Page 48 of Man of Lies

As he slowly sank forward and buried his face against my neck, that was a thought I wasn't ready to examine too hard. I just cupped the back of his neck and pressed a kiss against his temple.

"Go on, sweetheart," I murmured into his ear. "I'm right behind you."

I didn't watch him go. Instead, I picked up his empty water glass, running my thumb over the condensation ring it left behind. I let the water run hot over my hands as I washed the glass, but it didn't do a damn thing to burn away the conflict inside me. I stood there, staring at the water swirling down the sink drain, trying to unstick Marie's words from where they'd lodged inside the hole in my heart. But I couldn't seem to pry them loose.

You might want to consider settling down.

I hadn't had a place I could call my own in years. Maybe ever. Home was just four walls and a name I wore like a jacket that never quite fit. Once an op was finished, there was no one waiting for me. I lived in borrowed spaces, slept in other men's lives, and wore names that weren't my own.

It felt different with Mason.Ifelt different. The way he looked at me in vulnerable moments, those blue eyes blazing with heat and appreciation and a connection that came from a place neither of us understood. It was the closest thing to real I'd ever had.

I gritted my teeth and snapped off the faucet with so much force I was surprised the handle didn't disintegrate in my hand.

He’s in love with you.

I knew liars—I was one. Dominic hadn't been lying. I told myself it didn't matter. I pretended I wasn't standing there straining to hear any sign of him tossing and turning on that rickety old mattress. But I'd counted every second since he shut that door. I wiped down the counter, stacked glasses, and flipped a bar ragover my shoulder. Anything to keep my hands busy and my feet planted behind this bar where I was supposed to be.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen, and I was done pretending.

I scanned the room, taking in the empty tables and freshly swept floor, and headed over to lock the door?—

—and that's when it swung open.

Chapter Twenty-One

SILAS

Gator strolledin like he owned the place, the picture of easy southern charm wrapped around a coiled rattlesnake. His grin was as wide and lazy as a man passing time on a porch swing, but those dead, flint-chip eyes were ice cold when they locked on me.

“We’re using the parking lot for a while,” he announced in a tone that brooked no questions. “Send the regulars out the back way when they leave.”

I tried to catch a glimpse of the parking lot over his shoulder when the door swung open again, but my view was blocked by Cruz and Grady, two of his meanest and most loyal, hard men with harder hands and razorblade smiles. Sylvia stumbled between them, drunk or high, and hanging off them both like a decorative scarf. The second she laid eyes on me, her face lit up like Christmas morning.

“Well, hey there, sugar,” she purred, all drunken seduction and red-lipped smiles. She untangled herself from Cruz just enough to run a hand down the front of my shirt, dragging her nails over the fabric like she was testing the quality of the muscle beneath.“If I’d known we were stopping by, I’d have worn something easier to take off.”

Gator’s smile didn’t slip, but there was a flicker of distaste beneath it as he watched his girl pour herself all over me like she had every intention of making a home here. He let her have her moment, then clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head.

“Sylvia, sweetheart,” he drawled, eyes glinting dangerously. “If I wanted to watch you throw yourself at every man in your path, I’d take you back to Bourbon Street.”

Sylvia ignored Gator completely, pressing herself against me with all the practiced flirtation she knew would get under my skin. Her fingers wandered where they shouldn’t, testing boundaries, but Gator wasn’t bothered by it. He used her as easily as everyone else, playing on her need for attention to keep his men in line. She was a tool, nothing more.

“Grab us a round, McKenna,” Gator commanded, spinning a chair around and slinging himself into it like the place was his personal throne. “And pour yourself one while you’re at it. You’re drinkin’ with us tonight.”

It was framed like an invitation, but we both knew better.

My stomach churned, but not because of Sylvia’s game. It wasn’t because Gator was any more dangerous than usual, either. I could feel the seconds ticking away and my window closing. Dominic’s intel was good, and we were closing in on the drop sites in Mississippi. But he was no closer than I was to learning who was pulling Gator’s strings. If I couldn’t arrange a meeting within the next twenty-four hours, this entire operation wastoast…and the guilt of all the girls who’d slipped through my fingers would eat me alive.

Gator didn’t waste top-shelf whiskey on casual drinking, but he didn’t have the taste of a broke teenager either. So, I grabbed a bottle of Old Forester, poured a couple of glasses, and carried them over to the table, positioning myself so my back was against the wall. Not that it did much good. It was just the four of us, the occasional click of Sylvia feeding the jukebox, and the low pulse of the music.

The bourbon burned on the way down, glowing like a hot coal in my gut, but I barely tasted it. Crazy high tolerance ran in my blood, and I’d trained it even higher over the years. I could snort a line of coke and then throw someone in cuffs while barely feeling the buzz. The glass was just a prop, same as my lazy slouch and ripped jeans, same as the half-lidded look of a man who had all the time in the world to sit and drink with the type of criminals who’d tried to kidnap Ivy.

It was a slow game that required patience, confidence, and just enough recklessness to sell the lie. Eagerness got men killed, but I couldn’t be so cautious that I made them look twice. The trick was to sit just deep enough in the filth to make them believe I reluctantly belonged there, just like the rest of them.

But time wasn’t on my side.

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