Page 14 of Man of Lies

He caught my bottom lip with his teeth, dragging just enough to make my blood spike, but he was the one who groaned.

I swallowed the sound like it belonged to me.

Didn't matter who might see. Didn't matter what this meant. All I cared about was his body heat and the way his shirt bunched between my fingers when I pulled him closer.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged and his lips were swollen.

"I never claimed to be the good guy," I rasped.

He dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, watching my mouth like he wasn't done. Then his storm-dark gaze snapped to mine.

"You're a mess, McKenna," he said quietly. "And you're going to take me down with you."

My smirk cut wider to hide the sting. "Probably. But you'll come back anyway."

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Chapter Seven

SILAS

Devil's Gardenat night looked like a knockoff noir set, all shadowed corners, flickering street lamps, and thick, shimmering humidity. But it was more the result of poor city planning than any deliberate attempt at charm. Cracked sidewalks, busted pavement, and a city too broke—or too corrupt—to give a damn.

Downtown put on a quaint little show during the day, with its brick facades, cobblestone charm, and that old art house theater with the broken marquee. But after dark? The place exhaled a different atmosphere. The air was slick with fry oil from nearby food trucks and something sickly-sweet drifting from an open window overhead. Jasmine, maybe. Or cheap perfume.

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my riding jacket and squinted at the string of neon signs bleeding color onto the street. 'Cold Beer' in one window. 'Live Jazz' in another. The club hunched between a pawn shop and a dilapidated convenience store, ivy crawling up the bricks like it was trying to escape the place. If it had a name, I'd never heard it. The brick was crumbling, the awning sagged, and music leaked between gapsin the front door. A saxophone wailed, low and aching, from somewhere inside.

Precisely the kind of place Sylvia liked to haunt.

"You look like hell," she called from one of the wrought-iron patio tables, waving a half-empty martini glass like she was directing traffic.

I wasn't exactly dressed to impress. Clean jeans, black T-shirt, and hair still damp from a post-garage shower were good enough. No matter how hard I scrubbed, the faint scent of grease clung to my skin. But this was Devil's Garden. People asked questions if I showed up in anything fancier than boots and a pulse.

"Yeah? You look gorgeous enough for both of us," I drawled, kissing the layer of makeup on her cheek before pulling out the chair across from her. The legs screeched against the concrete, earning us a few annoyed glances. Sylvia didn't notice or care.

She'd picked the most private table on the patio, tucked behind a dying potted plant and a water feature that sounded like it had a bladder issue. She probably figured the splashing would cover her loose mouth, but it would have me hitting the john before long.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, red nails drumming against her cheek. "That shirt's working overtime, sugar."

I let the comment slide, settling into the chair with a lazy slouch. "Is this a social call, or are you planning to be useful?"

"Don't be mean," she purred. "You love it when I get mouthy."

I loved that she liked to talk. Especially when she thought I was listening for the wrong reasons.

She sat as if people were watching. Chin up, ankles crossed, fingers wrapped around the delicate stem of her martini glass.

The whole scene felt staged for effect. Strings of patio lights stretched between the buildings, casting Sylvia in a warm, almost holy glow. If saints came in the loud, pint-sized variety—tight skirt, knockoff pearls, and perfume I'd smelled from the parking lot. Her dark curls were so stiff with spray, they didn't even wobble when she sneezed.

"Allergies?" I asked.

"I hate jasmine," she muttered, crinkling her nose. "Gives me a headache. You're not worth this level of discomfort, Silas."

"Sweetheart," I drawled, giving her a slow grin. "I'm worth a hell of a lot more."

She gave a snort, just flirty enough to pass for cute, and fanned herself like she was wilting in the heat. All for show. I let the corner of my mouth twitch. She liked to pretend this was a date, and I let her. The performance made her feel in control, and that made her chatty and careless. If she thought my attention meant something...that was her problem, not mine. Letting her believe I cared cost me nothing.

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