Page 3 of Man of Lies

Sometimes, I almost believed I could.

Then I caught a flash of light in my sidemirror.Another motorcycle, coming upfast.

My stomach bottomed out.

The bike growled as I pushed it harder, speedometer climbing, yellow line blurring beneath my tires.

But it wasn't enough. It never was.

Chapter Two

SILAS

The beautiful bastardwas going to get himself killed. He was leaning into every turn like he was trying to kiss the asphalt, as if he had something to prove.

I kept close enough to catch the flare of that damn Ducati's tail light but far enough to stay off his radar. Keeping pace was easy; tracking someone who didn't want to be followed was second nature by now. Even when they tried to outrun me.

My bike growled steadily beneath me, perfectly contrasting with the Ducati's shrill, aggressive scream. Beneath those starched suits, Mr. Attorney was all flash and speed—a high-strung showoff on two wheels. My custom Scout wasn't built to match his pace, but it had muscle where it counted.

So did I.

The heat never let up. Not even at night. After more than a year stuck in the Louisiana backwoods, I should've been used to it, but thick, swampy air clung to my skin beneath my jacket.The only relief came from speed—the rush of wind whipping past, carrying the reek of damp earth and sunbaked asphalt.

I kept my eyes on him—always on him—watching as he punished that bike like it owed him money.That kind of reckless riding didn't come without a cost. The bike would take its pound of flesh soon enough.

For a man who kept his mouth shut and his cards close, Mason Beaufort was an easy read. At least, for me. I knew the type. He carried too much in his head with nowhere to put it, so he flirted with trouble like me, or with death on the back of a machine more than capable of granting it.

Idiot.

I had no business messing with him. He wasn't like the usual lowlifes and lost souls that drifted through my roadhouse—he was finer than that, sharper in ways that had nothing to do with the cut of his suits. I knew better than to get involved with a man like him. Letting anyone in was a risk I couldn't afford. Not here, especially now, when I was walking a line I knew wouldn't hold forever. But Mason kept coming back. And I kept letting him.

I didn't even know why.

He was attractive in a clean-cut, conventional way I'd never gone for before. Half the time, I couldn't tell if he was fit or just wiry; those expensive suits hid everything. His black hair was always styled as if he didn't want anyone to see it undone, which only made me want to wreck it more, just to see it wild. Too many office fluorescents and not enough sun had left him pale, but his blue eyes burned like the center flame of a gas burner. And those glasses—wire-rimmed, severe, and a full-on kink all by themselves. Whenever he pushed them up his nose, I had to fight the urge to bend him over something sturdy.

It could be the contradiction that got me. He was so controlled on the surface but absolutely raw underneath. Whatever the reason, I could never tell him to stay away. He was stubborn, arrogant, and too damn pretty for his own good.

But tonight, he was mine to deal with.

The road twisted sharply, and Mason's bike fishtailed across a patch of loose scree. My stomach dropped as the Ducati went into a sudden death wobble.

"Christ," I muttered, gunning the engine to close the distance.

Mason eased up on the throttle and shifted his weight, steadying the bike enough to veer onto a gravel path. I followed, slowing just enough to keep my own tires from skidding. Pokeweed and sedge crowded the path, their wiry stems reaching into the hard-packed dirt where the gravel had thinned to dust. A copse of water oaks and sweetgums tangled together, shielding the path from the empty highway.

His bike rolled to a crawl before stopping just ahead, the engine cutting off with a final, guttural note. He didn't move; he just sat there, shoulders stiff, helmet still on, while I pulled up behind him. Quiet stretched around us. Even the crickets and cicadas had gone silent, smothered by the fading echo of our engines.

At last, he ripped off his helmet and dragged in a breath, but still, he didn't turn. He just sat there, head bowed, like he was thinking too hard—or trying not to think at all.

"Nice show," I said, swinging a leg off my bike. "What's the plan now? Set the bike on fire and walk home?"

He stiffened, but he didn't look at me. "Go away, Silas."

"Not a chance." I leaned against the Scout, arms crossed, leisurely looking him over. "You're lucky you didn't eat it back there. One bad turn, and I'd be scraping you off the pavement. Not exactly my idea of a fun night."

He let out an irritated sigh and finally looked up at me. Moonlight glinted off his glasses, but it couldn't hide the tension tightening the corners of his eyes. "Why are you following me?"

"Somebody's got to keep you from turning yourself into roadkill."

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