Page 38 of Liar Byrd
My hands clutch the basket tighter, a bottle pressing uncomfortably against my belly.
Three men sit around Nash Gabriel’s gigantic office desk, their heads turned to face me.
Hugging the basket of cleaning products with one arm, I yank the earbuds from my ear and fumble to reach the MP3 player to shut off the rock filling up the room. “Sorry. I’ll go.”
“Did Nance ask you to clean in here?” Nash asks.
Two men sit on the other side of his desk, but I can only focus on one of them.
He’s big.
Shaved dark blond hair. Tattoos creep up thick forearms and disappear under his T-shirt. But it’s his eyes that terrify me the most.
My throat tightens, and memories rip me into the past.
Big men remind me of the compound.
Of Jeremiah and his acolytes.
Of helplessness and fear.
Of never being strong enough to fight back when Jeremiah would?—
“Hey there, darlin’,” he says.
The basket slips from my arms and slams to the ground. Bottles, clothes, and sponges scatter.
A chair leg scrapes across the hardwood floors as I bend down to grab everything. It’s him. The biggest one. The type of man Jeremiah has taught me to fear.
“I’ll help.” His voice is a deep Southern drawl.
“I-I’ve got it,” I stutter as I drag bottles closer, stuffing them into my basket while keeping a close eye on him.
They’re all watching me.
I’m sweating, desperate to get out, but I can’t leave all this stuff on the floor. Shit, is something leaking?
Nash is frowning at me from his seat. “I can?—”
“I’ve got it,” I snap at him and immediately cringe.
You don’t snap at your employer when he’s the only thing standing between you and darkness. Back in the compound, life was pitch black darkness. I can’t go back to that.
Not again.
The awkward silence stretches out for an eternity.
Conscious they’re watching me, I fumble with the bottle of cleaning spray, stuffing it into a basket that suddenly seems too small to contain everything.
A memory inserts itself into my mind without warning.
The gardener said something about a murder. So did the grocery store owner when he warned me away from this place. The woman I asked for directions seemed happy to help until she knew where I wanted to go.
Is one of them a killer?
My eyes betray me, darting to the table—tohim. Those powerful muscles. That intense amber gaze. That hint of a beard. The look of a man who always gets what he wants.
“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” Nash asks.
