Page 50 of Man of Lies

I ran my tongue over my teeth, not breaking eye contact with Mason. For a fleeting second, I hoped he’d take the hint. I was giving him an out; all he had to do was walk his ass back to bed before this got any more complicated. I’d clear the air later. But no, complicated was Mason’s middle name. So, he pulled out an empty chair and seated himself at the table.

He didn’t look at me, and he sure as hell didn’t look at Sylvia hanging off me like a damn ornament. Instead, he reached for the bottle and turned it once between his fingers to check the label. Like the brand mattered at all.

“Yeah, well, he feeds me,” he said dryly, taking a long, unapologetic gulp straight from the bottle. “Jury’s still out on whether I’m staying.”

To anyone else, he probably looked posh and relaxed, even in his wrinkled dress shirt. But I wasn’t anyone else. I knew him—and I knew he didn’t drink. But here he was, tipping back a bottle, and fury was eating him up from the inside. His shoulders were locked, rigid with tension, and though his mouth stayed neutral, his jaw was wired tight like he was fighting to keep from saying something he’d regret.

He still hadn’t looked directly at me, and I didn’t push for it. I had a sinking feeling that once he did, I’d find out exactly how much damage I’d done.

He was out to prove himself, or maybe to punish himself for ever falling for an asshole like me.

Gator’s eyes twinkled with amusement, and I clocked the exact instant he decided to toy with us. He leaned forward, grinning wolfishly, like we were all just a bunch of good ol’ boys swapping stories.

“Now, this is interesting,” he drawled, plucking the bottle from Mason’s grasp and pouring it into an extra glass. He slid the glass across the table. Mason stopped it without breaking eye contact. “You don’t strike me as the type to drink with the likes of us, Beaufort. Thought y’all preferred the finer things. Countryclubs, offshore accounts, getting away with murder. Oh—wait. Strike that. One of you did hard time, right?”

Laughter rippled around the table, but I didn’t join in. An ugly undercurrent ran beneath it, an energy that reminded me of a wolfpack catching the scent of something they’d tear apart just for fun.

“Come on, Beaufort,” Gator pressed, grinning like he was starting to enjoy himself for the first time tonight. “What’s it like being the only one of your brothers who still pretends to give a damn about the law?”

I couldn’t take my eyes off Mason. Gator was testing him, and I wanted to see if he had any goddamn sense at all—or if he was about to make this night worse.

Mason took the glass, his eyes locked on Gator’s, not bothering to look my way. He didn’t rush to answer, letting the silence stretch as he took a slow sip. Setting the glass down, he finally spoke, his tone steady. “I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. But you already knew that. You’re better off worrying about the ones who do.”

Was that a jibe at me? I tilted my head, wondering if he was trying to slide one past me, but he wasn’t giving me a damn thing. No change in his face, no flicker in those eyes, just that steady, cool mask he always wore. Whatever game he was playing, it wasn’t one I could read. And that left me with a prickling discomfort I didn’t like.

Sylvia was still taking up space on my lap, but her arms around my neck had loosened, and there was a greedy gleam in her eyes as she watched Mason. He cut her a scathing glance…and she practically melted.

“Oh, honey,” she purred, leaning forward just enough that her tits spilled over the edge of her push-up bra. “Youarea treat. Nobody’s talked to Gator like that in years.”

Gator crooked a dark brow at Sylvia, more amused than insulted by her antics. “Jesus, Syl. You gonna flirt with every man who pisses me off or just the pretty ones?”

“Oh, let me keep him,” she pouted, fixing her smeared red lipstick with the tip of her acrylic nail.

“They say Boone Beaufort only adopted fags,” Gator remarked, hiding his smirk behind his hand as he rubbed his chin.

“So? I like a challenge.” She gave my chest one lingering stroke before hopping off my lap and slipping like silk onto Mason’s. She draped herself over him like a cat in heat, legs slung over his thighs, arms around his neck like she was confident in her reception.“Mmm,”she hummed, brushing her nose against his collar. “He smells nice, too.”

Yeah, goddammit, he did.

Mason didn’t push her off him. Hell, he didn’t even stiffen up, not like he used to do with me every time I touched him. Instead, he played into the part, reclining like an indolent rich boy beneath her attention. His fingers were curled loosely around his glass, but his other arm wrapped around her waist, fingers splayed like a casual afterthought, as if he were a man used to women throwing themselves at him.

I should’ve looked away. But I couldn’t. I watched the way Mason’s lips met the rim of the glass, tracked the shift of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, listened to the faint hitch of his breath when Sylvia took his earlobe between her teeth.

At first, I didn’t recognize the emotion taking over. It wasn’t jealousy; it was darker than that, possessive, a wire tightening around my throat, choking me, making every breath feel wrong. It refused to ease up, no matter how hard I swallowed.

He was too damn pretty for a place like this, too clean-cut and pristine to be surrounded by criminals who made their livings off the backs of people like him. He shouldn’t be sitting there so politely, letting her touch him like she had the right. I was the one who knew what he felt like beneath my hands. I knew the strength of the muscles under that perfect, tailored exterior, and I knew how much fucking heat his body put off when he was wound up.

My body was already reacting like some dumb fucking animal. I wanted to drag him away, press him against something solid, and make him forget he’d ever been touched by anyone else.

Mason must have felt my stare burning into the side of his head, but he didn’t even glance my way. I knew the game he was playing, and I hated it. Even though I knew he was screwing with me on purpose, it took everything I had not to break the glass in my hand.

Gator pulled his phone from his pocket and lazily tapped out a message with one thumb. Then he tucked it back in his pocket and slid me a crooked smirk. “Told our friend not to bother tonight,” he said smoothly. “Looks like you’ve got enough on your hands already.”

Rage licked up my spine, a sharp pressure at the base of my skull, burning through the last thread of patience I had left.

That was my last chance—gone. More than a fucking year of painstakingly crawling through the filth of this place. Hourssacrificing my conscience and my dignity, stitching lies together and hoping they were believable enough to keep my head from getting caved in. Just when I’d finally gotten close to a solid lead, Mason walked in here, poured himself a drink, and ruined my goddamn night.

And he knew it.

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