Page 15 of Man of Lies

A passing waiter in suspenders gave me a nod, and I ordered a stout without looking at the menu. Sylvia was already talking again, filling the space with gossip, complaints, and backhanded flattery while I smiled and egged her on.

"How's the new place?" I asked, settling back in my chair like this was just another night and not a slow walk through a minefield.

She made a face, all dramatic eye-roll and delicate disgust, then flicked at some invisible lint on her skirt like it had personally offended her. "Didn't last," she said, pursing her glossy lips. "Roommates wanted more benefits than rent could cover."

I didn't ask what kind. Everyone knew Sylvia wasn't shy about spreading her affection, so long as there was something in it for her. Apparently, a two-bedroom condo split four ways didn't rate.

My eyes narrowed. "So you're back with Gator."

She didn't answer immediately, buying time with a slow sip from her drink. Her lipstick left a perfect crescent on the rim. "Didn't say that," she murmured.

"You didn't have to."

She watched me over the rim of her glass, her gaze sharp beneath the flutter of false lashes. She liked to play dumb, almost reveling in how people underestimated her. But she knew better with me.

"You always were good at reading between the lines," she said. "Must be why Gator doesn't trust you."

I flashed my teeth in a grin that felt too wolfish around the edges. "He trusts you?"

That earned a genuine laugh, but it was dry and humorless, the only kind her unhappy soul knew how to make. "Sweetheart, Gator doesn't trust anyone. But he likes the way I look when I lie."

I didn't doubt it. Sylvia was built for deception—soft curves, big eyes, and just enough charm for a man to forget she had teeth. Even I caught myself thinking of her fondly now and then.

"And how do you look when you tell the truth?" I asked, just to see how she'd answer.

She leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table, her voice dropping to something silkier. "I guess we'll find out."

I let that sit for a beat, then tilted my glass toward her. "So, do I need to buy you a second round before you're in a sharing mood?"

Sylvia traced a lazy circle on the rim of her glass, eyes following the motion like she was somewhere else in her mind. Her rings clinked against the crystal, loud in the hush of conversation filling the patio.

"Gator's in one of his moods," she said finally, and my ears perked up at the peevish edge creeping into her tone. "Snapped at one of the runners last night for looking at him too long. Poor kid couldn't've been more than sixteen. I thought he was gonna piss himself."

She took a hefty sip of her martini, setting the glass down with too much care—like she wanted to break it, but not yet. "He gets like that sometimes. Meaner than a two-headed snake. Ever since we got back together, he's been treating me like furniture. Sit pretty, stay quiet, don't get in the way. In my own damn house."

I didn't say a word. Just sipped the foam off the top of my stout and waited. Sylvia didn't do well with silence—it made her nervous.

She glanced at me beneath her lashes, then dropped her gaze like she was reconsidering. "I shouldn't be saying any of this."

"You haven't said anything yet."

She tipped her head back and cracked out a bitter laugh that was too shrill and went on just a little too long. When she'd finished, all the mirth was gone from her face. "He started keeping two phones again," she said softly, wiping a fingernail at the corner of one eye. "You know what that means."

"It means he's nervous," I said, carefully. "Nervous men make mistakes."

She gave me a sidelong glance. "So do the people standing too close when the hammer drops."

"Sounds like you're looking for an exit," I said, tilting my glass in a mock salute.

She didn't deny it.

Instead, she leaned back and exhaled through her nose, like something was pressing in on her ribcage. "Word is there's a task force out of Baton Rouge sniffing around. State-level. Nobody knows who sent them or what they're after, but Gator's spooked. Real spooked. Bury-your-burner kind of spooked."

I nodded slowly and let my gaze drift across the patio, casually clocking the couples at nearby tables like I wasn't listening too hard. Eagerness didn't play well with this crowd.

"They digging into his operation?" I asked, watching as an old woman in a floral sundress slipped scraps to a dachshund under her chair.

"Depends who you ask." She stirred her drink with a chipped pinkie nail. "Some say it's about the drugs. Others think it's the girls."

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