Page 11 of Man of Lies

I shook my head, pushing the memory down. "Nothing worth mentioning."

"That a fact?" he murmured, his pale eyes studying me with that cold, calculating look he always had when sizing up a problem.

I met his gaze head-on, holding my ground and bluffing my way through it. After a moment, he just shrugged, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture that said he wasn't buying it, but he didn't care enough to push.

"Keep your ears open, anyway," he said coolly. "Maybe stop by the place on your bike and unofficially check it out for me. I've got a feeling that place is hiding something big."

"Sure," I said faintly.

Silas was exactly the kind of man who belonged in Colt's crosshairs. Not the type who should even know my name—let alone say it the way he did. The fact that he did left me feeling exposed, like I'd stepped out of the role I was supposed to be playing and into something dangerous.

If Colt ever found out…God help me.

Chapter Six

SILAS

The sun hunghuge and heavy in the late afternoon sky, baking the gravel lot into a spiderweb of cracks. It wasn't even real summer yet, and the tufts of pokeweed along the edges were already drooping, their glossy leaves curling inward like they were trying to escape the heat.

Sweat rolled down my bare back, soaking into the waistband of my jeans, but I didn't mind. Louisiana heat didn't leave much room for complaint. You either made peace with it or you learned to suffer.

Still better than the stench inside: beer, piss, and regret, all marinated under decades of cigarette smoke.

The bar was quiet for now. Just a couple of old-timers nursing warm beers and older grudges. Middle-of-the-afternoon crowd. Harmless, mostly. Easy enough for Hank, my part-time bartender, to handle on his own.

Real trouble didn't roll in until after dark. That's when the parking lot turned into a market for things I wasn't supposed tosee—buyers, sellers, runners. I didn't like it—hell, I hated it—but my hands were tied. This job was all I had.

Turning a blind eye to the quiet shuffle of product was one thing. But when that product had a heartbeat? That was different. But what was I supposed to do when even the sheriff looked the other way?

The best I could manage was reaching some of the girls before someone else did. The cot in the back room was always there. Open to anyone who needed it—not just sexy, blue-eyed lawyers.

Vanderhoff liked to imagine he ran this town, but as far as I could tell, he was just a stooge—and crooked as a cracked compass. Best-case, he buried his head in the sand to avoid admitting Devil's Garden had gone to hell on his watch. Worst case? He was on the payroll of whoever actually pulled the strings.

My rap sheet had guaranteed he'd hate my guts from the jump, and he didn't bother pretending otherwise. First time we met, he'd made it clear—cause trouble, and he would throw me in a cell without blinking.

So, I kept my head down. Watched the wrong people get hurt. Let things slide. And every damn day, I felt it stacking up—quiet, steady, and heavy as a body count.

I put a bit too much force into the torque wrench, and it gave a sharp, satisfying click as the bolt locked down. Probably tighter than it needed to be, but I didn't care. The chain tension had been off—I'd felt it last night while chasing Mason through the backroads. A loose chain meant slipping or worse, especially with how I pushed this bike.

The Scout was my pride and joy, a sleek beast I'd built with my own hands, and the only thing that followed me between jobs. Closest thing I'd ever had to a stable relationship.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, and I looked up fast. It paid to stay alert in a place like this. In the reflection of my side mirror, a sports car glided into a shady patch beneath a sweetgum and parked. Real subtle.

If Mason thought that car was incognito in a town like this, he was out of his damn mind. The cherry-red Porsche stuck out like a sore thumb—shiny and spotless in a place where most vehicles were patched together with duct tape and prayer.

Last night, I figured I'd chased him off for good. Guess not. Here he was, back for more, pulling in with that polished machine of his purring like he'd just driven it from a showroom.

I was still shirtless, slick with sweat under the punishing sun, and I'd bet good money he noticed. I lifted my ponytail off my neck and crouched to check the next bolt—nonchalant but angled just right. Let him look. I wasn't shy about being watched. Years of practice made that easy. What mattered was making sure they only saw what I let them.

Without looking over my shoulder, I called out, "You lost, counselor, or just looking for a repeat performance?"

Silence. Then the creak of the car door, followed by the crunch of gravel under expensive loafers.

I leaned against the bike, wiping grease from my hands, and let my eyes drag over his body's long, lean lines. He always dressed like he had something to prove—tailored, sharp, every detail calculated. But Jesus, he wore it well.

No tie today. Top two buttons undone, just enough skin to catch the eye and fuck with my focus. The man could probably make a spreadsheet look sexy.

He didn't just get under my skin—he scraped something out of me. Every time he got close, the part of me that knew better shut down.

---