babysitting a car with more rust than function, sure.”
“You love it,” I said, grinning.
He glanced over his shoulder. “I love when you fuck off and let me work in peace.”
I leaned against the bench, arms crossed. “You’re grumpier than usual.”
“That’s ’cause someone’s been stomping around itching to fight.”
I chuckled despite myself. “Can’t imagine who.”
Enzo grinned back. “You heading out to the Pit?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s it at?”
“You coming?”
“Not tonight,” he said it casually, but I couldn’t remember the last time Enzo had come to a fight—not since Robbie showed up, that much I knew. I didn’t blame him. Why waste a night watching me beat the hell out of someone when he could be home with the man he loved, safe and warm and not bleeding?
“It’ll be quick,” I said, all bravado.
“Hit clean. Watch that rib.” He wiped his hands on a rag, still not looking at me. Then finally: “Fists up.”
“Always,” I said, grabbing my hoodie off the hook, and headed back to my apartment to get ready. The Pit wasn’t one place. It moved—always on the edges of things, never fixed long enough to catch the eye of law or consequence. A basement. An abandoned warehouse. Once, a burned-out church. But wherever it showed up, one thing never changed: one cage, two fighters at a time, and fights started at ten.
Rules? Not really. No biting, no eye gouging—unspoken shit, mostly ignored when the adrenaline kicked in. Everything else was fair game. You brought what you had, and that was all you got. No backups, no second chances. What you carried into the cage was what you bled with.
Tonight’s venue was in an old meat-packing facility out past the tracks, and Lianne was waiting out front, leaning against a crumbling wall, lighting what was probably her fortieth cigarette of the day.
I was early—always was. No one else had arrived yet. It was a ritual I lived by. Arrive first. Examine the cage. Walk the perimeter. Make a note of all the escape options in case shit went down and we were discovered. Get a feel for the space, the air, the angles. This was survival, not sport. She grunted a hello, and we went in. Half the ceiling had collapsed, and the walls still smelled faintly of bleach and rot. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, casting light across the cement like a spotlight on a crime scene. The cage sat dead center, chain-link walls ringed in duct-taped padding and stained canvas.
I was antsy for the fight. It itched under my skin, buzzing louder with every breath. Beneath it, anger and fear tangled into a knot that wouldn’t loosen—anger at everything I couldn’t fix, fear I didn’t want to name. It made my stomach twist, my pulse spike.
