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

Chapter Two

SILAS

The beautiful bastard was going to get himself killed. He was leaning into every turn like he was trying to kiss the asphalt, as if he had something to prove.

I kept close enough to catch the flare of that damn Ducati's tail light but far enough to stay off his radar. Keeping pace was easy; tracking someone who didn't want to be followed was second nature by now. Even when they tried to outrun me.

My bike growled steadily beneath me, perfectly contrasting with the Ducati's shrill, aggressive scream. Beneath those starched suits, Mr. Attorney was all flash and speed—a high-strung showoff on two wheels. My custom Scout wasn't built to match his pace, but it had muscle where it counted.

So did I.

The heat never let up. Not even at night. After more than a year stuck in the Louisiana backwoods, I should've been used to it, but thick, swampy air clung to my skin beneath my jacket.The only relief came from speed—the rush of wind whipping past, carrying the reek of damp earth and sunbaked asphalt.

I kept my eyes on him—always on him—watching as he punished that bike like it owed him money.That kind of reckless riding didn't come without a cost. The bike would take its pound of flesh soon enough.

For a man who kept his mouth shut and his cards close, Mason Beaufort was an easy read. At least, for me. I knew the type. He carried too much in his head with nowhere to put it, so he flirted with trouble like me, or with death on the back of a machine more than capable of granting it.

Idiot.

I had no business messing with him. He wasn't like the usual lowlifes and lost souls that drifted through my roadhouse—he was finer than that, sharper in ways that had nothing to do with the cut of his suits. I knew better than to get involved with a man like him. Letting anyone in was a risk I couldn't afford. Not here, especially now, when I was walking a line I knew wouldn't hold forever. But Mason kept coming back. And I kept letting him.

I didn't even know why.

He was attractive in a clean-cut, conventional way I'd never gone for before. Half the time, I couldn't tell if he was fit or just wiry; those expensive suits hid everything. His black hair was always styled as if he didn't want anyone to see it undone, which only made me want to wreck it more, just to see it wild. Too many office fluorescents and not enough sun had left him pale, but his blue eyes burned like the center flame of a gas burner. And those glasses—wire-rimmed, severe, and a full-on kink all by themselves. Whenever he pushed them up his nose, I had to fight the urge to bend him over something sturdy.

It could be the contradiction that got me. He was so controlled on the surface but absolutely raw underneath. Whatever the reason, I could never tell him to stay away. He was stubborn, arrogant, and too damn pretty for his own good.

But tonight, he was mine to deal with.

The road twisted sharply, and Mason's bike fishtailed across a patch of loose scree. My stomach dropped as the Ducati went into a sudden death wobble.

"Christ," I muttered, gunning the engine to close the distance.

Mason eased up on the throttle and shifted his weight, steadying the bike enough to veer onto a gravel path. I followed, slowing just enough to keep my own tires from skidding. Pokeweed and sedge crowded the path, their wiry stems reaching into the hard-packed dirt where the gravel had thinned to dust. A copse of water oaks and sweetgums tangled together, shielding the path from the empty highway.

His bike rolled to a crawl before stopping just ahead, the engine cutting off with a final, guttural note. He didn't move; he just sat there, shoulders stiff, helmet still on, while I pulled up behind him. Quiet stretched around us. Even the crickets and cicadas had gone silent, smothered by the fading echo of our engines.

At last, he ripped off his helmet and dragged in a breath, but still, he didn't turn. He just sat there, head bowed, like he was thinking too hard—or trying not to think at all.

"Nice show," I said, swinging a leg off my bike. "What's the plan now? Set the bike on fire and walk home?"

He stiffened, but he didn't look at me. "Go away, Silas."

"Not a chance." I leaned against the Scout, arms crossed, leisurely looking him over. "You're lucky you didn't eat it back there. One bad turn, and I'd be scraping you off the pavement. Not exactly my idea of a fun night."

He let out an irritated sigh and finally looked up at me. Moonlight glinted off his glasses, but it couldn't hide the tension tightening the corners of his eyes. "Why are you following me?"

"Somebody's got to keep you from turning yourself into roadkill."

"I wasn't—" He broke off, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair."I know what I'm doing."

"Sure, you do." I flicked the edge of his helmet, letting it clack under my knuckles. "Nothing says 'I've got this handled' like almost wiping out at ninety."

Mason sighed and pulled off his gloves with slow, methodical tugs, like he needed something to focus on. His fingers flexed once before he curled them into a fist, knuckles pressing into his thigh. "You're an ass."

"Takes one to know one, counselor." I stepped closer, just enough to get under his skin and crack his composure. He smelled...expensive. "What's the deal? You spend all day calling the shots, and now you're out here trying to see how the other half lives?"

Damn. If looks could kill.

His lips flattened into a hard line, but he didn't answer. All walls and no doors—same as always. Except tonight, cracks were starting to show: the tight jaw, the vein twitching at his temple, the way his hands kneaded his thighs like he didn't know what to do with them. His cheeks were flushed from the ride, and his hair was damp at the temples.He'd look almost boyish if I ignored the fire banked in those bright eyes. They were weapons, and he wielded them like one, trying to cut me with a single look.

People didn't intimidate me. Sharp edges didn't mean shit—I'd seen enough to know they were usually just window dressing. Everyone had a tell, and Mason's was how he held himself, wound tight as a tripwire. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, and he ripped them off, shoving them into his shirt pocket with a rough, irritated motion. It shouldn't have been sexy, but somehow, it was.

"You know," I said, dragging out the words like I was turning them over, "if you needed to blow off steam, you could've just said so. I can think of a few ways that don't involve wrecking your bike."

His gaze snapped to mine. "I'm not?—"

"Oh, I know," I cut in smoothly, letting a slow grin curve my lips. "You don't need anything. You're fine. Always in control." I tilted my head, watching the pulse flickering beneath his jaw. "Except you're not, and we both know it."

"Stop pushing me, Silas," he warned.

"You want me to push you."I reached out, grabbing the edge of his bike's handlebar and leaning in. "It's the reason you keep turning up. You don't touch my booze, and you're not looking for company.So what is it, counselor? You like how it feels when I back you into a corner?"

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip—a tell he probably didn't even realize he had.

"You want to lose control?" I asked, dropping into a deeper register. "Let me help you."

His breath hitched, and his hands tightened on the handlebars, but he held his ground and met my eyes. That was all the invitation I needed.

I closed the gap between us, one hand sliding over his to pry it off the bar, the other gripping his jaw to tilt his face up.His pulse fluttered under my thumb, breath coming fast and uneven.I leaned in close enough for our noses to brush, close enough to absorb the heat from his skin.

"You're already halfway there, wildcat," I whispered, my breath skating over the seam of his lips. "Take the last step."

His eyes widened, and his breath hitched. His chest heaved beneath that damp, clinging shirt, every inhale unsteady, like he was fighting himself. That kind of self-control might have impressed me—if I didn't already know it was hanging by a thread.

"This is what you wanted tonight," I murmured, stroking his jaw with my thumb, holding him exactly where I wanted him. "So take it."

His throat bobbed on a hard swallow, and I saw it—the push and pull of desire. The battle against whatever was holding him back. He wasn't going to make the move. No matter how bad he wanted it, he was too afraid.

I could only be so patient.

So I took the choice out of his hands and kissed him.