Page 11 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Eleven

SILAS

The Dead End was exactly how I’d left it—loud, dark, and stinking of smoke, despite the crooked no-smoking sign nailed over the door. The stench of spilled beer and cheap cologne hit me hard enough to coat the back of my throat, but it was so familiar by this point it was almost comforting.

Technically, the parish had a three a.m. closing law. Not that it mattered. I’d never seen the sheriff’s department enforce more than parking tickets. We kept the taps open until the regulars stumbled out, and judging by the noise, that wasn’t happening any time soon. Some half-dead country-rock track wheezed out of the jukebox, fighting to be heard over the clatter of billiard balls and the scuff of boots on the sticky floor.

Hank was behind the bar, pretending to clean a glass with a rag that looked like the one I used on my bike engine. He glanced up when the door slammed behind me, breaking into that sheepish grin he always wore when he knew he’d fucked something up. Pushing forty and still looking like a kid caught stealing a beer from his old man’s fridge. Too eager to please. Too dumb not to cut corners whenever he could.

“Busy night?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hank shrugged, setting the glass down with a clink. “Eh, the usual. A couple of loudmouths came through, but they bounced early. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” I echoed, strolling behind the bar like I owned the place—because I did—and slinging an arm around his shoulders. I tugged him close to speak low in his ear. “Except I got a call about a girl being hassled in my place while I was gone. Teen. Way too young to be here in the first place.”

Hank’s grin faltered. He started wiping his sweaty palms on his shirtfront in a self-soothing loop. “I didn’t see nothin’ like that. Honest, boss. You know that I keep my head down.”

That was why I’d hired him. Hank never asked questions. He kept the lights on and his mouth shut, which was all I needed.

I leaned close enough to watch the panic pool in his eyes. “Try again,” I drawled. “Who were they?”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing hard, and avoided meeting my eyes. The flush creeping up his neck told me he’d seen more than he wanted to admit. “Just the regulars. The guys who hang around whenever Gator’s crew shows up. You know the ones.”

“Did they say anything?”

Hank hesitated, gaze ping-ponging around the bar as if checking for eavesdroppers. “One of ’em mentioned a late delivery,” he muttered. “Didn’t seem like much at the time.”

“And you didn’t think to call me?” I growled, dropping him so fast that he stumbled back a step. I’d never have known if I hadn’t gotten a heads-up from one of my regulars after Mason ditched me.

He blinked, caught off guard by the coldness in my tone, and retreated further behind the counter. His hapless, hangdog expression triggered violent impulses in me, and I forced myself to draw a steadying breath. “You know how to reach me, Hank. If someone’s running their mouth about drop-offs in my bar, I want to hear about it before it circles back through the swamp.”

Because it always did. Eventually.

If I hadn’t already been on edge from Mason ghosting me, I might’ve let it slide. But now? I wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

I hated to admit it, but what pissed me off the most was that I wouldn’t have done anything different. Even if I’d been standing here when it happened, my hands would’ve stayed in my pockets. I wasn’t in a position to interfere. Not yet. Ultimately, the girls I tried to protect would probably be safer on the street.

Some nights, that sat heavier than others.

Once I’d unclenched my jaw, I clapped him on the back—hard. “From now on, you tell me everything . Right down to how much toilet paper they’re going through. Got me?”

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head fast, practically steaming with relief as he set the smudged glass he’d been cleaning on a nearby shelf. “Then…you probably want to know they came back. The guys, I mean. Not the girl. She’s long gone.”

My focus sharpened. “Where?”

He jerked a thumb toward the rear exit. “Out back. Smoking behind the kitchen, I think.”

I cursed and stripped off my jacket, tossing it into a crate behind the bar without slowing down. The weight of it had started to feel suffocating. I stalked down the narrow hallway toward the exit. The noise faded with every step, but the smell followed me as I shoved through the door.

It was the darkest part of the night, but the air was still dense with the heat of early summer—humid, close, and sticky enough to cling to my skin like a film. Crickets and katydids bickered somewhere in the woods beyond the lot like they had a score to settle. The quiet here wasn’t complete, but it was better than the constant roar of big city traffic.

The lot was a patchwork of cracked asphalt and hard-packed dirt, littered with cigarette butts and crushed beer cans that reflected the lone floodlight I’d mounted near the hidden security camera. At the far end of the lot, the hulking, black-on-black shapes of trucks were parked nose to nose. The headlights were off, but I counted at least six bodies by the amber pinpricks of their joints and cigarettes flaring with each drag. Idling engines offloaded diesel fumes, mixing with the cloying, skunky scent of cheap blunts.

I swatted away a cloud of no-see-ums and strolled lazily toward the trucks. There was no tension in the air, just a low drift of voices broken by an occasional bark of raucous laughter. The easy, familiar routine of a wind-down after a long night of stacking felonies. Business as usual for Gator Hollis and his crew.

Sylvia stood in the thick of it, beer in hand, squealing as a man twice her age shoved his hand up the thigh-high slit in her skirt. Gator liked her out front and dressed to kill, a honeypot with a sharp tongue and a thousand-yard stare who hit every mark without flinching.

I watched her for a moment, not because I wanted to, but because she was impossible to ignore. Despite the tired lines around her eyes, there was a grace to her performance, a zest for life that she hadn’t quite managed to stamp out beneath a spiked heel.

The easy normalcy of it after nearly wrecking a girl’s life churned something hot and angry in my veins. But I was a pro at swallowing it down by now. Didn’t even need to count to ten anymore.

Gator sat behind the wheel of an F-150 he’d parked kitty-corner to the rest for easy escape. One elbow was slung out the open window, the other hand resting lazily on the wheel like he was posing for a country album cover. He always looked like he’d hopped right out of the shower, clean-cut in every sense, with short, neatly combed hair, crisp jeans, and a plaid shirt always rolled to the elbows. The kind of guy who would walk my grandmother to her car and refuse to take a dollar in thanks. A born hand-shaker with a sunny smile and disarming good ol’ boy drawl.

But his eyes gave him away. They barely blinked and never wandered. Predatory and patient, but flat, like two chips of flint set into his sun-tanned face.

He wasn’t loud and crude like his crew; Gator didn’t need to draw attention. He thrived in the space between charm and menace, lulling others into a false sense of security right up until they handed over the knife he’d plunge into their backs.

A grin spread across his face as I approached, easy as butter melting in a skillet, but it didn’t touch those shark-dead eyes. “Well, look who decided to join the party,” he drawled, offering his fist for a bump.

I knocked my fist against his and reached straight into the cab, plucking up the open bottle of whiskey resting near his thigh. The cheap, smoky burn seared the back of my throat. “You know me,” I said, wiping my mouth with my hand. “Always love a party on my own turf.”

Gator chuckled, leaning back against the cracked leather seat like a man who’d never known a worry. “Your turf’s been good to us, McKenna. You know I appreciate the hospitality.”

“Sure,” I said, passing the bottle back and settling against the truck with an ease I never felt around him. “I don’t mind you moving a little product now and then. But I start rethinking our arrangement when that product draws eyes and questions.”

His laughter was a rolling, pleasant sound, but his eyes never blinked. “Ain’t moved a damn thing here all week,” he said, dripping syrup and bullshit. “Been keeping it real low-key, just like we agreed.”

I jerked a thumb at the group over my shoulder, three of Gator’s regular tagalongs, lean and twitchy and laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t funny. “What about them?”

He followed my gaze, and his expression tightened in a flex of disgust before smoothing out in a practiced grin. “I had no part in that, my friend. It wasn’t business. Just too much booze and too little sense. You know how it goes.”

“I got a message that some girl was getting hassled. In my bar. Under my roof,” I said, keeping my eyes on the shifty fucks nearby. A bottle dropped, and the glass shattering was loud enough to clip their conversation short for half a beat. I lowered my voice. “You know how this works, Gator. I don’t stop your people from doing what they do—but I stay in the loop. I know who, when, and where. Especially when it comes to girls. That’s not optional.”

His fingers drummed on the wheel in a rhythm too steady to be idle, drawing out the silence and letting me stew. That was his style; he never rushed a damn thing. It was how we’d spent the last year, circling each other, eyeballing trust without ever landing on it.

“That’s why I like you, McKenna,” he said at last. “You’re a stand-up guy. You look out for folks—even us.” His fingers kept that steady rhythm on the wheel, a subtle metronome to break the tension. “The world needs more men like us. People who know how to play all sides without pissing everyone off.”

That was bait if I’d ever heard it, but there was no avoiding it.

“I look out for myself,” I said, treading carefully. “Same as you. I like you, Gator. You and Sylvia have been regulars since I bought the place while the ink was still wet on my parole papers. But I’m on the hook when your people get out of hand.”

When I glanced over, his grin hadn’t budged. Still picture-perfect. But there was a flicker of ice in his eyes. He wasn’t happy. Judging by the cold way he watched his crew, he hadn’t been happy since before I arrived.

“You know how it is, McKenna,” he said breezily. “Some of these guys get too keyed up to quit. They bump into the wrong girl, say the wrong thing, and suddenly I’ve got a situation on my hands. But I don’t let them shit where we eat. I keep ’em in line.”

He passed me the bottle, and I took a long pull before answering, just to watch him sweat. “That’s good. ’Cause I’ve been hearing whispers. Nothing concrete yet. Just…noise. People are starting to ask questions about the Dead End. About me. Cops don’t usually care what happens this far down the road, but if somebody’s sniffing around, I need to know who—and why.”

Gator’s eyes narrowed, and his grin thinned into a razor-sharp slice. “You don’t need to worry about the cops.”

Yeah, and I’d kill to know why.

I straightened up and cinched the tie at the back of my neck with a sharp tug, more habit than thought. It wasn’t about vanity but about keeping it out of my face. The long hair, though? I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a little bit about vanity.

“Look,” I said brusquely, “I don’t mind you using the Dead End as a hub. Hell, it’s worked for both of us so far. But when your crew starts drawing heat, it stops benefiting me and becomes a liability.”

He cocked his head, watching me with those patient, predatory eyes. “What’re you getting at?”

I braced one hand on the door and leaned in slightly to make sure he knew I wasn’t bluffing. “If you want this arrangement to hold, I need some assurance that I won’t be left dealing with the fallout. I’ve got my own priorities.”

His fingers stilled on the wheel, amusement flickering across his face. “You asking for a cut, McKenna?”

I rubbed my thumb over a flake of chipped paint, thinking it over, but I already knew what I wanted—and it wasn’t money.

“I want insurance,” I said slowly. “Loose ends are a liability for someone with my record. If your crew kicks up dust, I need to know whose boots are behind it and who’s paying to sweep it up. That’s not a favor. It’s the price of doing business.”

He tilted his head, considering, and blew a laughing breath. “Okay, McKenna. I’ll take it upstairs. Give me a few days to talk things over with my boss. I’ll make sure you’re covered.”

I gave a single nod and tapped the roof of his truck. “Good. I like the Dead End off the radar.”

Gator’s chuckle followed me as I headed back toward the bar. “You’re a hard man to read, McKenna.”

“That’s the idea,” I called back, keeping my shoulders loose and my pace unhurried. I focused on the crunch of gravel under my boots and ignored the hyena laughter of his pals still loitering by the trucks.

Sylvia was sitting topless on the hood of an old Chevy, letting a guy in a ballcap slurp liquor from between her breasts. I didn’t stop. That was the deal.

It wasn’t until I reached the door that I sensed Gator’s attention slide off my back.

Inside, the Dead End felt smaller than usual. Hank was finishing up, pushing a dirty mop across the floor like he thought elbow grease could fix his mistake. I checked the register and headed toward my office at the back of the bar. It wasn’t much, just a storage room with a desk and a couple of lockboxes, but it was mine, and quiet enough to think.

I dropped into the chair, pulled the bourbon from my desk drawer, and poured a shot into the glass I didn’t bother cleaning. The burn was smoother than the rotgut Gator had been drinking, but it did nothing to clear my head.

Gator had agreed too fast. He never did anything fast, and he always had a price tag.

The only question was what he wanted—and whether I could live with giving it to him.