Page 61 of No More Secrets

His second chance.

Murderers don’t deserve second chances.

He also doesn’t deserve Lily’s forgiveness. Though he craves it deeply. He wants to believe he is the person Ivy and Shiloh see him as: a good man.

He wants absolution.

The bartender is a gruff old man with faded military tats and wiry gray arm hair. He serves Lucas his drinks, then leaves him alone to tangle with his demons, retreating to the far side of the bar where another veteran is seated nursing a Miller Lite. They pick up their conversation where they left off when Lucas entered the bar.

Lucas looks blankly at the order in front of him. Who is he kidding? He’s not a role model. He can’t return to Shiloh, and he can’t go see his sisters, not with a possible prison sentence hanging over his head. He murdered their father. He isn’t good.

You’re used goods, Carson.Morris’s voice is a sinister whisper in his ear.

He tosses back his shot and guzzles half his beer to wash down the bile the memories of his last day in juvenile detention always induce. His tattoo draws his gaze when he lifts the bottle to his mouth, and he’s reminded that he’s weak. A coward. He couldn’t go through with theattempt on his life the one time he tried because it was the only way he believed he could shut up Morris Stanton’s taunts in his head.

He’s weak because he couldn’t defend himself that day Morris and his gang cornered him in the detention center’s mess hall. Every day Lucas sees that weak kid he was at sixteen, restrained on the ground while a meaty hand pressed his skull against the scuffed linoleum and someone else stuffed a humid, sweaty sock into his mouth so he couldn’t shout for help. More hands stripping him of his clothes. Hands, hands everywhere. To this day he sees himself as the same loser who spent his middle and high school years conditioning for football and studying martial arts but couldn’t fend off five untrained guys.

No, he is not a good man.

He’s a coward drowning in liquid courage who never had the strength to stand up for himself. To go after what he wants.

He’s also tired of running. Tired of bearing the weight of his secrets. So he drinks, and drinks. Because the only place for guys like him is hell.

A beer shy of a six-pack in and a half-dozen shots later, Zea enters the bar. He senses her before he sees her, the air going still upon her arrival, like the millisecond of absolute silence before the sound barrier is broken. She settles on the stool beside him. He’s been expecting her, almost relieved to see her. It means he doesn’t have to run anymore. He may even stop feeling guilty about his mistakes and give himself permission to grieve over the time lost with Lily and the injustices done to him. But his pulse speeds up, and he starts to sweat all the same.

“’Bout time you got here.” He tips back what’s left of his beer, knowing it’s the end of the road for him, and flags the bartender.

She hums, glancing at him, but doesn’t say anything further.

“How was dinner?” he asks conversationally, as if a criminal having a drink with his bounty hunter is completely normal. Inside, he’s a perfect storm of fear and resignation. It’s high time he faced his past, but doing so scares the hell out of him. So does the inevitable: prison.

But he’s so damn tired of trying to stay one step ahead of his shame and remorse and the law. He’s just exhausted.

“Great. The meatloaf was huge.” She flattens her hands on the bar top, drawing his gaze. Her nails are blunt, smoothly filed, and her fingers long and sleek, almost too delicate for how tough and strong he suspects she is. He has the inexplicable urge to trace her fingers with his, then lay his hand over hers. Will her skin warm his palm? Will she let him hold her hand? And why does he have such a pressing need to touch her when others repulse him?

“Does Ivy always cook like that? Enough for an army?”

He lifts his head to meet her eyes and frowns. He didn’t notice before her eyes were such a soft brown. She repeats the question. He clears his throat, trying to focus. “Yep. Nobody starves on her watch.” Ivy was the mother he never had. He hopes she finds a buyer for the property and can take that cruise around the world she’s been wanting.

He wishes he could buy the building from her, to have something to nurture and reshape that he can call his own.

The bartender approaches. “Another round?”

Lucas nods and tilts his head toward Zea, or Sophie. Whatever her name is. The bartender looks at her.

“Soda water and lime, please,” she says.

“Coming right up.” He pats the wood surface, then pulls a beer from the fridge behind him and gives it to Lucas after popping the top. Then he pours a shot of Cuervo, which Lucas tosses back before Sophie takes the first sip of her drink.

He slides the empty shot glass across the bar. “How long do I have before the police arrive?”

She spares him a glance. “Excuse me?”

No more secrets. He’s through. “I know your name isn’t Zea. You’re Sophie Renau, and you’re a bounty hunter.”

She blinks in surprise but recovers quickly. Biting into her bottom lip, she pushes her glass aside. “I wondered what happened to my wallet. When did you steal it?”

He smirks, unwilling to be baited into throwing Shiloh under the bus. “You’ll probably find it under the steps at the apartment.” Her eyes narrow, and he tips back a mouthful of beer, holding her gaze. “So how much time do I have?”

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