Page 26 of Man of Lies

I straightened up and cinched the tie at the back of my neck with a sharp tug, more habit than thought. It wasn’t about vanity but about keeping it out of my face. The long hair, though? I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t alittlebit about vanity.

“Look,” I said brusquely, “I don’t mind you using the Dead End as a hub. Hell, it’s worked for both of us so far. But when your crew starts drawing heat, it stops benefiting me and becomes a liability.”

He cocked his head, watching me with those patient, predatory eyes. “What’re you getting at?”

I braced one hand on the door and leaned in slightly to make sure he knew I wasn’t bluffing. “If you want this arrangement to hold, I need some assurance that I won’t be left dealing with the fallout. I’ve got my own priorities.”

His fingers stilled on the wheel, amusement flickering across his face. “You asking for a cut, McKenna?”

I rubbed my thumb over a flake of chipped paint, thinking it over, but I already knew what I wanted—and it wasn’t money.

“I want insurance,” I said slowly. “Loose ends are a liability for someone with my record. If your crew kicks up dust, I need to know whose boots are behind it and who’s paying to sweep it up. That’s not a favor. It’s the price of doing business.”

He tilted his head, considering, and blew a laughing breath. “Okay, McKenna. I’ll take it upstairs. Give me a few days to talk things over with my boss. I’ll make sure you’re covered.”

I gave a single nod and tapped the roof of his truck. “Good. I like the Dead End off the radar.”

Gator’s chuckle followed me as I headed back toward the bar. “You’re a hard man to read, McKenna.”

“That’s the idea,” I called back, keeping my shoulders loose and my pace unhurried. I focused on the crunch of gravel under my boots and ignored the hyena laughter of his pals still loitering by the trucks.

Sylvia was sitting topless on the hood of an old Chevy, letting a guy in a ballcap slurp liquor from between her breasts. I didn’t stop. That was the deal.

It wasn’t until I reached the door that I sensed Gator’s attention slide off my back.

Inside, the Dead End felt smaller than usual. Hank was finishing up, pushing a dirty mop across the floor like he thought elbow grease could fix his mistake. I checked the register and headed toward my office at the back of the bar. It wasn’t much, just a storage room with a desk and a couple of lockboxes, but it was mine, and quiet enough to think.

I dropped into the chair, pulled the bourbon from my desk drawer, and poured a shot into the glass I didn’t bother cleaning. The burn was smoother than the rotgut Gator had been drinking, but it did nothing to clear my head.

Gator had agreed too fast. He never did anything fast, and he always had a price tag.

The only question was what he wanted—and whether I could live with giving it to him.

Chapter Twelve

SILAS

It had beenthree days since that night at the jazz club, and Mason was still haunting me. Not in some soft, poetic sense. More like a tension headache I couldn’t stretch out or a craving I couldn’t shake.

We’d traded a handful of texts, circling each other with the same careful restraint he preferred in person, but something always came up to keep us apart. Work, mostly—or that was just the bullshit excuse he gave me.

Now, sometime past midnight, I was halfway up the gravel drive to the Beaufort estate. I hadn’t told Mason I was coming. If I gave him a heads-up, he’d have time to talk himself out of it—and I wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable.

He’d been clawing at the back of my brain for too long. The taste of him clung to every cup of coffee, the snarl of his breath rode the exhaust on my morning ride, and his scent ghosted the collar of my shirt no matter how many times I changed.

Enough.

The thought of being with him had become the only part of my life that didn’t feel like a performance, and I knew I wasn’t the only one getting frustrated.

Mason didn’t need to say a thing for me to know how much he needed this. Neededme.The man was strung tighter than a tripwire, and he was kidding himself if he thought he could keep that tension locked inside forever.

As the estate emerged through the trees, sprawling and defiant against the dark, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Eden, they called it. I hadn’t explored this half of the parish much, so tonight marked my first in-person glimpse.

I couldn’t decide if it was a disappointment or not.

The house was a paradox of decrepit history and meticulous upkeep, complete with white columns and a wraparound porch too cinematic to be accidental. From a distance, it had the bones of an old southern belle, but the closer I got, the more the cracks began to show. Ivy jammed hooks into the siding, and the wings on the angels flanking the driveway looked like they’d fractured mid-flight.

Any fool could see the place was bleeding money. Most folks would see a relic, past its prime and sliding downhill one slow inch at a time. But even a northerner like me could appreciate the history. It started as a Jesuit monastery back in the French Colonial era, then turned into an orphanage when war and disease left more kids than families, and finally, during the lean years of the Depression, fell into the hands of the Beauforts—one of the few families flush enough to buy property when the Church sold off its holdings. Since then, it had been remodeled, repurposed, rebranded—but never truly changed.

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