Page 34 of Man of Lies

This wasn’t part of the plan. I’d been holding onto this debt since the night I forced him to his knees and never repaid the favor, but a quick fuck in the dark wasn’t good enough. Not for him. Not for me. I’d taken the edge off for him, but now I wanted more.

I guided his hands away, caught them in one of mine, and pressed them flat to his thighs. “I want to bring you home,” I said gently. “In my bed. Under my sheets. Buried deep inside you ’til morning.”

Mason wiped his hands on the cloth and tugged his shirt over his head in one smooth pull. He was turning it over in his mind, avoiding my eyes as he calculated the risk, putting distance between us now that he’d gotten a little post-nut clarity.

“Doesn’t sound like keeping things simple,” he muttered.

“It can be the simplest thing in the world if we let it,” I said, stepping off the bike. My knees popped as I stretched, stiff from sitting backward for too long. I rolled my shoulders, twisting out the tightness, letting him look his fill. “Think you can keep your hands to yourself on the ride back, counselor?”

His snort was soft and biting. “Thinkyoucan?”

I settled in front of him, and his hands rested lightly on my waist, like he was still not sure he had the right to touch me. That didn’t cut it. Not at this stage. I reached back, caught his wrists, and tugged his arms forward until they locked around me.

The engine came alive beneath us, a low growl that rippled through the bones. I let it hum, let the vibration settle between us, then turned my head just enough for my voice to carry.

“Not a fucking chance.”

Chapter Sixteen

MASON

This was happening.Finally.

The Dead End had never felt this quiet. Even when I rolled off the borrowed cot at the crack of dawn, shaking off a few restless hours of sleep, there was always something to fill the silence: a garbage truck rattling the dumpster, the rumble of hungover bikers, or some sorry chump puking in the parking lot.

But tonight, the lot was empty, no idling engines or drunken laughter bleeding through the back door. Just the whine of cicadas in the grass and the hum of power lines overhead, buzzing like static in my ears.

I followed Silas up the back steps. The dark was so thick I couldn't even see my own hands, so I followed the sound of rotting wooden steps creaking beneath his boots. A single door waited at the top, cheap and weathered and peeling in strips, but the lock was solid and expensive. Not the kind of hardware people installed unless they had something worth protecting.

Silas slipped a key into the deadbolt and glanced back at me, eyes catching what little light there was, like he was checking to see if I'd changed my mind.

I hadn't.

The apartment wasn't much bigger than my bedroom, but what struck me wasn't the size. It was the emptiness; not the kind that came from laziness or indifference, but the kind that said: don't get attached. The man who lived here hadn't put down roots. He hadn't even tried.

The walls were so bare, I couldn't find a single bent nail or sun-faded outline where a picture might've hung. A two-top table huddled against the wall in one corner, smaller than the desk I'd used in high school. The kitchenette was stripped to the studs and equipped with nothing but a coffee maker, a microwave, and a mini fridge that looked like the place where takeout containers went to die. No dishes. No scent of food or spice. No sign of a life in motion—just the hollow stillness of someone who never meant to stay.

I turned a slow circle, taking it all in. "You move in straight from lockup? Because this place has all the personality of a goddamn holding cell."

Silas snorted and tossed his keys onto the table with a metallic clatter. "Yeah, actually."

That gave me pause. I hadn't expected him to admit it so easily.

"You never mentioned what you were in for," I said, keeping my tone casual, like I wasn't tracking every detail.

Silas took his sweet time answering. He shucked off his riding jacket and tossed it over the back of one of the dining chairs,slinging the scent of smoke and leather with it. Then he peeled off his gloves, working the fingers loose one by one, and dropped them beside his keys. The veins in his forearms stood out in stark relief as he leaned into the chair, weight braced on his arms, head bowed like he was giving the truth a moment to settle.

"Armed robbery," he said finally.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but it wasn't that. No matter how I looked at it, it didn't suit. Silas was reckless, yes, and he didn't shy away from violence. But he wasn't chaotic, and he wasn't greedy. He played the long game. Nothing about him suggested the kind of desperation that came with pulling a weapon and demanding cash. My instincts, the same ones that kept me one step ahead in court, were sounding alarms.

I crossed my arms and waited, giving him room to elaborate. Over the years, I'd learned that silence was its own form of pressure. People rushed to fill it. I'd been reading moods since I was a kid, learning when it was safe to speak, prudent to stay quiet, and when the only choice to survive was to lie. Those skills had shaped me and turned me into someone who could see straight through most people.

But not Silas.

He met my gaze without blinking. His expression was smooth and untroubled. Free of any sign of guilt.

"Who did you rob?" I asked, carefully. Not because I thought he'd answer—but because I needed to know how far he'd take the lie.

---