Page 7 of Man of Lies

All so he wouldn't drag me down with him.

He'd barely found his footing as a civilian before they tossed him in a cell for saving Gage's life. All it took was one wrong blow when Gage's old man came at him with drunken rage and a gun. The bastard went down and didn't get back up, and Ben's self-defense claim crumbled when the gun disappeared. He did five years; it would've been life if my buddy Colton hadn't turned up the missing weapon.

Ben had been granted supervised release—but not freedom. His original conviction hadn't been vacated, just called into question, which meant he was stuck in limbo while the post-conviction review dragged on. The court hadn't overturned the charges, just loosened the leash to cover their ass. He was out, but only under strict conditions: ankle monitor, regular check-ins, and a curfew tighter than most parolees.

One wrong move and he'd be back behind bars.

Until Ben was safe, I didn't have time to think about anything else—least of all a reckless, leather-clad mistake I couldn't quit despite my best efforts. But this morning, I'd finally exhausted myself enough to silence the craving.

I stalled out on the steps, clutching the handrail, and waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. My whole focus narrowed to the fridge inside the house—Gatorade, water, salt, anything to keep my legs from locking up before I could drag myself to the shower.

"What, you training for a marathon?"

I dragged my head up, still catching my breath, and spotted Gage sprawled on the porch swing like he didn't have a care in the world. Damn near gave me a heart attack.

Barefoot, shirtless, and sunk deep into the cushions of the swing, he looked like he'd either just rolled out of bed or never made it there in the first place. A half-eaten piece of cold fried chicken dangled from his fingers, grease shining on his knuckles.

I swallowed hard, but my throat was still dry as hell. "Something like that."

"Figures," Gage muttered, resting an arm over the back of the swing. "You keep pushing yourself like this, you're gonna drop dead before forty."

I dragged a wrist across my forehead and shot my youngest brother a dry look. "Then I'd better make this decade count."

Gage snorted, stripping a bite of chicken from the bone. "Yeah, well, let me know if you need help picking your headstone. I know a nice little grassy spot in the family cemetery. Right beside Boone. You two always had the most in common. Workaholics with a martyr complex. Never let anybody help 'til it's too late."

I squinted and looked away, past the edge of the porch where dawn had just started painting gold on the treetops. Sweat was cooling fast on my skin, leaving me clammy, every inch of me aching from the miles I'd used to punish myself. I flexed my tingling fingers, shaking out the lingering tremor. The worst part wasn't the exhaustion—it was knowing it wouldn't last.

The swing creaked as Gage rocked it with the lazy drag of his foot across the porch planks.

"I get it, you know," he said after a pause, sounding like he'd rather be prying his nails out with rusty pliers than having any kind of heart-to-heart. "You think if you keep moving, nothing can catch up. But you can't outrun the past. Trust me. I oughta know."

"I'm not running from anything," I muttered, flicking him an annoyed glance.

Gage made a skeptical noise, tearing off the last bite of chicken before wrapping the bone in a napkin. "Yeah? Then what the hell do you call this?" He waved a hand at me—sweat-soaked, shaking, and still gasping like I'd just gone twelve rounds with my own demons.

"I call it doing what needs to be done." I dragged a wrist across my forehead, flicking sweat onto the steps. "Gideon won't touch paperwork, and the foster program's got me running in and out of court every week. And let's be real—you and Dom flirt with trouble like it's a goddamn first date. Somebody's got to clean up the mess."

Gage snorted. "Uh-huh. And what's the endgame here? Keep going 'til you drop?"

I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck, rolling tension from my shoulders. "I'll rest when Ben's safe."

Gage's foot stilled against the porch. "And what if that day never comes?" He wasn't teasing now. "What if you fight like hell, do everything right, and it still ain't enough? You gonna run yourself into the ground forever?"

I turned my head just enough to look at him from the corner of my eye. Gage had learned the hard way that not all fights ended clean. Sometimes, you could claw your way out of hell only to find the devil waiting at the exit.

He was our youngest by nearly a decade, but life had put him through the wringer early. For years, he'd been all wild temper and bad decisions, throwing punches at the world like it owed him something. It was good to finally see some peace in his eyes. That was Wyatt's doing. Gage had loved him his whole life, butit wasn't until he stopped running and owned it that he'd finally settled down.

The rest of us weren't likely to be that lucky.

"That's not going to happen," I said flatly. I couldn't afford to believe otherwise.

Gage studied me for a beat, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his unshaven jaw. "Boone used to say the same thing."

"Yeah, well. Good thing I'm not a sixty-year-old with a heart condition."

Gatorade felt like a fever dream for a moment, so I climbed the steps wearily and dropped onto the swing beside Gage. The wood groaned under our combined weight, but neither of us paid any mind. "It's too damn early for your philosophical bullshit," I muttered, bracing my forearms on my knees. "What are you even doing up?"

Gage shot me a look that said he knew exactly what I was doing, but he let it go for once. Instead, he stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles with a sigh. "Ivy had a rough night, so I sat up with her."

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