Page 20 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Twenty

SILAS

The Dead End was almost a ghost town tonight, the kind of quiet that came after the rowdies had stumbled home and the real degenerates hadn't slunk out yet. Hendrix crooned from the jukebox, masking the faint hum of the dying ceiling fan and the clink of glasses as I washed up.

It should've been a slow night—the kind I could pass off to Hank and spend catching up on some sleep, but he'd called out sick, so I was stuck manning the bar all evening. Exhaustion was starting to tug at my eyelids. I'd been running on fumes all day, but even though this was just a cover job, I took pride in how well I ran the place.

The truth? This slow-drip southern life suited me; from the fresh, damp haze that hung over the parish every morning, to the po'boys and grilled catfish, and the way the sun set heavy over the swamp, turning the sky warm and amber. A place where time barely mattered, and the world would keep turning without any particular person there to push it along.

It was more comfortable than the rat race of the Bureau, hopscotching between field offices while everyone climbed over each other to get to the next rung on the ladder. I could never stand that shit. It could be how I grew up, but bikers and roughnecks were more my speed. No fake smiles, no bullshit politics, no one trying to impress anybody. Just folks living their lives with a little more grit and a lot less ambition.

That's what made me so good at what I did. I was comfortable in the margins and the raw, messy parts of life. Here, there was no need to show up with a suit and a smile, knowing damn well all anyone cared about was how much I could do for them.

In another life, I might've stuck around and kept the Dead End running. No aliases, no secrets. Just the bar, the open road…and Mason. The kind of life that never asked for more than I could give. But maybe that was the burnout talking. It was easy to fantasize about a life where the only thing to dodge was a bad review instead of a bullet.

As I rinsed suds from the last pint glass, the creak of the open front door brought my head up fast. A gust of damp air swirled through the room, thick with the scent of swamp, and a small, dainty woman stepped inside.

"Hello, darling." She offered a brilliant smile.

I'd worked with Marie for years, though we hadn't been in the same room for a while. We'd spent the past fourteen months communicating via secure chat on a burner phone. I was surprised by how much older she looked. Her dark, bobbed hair was neat as ever, but the streaks of gray had grown thicker, and she'd traded out her trademark pumps for flats. She was dressed in a stiff yellow pantsuit, the bright color she thought made her look girlish, though she could have passed for my grandmother in the wrong light.

I liked her, but I wasn't happy to see her tonight. None of my team showed up uninvited unless things were moving faster than expected behind the scenes. A reminder that I didn't control the clock, and time was running out.

"I'm moving as fast as I can," I said, cutting to the chase. Marie wasn't the type to beat around the bush, and neither was I.

Her smile didn't budge as she slid onto the stool, adjusting the pleats in her jacket with a quick flick. "I'll have a Negroni," she said, sliding the menu aside and glancing at a bottle of Campari on the shelf behind me. "An extra dash of that. But keep the vermouth light, and give me a twist of grapefruit, not orange. Think you can handle that, barman?"

"Think that scares me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "I've had to handle your Chinese takeout order, remember?"

I grabbed the gin, poured it with a steady hand, added the Campari, and watched the colors swirl together. A light dash of vermouth followed, just like she'd asked.

She wasn't fooling me; I knew exactly why she was making such a show of her order. It wasn't about the drink. She was keeping my hands busy, distracting me while breaking the bad news. My eyes flicked to her face briefly—still smooth, but something in the corners of her eyes, something tight in her posture, told me she wasn't just here for a drink. And that didn't bode well for either of us.

Marie watched in silence for a while. She leaned forward and folded her hands neatly on the bar, keenly interested. "You've gotten good at this."

"Not a lot to do around here but learn," I said evasively, cutting a twist of grapefruit, just enough to release the oils, and dropping it into the glass. "What have you got for me?"

"I looked into who was sniffing around your bar," she said. "But the better question is—who isn't? The task force that's been poking around is headed up by the Attorney General himself. We made contact and told them to back off before they blow your cover. The sheriff's got eyes on you most days, too. I'm sure you noticed."

"The squad car parked at the highway turnout?" I raised my eyebrows and slid her drink across the bar. "I noticed. Supposedly watching out for drunk drivers. Brought 'em coffee a time or two, just to let them know they're not subtle."

"Anyone in particular?"

"Usually it's Sheriff Vanderhoff himself." I shrugged, wiping down the counter without really looking at it. "Sometimes he puts one of his deputies on it."

"Teddy Cobb." It wasn't a question, the way she said it. "He's got his hand in a lot of pots. When it suits him, he reports to Vanderhoff, but when it doesn't, we've caught him down at Saxa Fracta, feeding intel to Dominic Beaufort's organization."

"You know I made contact with him," I said grimly.

"I saw the update." Marie took a dainty sip of her Negroni, humming in approval. "We're already moving on the information you passed along. We've got people tracking the movements of local LEOs, but whoever it is, they've been keeping their hands clean. We can't pin it down until we catch him in the act."

I carefully dried the last glasses, lining them upside down on a clean towel beside the ice bin. "What about the location Beaufort gave me for the drop-off? The one in Mississippi?"

Marie's lips tightened. "We've got it locked down. The next shipment's set for tomorrow night. We're coordinating a sting op with local agencies. It's a full-court press, Silas. This is our chance to shut down that side of the trade—but once they go, we'll lose everyone on the hook on this side of the state line. You need to make a move on Gator's crew."

"Jesus, you don't give a guy much warning." I huffed a laughing breath through my nostrils, breathing deep to keep tension from ratcheting up my spine. "You want me to just show up at his doorstep and ask to tag along?"

Marie tilted her head slightly, a faint smile on her lips, but her eyes remained sharp. "Oh, don't make it harder than it needs to be, Silas. We both know Gator loves to hang around after hours, when all the prying eyes are gone." She glanced at her watch, then raised a brow at me. "Should be here any time now."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She was right, damn it. The pressure of being pulled in too many directions was starting to wear me down. But I wasn't about to show it. Instead, I reached for a bottle of bourbon and poured a double. I had a feeling I'd need it.

Marie's eyes followed the movement, but she didn't comment. She didn't need to. The silence that followed was thick with the understanding that neither of us could afford to waste time.

I took a slow pull from my glass, letting the warmth of the whiskey spread through me before setting the glass down and bracing my hands on the bar to get a good look at her. "You could've sent this over secure channels like you always do. So why the personal delivery, Marie?"

She didn't immediately respond, taking a careful sip of her Negroni, and then set it down with a subtle grace. Her eyes, usually shrewd and a little harsh, softened until I could almost see the version of Marie that existed before the Bureau, before the surveillance and the endless briefings. I'd seen her warmth in flashes over the years but never enough for me to trust. I'd kept my distance, like I always did.

In many ways, she'd been the most stable relationship I'd had. She was the one who could always be counted on, even if we never talked about the things that mattered. I had no idea where she lived, never met her husband—hell, I wasn't even sure what she did when she wasn't at work—but I knew, deep down, that she cared. She cared in quiet ways that never affected our bottom line, but it was enough. She was a constant I could depend on.

She shifted in her seat slightly, her voice dropping into a tone that didn't belong to a handler anymore, but to someone who knew me well. "I wanted to get a look at your face. Make sure you're still locked in. We don't want a repeat of what happened last time."

I swallowed and glanced down, rubbing at a water spot on the counter with the edge of my thumb. "I'm fine," I muttered, though the words felt thin in the space between us.

"You're tired, Silas." Marie's eyes stayed on mine as she leaned forward earnestly. "Undercover work's a strange thing. You can stay in it for years and convince yourself you're still in control. You never even notice you've reached your limit. Then one day, you wake up and realize you've lost track of what you're doing it for. Who you're doing it for."

She'd hit me center mass, but I wasn't going to let her see that. I kept my hands busy, arranging the syrups on the counter so each label faced outward. The movements were familiar, mechanical, and distracting.

I wiped my hands with the towel and pretended I didn’t know what she was getting at. "We're all doing it for the same reason."

She didn't argue, just studied me with those dark, steady eyes. "We used to be. But you've lost touch with the guy you were before all this. The one who knew how to live for more than the job. Maybe it's time to take a step back."

"Not all of us have much to go back to, sweetheart," I said, tossing her a wink that pulled more like a grimace. "You're right, though. I probably could use a vacation. Somewhere with a beach, some good whiskey, and zero memories of the last decade."

The truth was, I wasn't ready to let go of this life, even if it was already killing me. I'd spent nearly two decades shedding everything about my past, getting as far away from Dorchester as possible. But Marie saw right through it, and the certainty in her eyes unsettled me.

"Joke all you want," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm just saying…you might want to consider settling down."

I snorted at that. "Yeah? And what? Go back to the suburbs and play house? I'm not sure I'm cut out for domestic bliss."

"You'll never know until you try," she said wryly.

I'd just opened my mouth, but before I could tell her to stop pushing, the door swung open. I flicked a glance toward the door, wired to a hair-trigger every time I caught the first creak of the hinges. It swung open on a blast of thick, muggy air, and Mason strode in, looking like he'd been running on fumes and willpower for so long that they'd finally called it quits.

Not just messy—wrecked.

My heart skipped a beat. This wasn't the man who'd spent all night in my bed a few days ago, the one I'd spent hours mapping with my tongue, just to make sure I could find my way back. That Mason was open and vulnerable, breath warm against my throat, clinging like he didn't want to let go.

This man had burnt himself down to the wick.

His suit was wrinkled beyond saving, the jacket was creased like he'd used it as a pillow, and his crushed tie hung loose around his collar. His hair was flat and sweaty at the temples, a telltale sign of long hours under a helmet, and a day's worth of dark scruff shaded his jaw. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and his eyes were red-rimmed from fatigue and too much time in contact lenses.

He stumbled toward the bar in a barely straight line, but he wasn't drunk. That was the real kicker. I'd never seen him drink. He refused to touch anything that risked loosening up the chokehold he kept on himself. If this were a bender, I could've chalked it up to one bad night, but these were days of wear and tear and exhaustion ground deep into his bones. The kind of night he locked himself in my back room and slept like the dead.

"Room's free if you need it," I said, nodding toward the storage room, even though all I wanted was to haul him over my shoulder and carry him upstairs to my apartment. He needed to get between my sheets and stay there until his eyes lost that glassy, overstimulated shine. "Rough night?"

He groaned low in his throat, dragging his tie the rest of the way off and stuffing it into his pocket with agitated fingers. Like the fabric itself had personally wronged him.

"Rough few days," he muttered in a voice shot to hell.

Marie watched the two of us with interest, then drained her glass and set it down with a precise clink.

"Thanks for the drink, cutie," she said, dripping with that mock sweetness that only she could pull off without sounding forced. Her eyes glinted as she slid off the bar stool and grabbed her purse. "But I'd better hit the road."

I let her get a few steps before calling, "Don't be a stranger, Marie."

She glanced over her shoulder with a warning look and was gone. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft echo.

I slid a banana and a glass of water into Mason's hand before he could argue. He blinked at it like he'd been handed a dead rat. His nose wrinkled, but then he sighed and reluctantly peeled the fruit, as if forcing himself through the motions. He took a bite like it physically pained him, chewing with the kind of grim determination of a man doing penance.

I watched him choke down another mouthful before asking, "Long day?"

He swallowed hard, grimacing. "Long week. Long fucking month."

I leaned back against the counter, keeping my distance but not letting the silence stretch too long. "Too many balls in the air, huh?"

He didn’t bother to reply; he just kept chewing slowly, his jaw working like he was trying to swallow something more than just the food. I could read the exhaustion and frustration in his face, the kind that settled into the skin after too many hours of noise.

Mason always carried more than he should. More than anyone should, really. He'd nominated himself his brothers' keeper, clearing Ben's name, handling the estate for Gideon, and keeping Gage and Dominic out of prison. That was more than enough, but he topped it with a seat on the task force he thought he'd managed to hide from me. And the real kicker? He pretended none of it was eating him alive. I could see it now, though, the slow collapse behind his eyes.

I reached out to touch him, barely stroking his cheek with my fingertips, just to watch the flare in those bright blue eyes as they lifted to mine.

"Get some sleep," I said softly. "I'll finish cleaning up, and then I'll join you."

The flicker of a genuine smile on his lips felt like a reward. I didn't know why it mattered. Maybe Marie was right, and I'd lost all sense of myself, grasping blindly for any touchstone that made me feel human.

Or maybe I just wanted to see him happy.

As he slowly sank forward and buried his face against my neck, that was a thought I wasn't ready to examine too hard. I just cupped the back of his neck and pressed a kiss against his temple.

"Go on, sweetheart," I murmured into his ear. "I'm right behind you."

I didn't watch him go. Instead, I picked up his empty water glass, running my thumb over the condensation ring it left behind. I let the water run hot over my hands as I washed the glass, but it didn't do a damn thing to burn away the conflict inside me. I stood there, staring at the water swirling down the sink drain, trying to unstick Marie's words from where they'd lodged inside the hole in my heart. But I couldn't seem to pry them loose.

You might want to consider settling down.

I hadn't had a place I could call my own in years. Maybe ever. Home was just four walls and a name I wore like a jacket that never quite fit. Once an op was finished, there was no one waiting for me. I lived in borrowed spaces, slept in other men's lives, and wore names that weren't my own.

It felt different with Mason. I felt different. The way he looked at me in vulnerable moments, those blue eyes blazing with heat and appreciation and a connection that came from a place neither of us understood. It was the closest thing to real I'd ever had.

I gritted my teeth and snapped off the faucet with so much force I was surprised the handle didn't disintegrate in my hand.

He’s in love with you.

I knew liars—I was one. Dominic hadn't been lying. I told myself it didn't matter. I pretended I wasn't standing there straining to hear any sign of him tossing and turning on that rickety old mattress. But I'd counted every second since he shut that door. I wiped down the counter, stacked glasses, and flipped a bar rag over my shoulder. Anything to keep my hands busy and my feet planted behind this bar where I was supposed to be.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen, and I was done pretending.

I scanned the room, taking in the empty tables and freshly swept floor, and headed over to lock the door?—

—and that's when it swung open.