Page 21 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Twenty-One

SILAS

Gator strolled in like he owned the place, the picture of easy southern charm wrapped around a coiled rattlesnake. His grin was as wide and lazy as a man passing time on a porch swing, but those dead, flint-chip eyes were ice cold when they locked on me.

“We’re using the parking lot for a while,” he announced in a tone that brooked no questions. “Send the regulars out the back way when they leave.”

I tried to catch a glimpse of the parking lot over his shoulder when the door swung open again, but my view was blocked by Cruz and Grady, two of his meanest and most loyal, hard men with harder hands and razorblade smiles. Sylvia stumbled between them, drunk or high, and hanging off them both like a decorative scarf. The second she laid eyes on me, her face lit up like Christmas morning.

“Well, hey there, sugar,” she purred, all drunken seduction and red-lipped smiles. She untangled herself from Cruz just enough to run a hand down the front of my shirt, dragging her nails over the fabric like she was testing the quality of the muscle beneath. “If I’d known we were stopping by, I’d have worn something easier to take off.”

Gator’s smile didn’t slip, but there was a flicker of distaste beneath it as he watched his girl pour herself all over me like she had every intention of making a home here. He let her have her moment, then clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head.

“Sylvia, sweetheart,” he drawled, eyes glinting dangerously. “If I wanted to watch you throw yourself at every man in your path, I’d take you back to Bourbon Street.”

Sylvia ignored Gator completely, pressing herself against me with all the practiced flirtation she knew would get under my skin. Her fingers wandered where they shouldn’t, testing boundaries, but Gator wasn’t bothered by it. He used her as easily as everyone else, playing on her need for attention to keep his men in line. She was a tool, nothing more.

“Grab us a round, McKenna,” Gator commanded, spinning a chair around and slinging himself into it like the place was his personal throne. “And pour yourself one while you’re at it. You’re drinkin’ with us tonight.”

It was framed like an invitation, but we both knew better.

My stomach churned, but not because of Sylvia’s game. It wasn’t because Gator was any more dangerous than usual, either. I could feel the seconds ticking away and my window closing. Dominic’s intel was good, and we were closing in on the drop sites in Mississippi. But he was no closer than I was to learning who was pulling Gator’s strings. If I couldn’t arrange a meeting within the next twenty-four hours, this entire operation was toast…and the guilt of all the girls who’d slipped through my fingers would eat me alive.

Gator didn’t waste top-shelf whiskey on casual drinking, but he didn’t have the taste of a broke teenager either. So, I grabbed a bottle of Old Forester, poured a couple of glasses, and carried them over to the table, positioning myself so my back was against the wall. Not that it did much good. It was just the four of us, the occasional click of Sylvia feeding the jukebox, and the low pulse of the music.

The bourbon burned on the way down, glowing like a hot coal in my gut, but I barely tasted it. Crazy high tolerance ran in my blood, and I’d trained it even higher over the years. I could snort a line of coke and then throw someone in cuffs while barely feeling the buzz. The glass was just a prop, same as my lazy slouch and ripped jeans, same as the half-lidded look of a man who had all the time in the world to sit and drink with the type of criminals who’d tried to kidnap Ivy.

It was a slow game that required patience, confidence, and just enough recklessness to sell the lie. Eagerness got men killed, but I couldn’t be so cautious that I made them look twice. The trick was to sit just deep enough in the filth to make them believe I reluctantly belonged there, just like the rest of them.

But time wasn’t on my side.

I tilted the glass in my hand, watching the amber liquid catch sparks off the dim bar lights. “Quiet in here tonight,” I mused, letting the words float like idle conversation. “Guess all the action’s outside.”

Gator chuckled and settled deeper into his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach and grinning like he didn’t realize I was fishing. “You know how it is, McKenna. Law of the jungle out there.” He tipped his glass in my direction and swallowed, his gaze flicking to the ceiling, dead and flat. “Just blowing off steam before we move some product.”

I let the vague answer pass, taking another drink. Cruz and Grady had gone still, just enough to make me notice. I kept my tone neutral. “So long as you’re not moving any product that breathes on my property, we won’t have a problem.”

Gator’s grin held steady, filled with the easy charm that made men underestimate him...right up until they felt a knife slip between their ribs. Behind the cleft chin and straight white teeth lurked something cold and bloodthirsty, a predator weighing whether it was worth the chase or just letting his prey squirm. He wasn’t completely fooled; he was just deciding how much of this conversation he wanted to indulge.

“You let me worry about my business,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing the half-empty bottle to tip some more into my glass. “You’ve got enough on your plate already.”

I met his gaze dead-on and pressed harder. “I’ve already got cops sniffing around my bar.”

“Not cops,” he said, shaking his head and propping one boot on an empty chair. “You’ve got state investigators up your ass. But it’s a fishing expedition. They’ve got no idea what they’re looking for, just casting bait and hoping it’ll lead to bigger fish than you or me. Our man in the sheriff’s department has been watching them.”

“That’d be real reassuring if I knew the man,” I said wryly, “but for all I know, he’s blind.”

He reached for the bowl of pretzels in the center of the table and tossed a few into his mouth. “Relax, McKenna,” he drawled, brushing the salt from his fingers onto his jeans. “Our guy’s on his way right now to help us tidy up the details. You’ll get your meeting, and you’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.”

A thrill of satisfaction slithered through my blood. Finally. Months of work, threading the needle between pushing too hard and losing my leads completely, and it all led to this. A name and a face that we could use. I was rarely the one slapping cuffs on anyone, but Marie would be dancing a fucking jig.

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, tapping my glass against his and knocking back a swallow of whiskey.

Mason was still sleeping in my back room. I felt him there, a center of gravity I couldn’t ignore, tugging me painfully toward him. But I shoved it down. What I wanted didn’t matter right now. Only the men at this table who needed to believe I was just like them mattered.

So, I played the part, entertaining them with half-truths and war stories built from the patchwork of other men’s experiences. I painted pictures with just enough detail to make them believe I knew what it was like to be caged in prison and come out meaner than when I went in. They ate it up like always, especially once the whiskey and laughter hit their bloodstream.

Sylvia though—she was a fucking problem.

She’d slithered onto my lap once the serious talk was finished, like I hadn’t already made it clear that I wasn’t playing that game.

Her body pressed against mine, all fruity perfume and wandering hands, and her breath was hot and tart with liquor as she nibbled at my jaw. I kept it casual, looping one arm around her waist and keeping it friendly while I worked to stop her squirming. Cruz and Grady were laughing over a bawdy joke, but Gator didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink, just sat back watching with those unreadable eyes as his girl practically gave me a goddamn lap dance in front of him.

It was that nonreactivity that made him dangerous.

I stared past her shoulder while she sucked at my throat, but every time my focus strayed, she grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. She wanted something. Attention, maybe. But I wasn’t sure if it was mine or Gator’s she was after. It didn’t matter. Pushing her away would’ve been a clear insult, and Silas McKenna didn’t make enemies if he could help it. If I wanted to stay alive, I had to be one of them.

So, I let it happen. I played the game and let my hands drift appreciatively over her body, fighting the urge to shove her away.

She clutched at my jaw, turning my face toward her as she kissed me. Whiskey tasted different in her mouth, sour with bad decisions, and her perfume was thick and cloying in my nose. Her mouth was warm, wet, and insistent, nipping at my bottom lip like she was fishing for control. She needed a reaction from me.

I gave it to her, but not because I wanted it. I’d spent most of my adult life learning to subvert my own needs for the job. It was muscle memory at this point. I just let the charade roll while she took what she wanted.

But my eyes stayed open.

And that was how I saw him.

Mason, emerging like a spirit from the dark hall. Sexy as sin. Without his glasses, those bright eyes burned through the space between us without a hint of grogginess.

He was fully fucking awake and frozen in the doorway, watching the tableau with slowly building anger.

My stomach churned sickly.

We’d made no promises, and I had no reason to feel guilty. But the wrongness of the moment was something I couldn’t shake—not when he was staring at me like I was suddenly a stranger. Like he could no longer be sure what kind of man he was looking at.

My fingers tightened on Sylvia’s hips. My first instinct was to get her off my lap, but my second was to double down. Neither felt like the right move. Fight or flight. But there was a third option—I stayed and waited for him.

Just like I always did whenever Mason Beaufort walked into a room.

The low rumble of conversation flattened as the others noticed. Gator glanced between us and chuckled into the rim of his glass. “One of these days, McKenna, you’re gonna have to explain that pet you keep in the back room.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth, not breaking eye contact with Mason. For a fleeting second, I hoped he’d take the hint. I was giving him an out; all he had to do was walk his ass back to bed before this got any more complicated. I’d clear the air later. But no, complicated was Mason’s middle name. So, he pulled out an empty chair and seated himself at the table.

He didn’t look at me, and he sure as hell didn’t look at Sylvia hanging off me like a damn ornament. Instead, he reached for the bottle and turned it once between his fingers to check the label. Like the brand mattered at all.

“Yeah, well, he feeds me,” he said dryly, taking a long, unapologetic gulp straight from the bottle. “Jury’s still out on whether I’m staying.”

To anyone else, he probably looked posh and relaxed, even in his wrinkled dress shirt. But I wasn’t anyone else. I knew him—and I knew he didn’t drink. But here he was, tipping back a bottle, and fury was eating him up from the inside. His shoulders were locked, rigid with tension, and though his mouth stayed neutral, his jaw was wired tight like he was fighting to keep from saying something he’d regret.

He still hadn’t looked directly at me, and I didn’t push for it. I had a sinking feeling that once he did, I’d find out exactly how much damage I’d done.

He was out to prove himself, or maybe to punish himself for ever falling for an asshole like me.

Gator’s eyes twinkled with amusement, and I clocked the exact instant he decided to toy with us. He leaned forward, grinning wolfishly, like we were all just a bunch of good ol’ boys swapping stories.

“Now, this is interesting,” he drawled, plucking the bottle from Mason’s grasp and pouring it into an extra glass. He slid the glass across the table. Mason stopped it without breaking eye contact. “You don’t strike me as the type to drink with the likes of us, Beaufort. Thought y’all preferred the finer things. Country clubs, offshore accounts, getting away with murder. Oh—wait. Strike that. One of you did hard time, right?”

Laughter rippled around the table, but I didn’t join in. An ugly undercurrent ran beneath it, an energy that reminded me of a wolfpack catching the scent of something they’d tear apart just for fun.

“Come on, Beaufort,” Gator pressed, grinning like he was starting to enjoy himself for the first time tonight. “What’s it like being the only one of your brothers who still pretends to give a damn about the law?”

I couldn’t take my eyes off Mason. Gator was testing him, and I wanted to see if he had any goddamn sense at all—or if he was about to make this night worse.

Mason took the glass, his eyes locked on Gator’s, not bothering to look my way. He didn’t rush to answer, letting the silence stretch as he took a slow sip. Setting the glass down, he finally spoke, his tone steady. “I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. But you already knew that. You’re better off worrying about the ones who do.”

Was that a jibe at me? I tilted my head, wondering if he was trying to slide one past me, but he wasn’t giving me a damn thing. No change in his face, no flicker in those eyes, just that steady, cool mask he always wore. Whatever game he was playing, it wasn’t one I could read. And that left me with a prickling discomfort I didn’t like.

Sylvia was still taking up space on my lap, but her arms around my neck had loosened, and there was a greedy gleam in her eyes as she watched Mason. He cut her a scathing glance…and she practically melted.

“Oh, honey,” she purred, leaning forward just enough that her tits spilled over the edge of her push-up bra. “You are a treat. Nobody’s talked to Gator like that in years.”

Gator crooked a dark brow at Sylvia, more amused than insulted by her antics. “Jesus, Syl. You gonna flirt with every man who pisses me off or just the pretty ones?”

“Oh, let me keep him,” she pouted, fixing her smeared red lipstick with the tip of her acrylic nail.

“They say Boone Beaufort only adopted fags,” Gator remarked, hiding his smirk behind his hand as he rubbed his chin.

“So? I like a challenge.” She gave my chest one lingering stroke before hopping off my lap and slipping like silk onto Mason’s. She draped herself over him like a cat in heat, legs slung over his thighs, arms around his neck like she was confident in her reception. “Mmm,” she hummed, brushing her nose against his collar. “He smells nice, too.”

Yeah, goddammit, he did.

Mason didn’t push her off him. Hell, he didn’t even stiffen up, not like he used to do with me every time I touched him. Instead, he played into the part, reclining like an indolent rich boy beneath her attention. His fingers were curled loosely around his glass, but his other arm wrapped around her waist, fingers splayed like a casual afterthought, as if he were a man used to women throwing themselves at him.

I should’ve looked away. But I couldn’t. I watched the way Mason’s lips met the rim of the glass, tracked the shift of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, listened to the faint hitch of his breath when Sylvia took his earlobe between her teeth.

At first, I didn’t recognize the emotion taking over. It wasn’t jealousy; it was darker than that, possessive, a wire tightening around my throat, choking me, making every breath feel wrong. It refused to ease up, no matter how hard I swallowed.

He was too damn pretty for a place like this, too clean-cut and pristine to be surrounded by criminals who made their livings off the backs of people like him. He shouldn’t be sitting there so politely, letting her touch him like she had the right. I was the one who knew what he felt like beneath my hands. I knew the strength of the muscles under that perfect, tailored exterior, and I knew how much fucking heat his body put off when he was wound up.

My body was already reacting like some dumb fucking animal. I wanted to drag him away, press him against something solid, and make him forget he’d ever been touched by anyone else.

Mason must have felt my stare burning into the side of his head, but he didn’t even glance my way. I knew the game he was playing, and I hated it. Even though I knew he was screwing with me on purpose, it took everything I had not to break the glass in my hand.

Gator pulled his phone from his pocket and lazily tapped out a message with one thumb. Then he tucked it back in his pocket and slid me a crooked smirk. “Told our friend not to bother tonight,” he said smoothly. “Looks like you’ve got enough on your hands already.”

Rage licked up my spine, a sharp pressure at the base of my skull, burning through the last thread of patience I had left.

That was my last chance—gone. More than a fucking year of painstakingly crawling through the filth of this place. Hours sacrificing my conscience and my dignity, stitching lies together and hoping they were believable enough to keep my head from getting caved in. Just when I’d finally gotten close to a solid lead, Mason walked in here, poured himself a drink, and ruined my goddamn night.

And he knew it.

He sat there like a king on his throne, Sylvia draped over his lap like a careless indulgence, one hand idly stroking the curve of her hip. But she wasn’t the one he was thinking about. Not even close. Because for the first time that night, he looked at me , and his eyes were glittering with deliberate malice. He had no clue what kind of mess he’d just made, but he knew he’d fucked up whatever plans I had, and he was enjoying it.

Whether he meant to or not, he’d just destroyed my career—and he wasn’t going to fix it.

That was on me.