Page 120 of Under the Lies

The night he was shot, everyone moved at a frantic pace to get him back to Noah’s where a doctor on their retainer met us. She was able to stabilize him and remove the bullet, but she was concerned about him getting sick or an infection, so he’s been the latest addition to the Kincaid Hotel.

He’s fine. The bullet missed all major arteries.

But having him at Noah’s place has just been too much. A reminder that these people who have been trying to help me are getting hurt.

And maybe I shouldn’t care, but I do because I can’t not. That’s just who I am.

So when Thea texted me, wanting to go out tonight, I couldn’t respond YES fast enough. Normally, clubs are the last place I want to be but tonight is different.

I need one night.

One night to get away from Noah and everything. Where I can be free and numb and just dance.

A faceless person in a sea of strangers.

And that’s what I’m doing at Harlots, the rival club to Heathen’s Hell. When Thea asked where I wanted to go, I said anywhere but Heathen’s Hell.

So, Harlots, we came.

And I’m having a blast.

I’ve danced with Thea for half the night. We’ve drunk and danced and laughed, but she got pulled away by some stranger two songs ago and before I could follow, I had a stranger of my own wanting to dance.

So I did, letting them help forget what a tailspin my life has taken in the recent weeks and enjoying tonight as if it might be my last.

And it very well could be.

No doubt Noah knows I left.

He didn’t really think I was going to listen, right?

If he didn’t know I left as soon as I got in the elevator, he found out when I slipped the shadows he assigned to me. That’s right, I get put on house arrest and receive two bodyguards.

How lucky am I?

As soon as I lost the guards, they probably alerted Noah to what I’m doing. Oh well. I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

My guy’s hands snake lower, down my sides and over my hips. He pulls me closer as I feel his lips graze the side of my neck.

I wish I could make myself lean into him, but I can’t.

His touch is wrong.

Nice and welcomed, but so wrong. Subtle, not demanding.

Leading but not wielding.

He doesn’t hold me like he can’t help himself, drawing himself to me like a magnet.

His touch doesn’t hold power.

His touch isn’t Noah’s.

And that’s the root of the problem.

I crave the touch of a man who sends me spiraling with a single glare and ignites me with a passing touch.

I don’t have that man right now, though, so I search for those feelings in the one I have, leaning into him—pushing aside who I want for what I have.

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