Page 13 of Man of Lies

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" he asked in a clipped voice.

"Yeah," I said, giving him a slow once-over and letting my eyes catch on the spot where sweat had soaked through his shirt, just below the collarbone. "But you keep coming back."

The way his jaw ticked told me I'd hit a nerve. Good. I was pissed too. Mostly at myself for thinking I could afford to toy with someone like him. I wasn't exactly settled. Hell, I never was. I could be gone any day—new name, city, and story. That's the job. People like me didn't stick around. We didn't put down roots or build lives, and we sure as hell didn't get tangled up with men like Mason Beaufort.

I'd heard that name on day one. Five boys, all adopted by some rich, reclusive hardass who raised them into damn legends. Depending on who I asked, they were either saints or criminals. Maybe both. Either way, they were untouchable.

I didn't know all of them, but I'd heard enough to stay cautious. Dominic was the real one to watch, polished on the outside, but there were whispers about the organization he ran out of his high-end restaurant, Saxa Fracta. He was the kind of man who smiled while he buried the bodies.

Mason was different. Whenever he was around, something in me snapped awake. Maybe that made me selfish, but hell—when he was close, the guilt went quiet. The emptiness didn't hollow me out so bad.

I craved that feeling like a goddamn drug, and just like any drug, I knew it'd ruin me if I let it.

"So that's it?" he snapped. "'Screw you, I do what I want'?That's all you've got for me?"

"That's all you get," I said sharply. "We're not friends. Just because I let you get on your knees last night doesn't mean I owe you anything."

The look he gave me could've carved bone. Fury: plain, cutting, and satisfying in a twisted way.

"You're unbelievable."

"No," I drawled, tilting my head. "What's unbelievable is you standing here acting like this place just started smelling bad. You knew what it was the second you walked in. You're not pissed because it's dirty. You're pissed because you let someone like me put his hands on you."

His shoulders went tight and his mouth twitched. Just a quick tick, like he was choking down what he truly wanted to say. "You think you've got me all figured out, huh?"

I leaned back against the bike, arms crossed, grinning slow and mean. "Pretty sure."

"You think I grew up with a silver spoon? That I look down on anyone living rough?" That tone, quiet and cutting, had my dick twitching before my brain caught up. "I grew up in a trailer with roaches in the walls and duct tape holding the place together. My brother and I used to wrap our sleeping bags around our heads to keep bugs out of our ears. Getting tossed into the system could've broken us. Instead, we got lucky."

His eyes pinned me. "But even if I'd never met Boone Beaufort—if I was still out there busting windows for pocket money? I'd still draw the line at hurting people who can't fight back."

I didn't blink. I'd been looked down on by better men, and I sure as hell wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

"Yeah, well. Congrats. You won the jackpot. But you were still a kid when that rich old bastard scooped you up. You never had to check the felon box just to flip burgers. So don't judge me for surviving my way."

"Your record's not the problem." Mason closed the distance, and suddenly, he was right there, stepping over one of my outstretched legs until he was nearly straddling my thigh.

My pulse jumped, but I held still. Let him make the next move.

He leaned in, his pricey cologne curling through the heat between us, all clean spice and money. It wrapped around me like a warning.

"It's how you treat the people around you," he said, voice low. "How you let them get hurt and don't lift a finger to stop it.Because you let it happen and pretend that's not the same as doing it yourself."

My hands curled into fists, but I didn't rise to the bait. Couldn't.

His breath ghosted over my cheek, eyes locked on mine, and the heat rolling off him was enough to make the Louisiana sun feel polite.

"You're a pussy, McKenna," he said, almost whispering now. "And if you don't clean your own house, you're going to call down interest you're not equipped to handle."

This was bad. I should've told him to turn around and walk away. Should've shoved him back, gone inside, locked the door.

Instead, I grabbed him by the jaw, fingers digging in just enough to feel the throb of his pulse beneath my thumb.

"You've got a hell of a mouth, counselor," I growled. "Let's see what else it can do."

Then I kissed him—hard.

He grabbed my shoulders, not to stop me but to keep from losing his footing. His lips opened under mine, hot and biting, and I licked into his mouth, tasting salt and sweat and a hint of coffee lingering on his tongue.

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