Page 6 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Six

SILAS

The sun hung huge and heavy in the late afternoon sky, baking the gravel lot into a spiderweb of cracks. It wasn't even real summer yet, and the tufts of pokeweed along the edges were already drooping, their glossy leaves curling inward like they were trying to escape the heat.

Sweat rolled down my bare back, soaking into the waistband of my jeans, but I didn't mind. Louisiana heat didn't leave much room for complaint. You either made peace with it or you learned to suffer.

Still better than the stench inside: beer, piss, and regret, all marinated under decades of cigarette smoke.

The bar was quiet for now. Just a couple of old-timers nursing warm beers and older grudges. Middle-of-the-afternoon crowd. Harmless, mostly. Easy enough for Hank, my part-time bartender, to handle on his own.

Real trouble didn't roll in until after dark. That's when the parking lot turned into a market for things I wasn't supposed to see—buyers, sellers, runners. I didn't like it—hell, I hated it—but my hands were tied. This job was all I had.

Turning a blind eye to the quiet shuffle of product was one thing. But when that product had a heartbeat? That was different. But what was I supposed to do when even the sheriff looked the other way?

The best I could manage was reaching some of the girls before someone else did. The cot in the back room was always there. Open to anyone who needed it—not just sexy, blue-eyed lawyers.

Vanderhoff liked to imagine he ran this town, but as far as I could tell, he was just a stooge—and crooked as a cracked compass. Best-case, he buried his head in the sand to avoid admitting Devil's Garden had gone to hell on his watch. Worst case? He was on the payroll of whoever actually pulled the strings.

My rap sheet had guaranteed he'd hate my guts from the jump, and he didn't bother pretending otherwise. First time we met, he'd made it clear—cause trouble, and he would throw me in a cell without blinking.

So, I kept my head down. Watched the wrong people get hurt. Let things slide. And every damn day, I felt it stacking up—quiet, steady, and heavy as a body count.

I put a bit too much force into the torque wrench, and it gave a sharp, satisfying click as the bolt locked down. Probably tighter than it needed to be, but I didn't care. The chain tension had been off—I'd felt it last night while chasing Mason through the backroads. A loose chain meant slipping or worse, especially with how I pushed this bike.

The Scout was my pride and joy, a sleek beast I'd built with my own hands, and the only thing that followed me between jobs. Closest thing I'd ever had to a stable relationship.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, and I looked up fast. It paid to stay alert in a place like this. In the reflection of my side mirror, a sports car glided into a shady patch beneath a sweetgum and parked. Real subtle.

If Mason thought that car was incognito in a town like this, he was out of his damn mind. The cherry-red Porsche stuck out like a sore thumb—shiny and spotless in a place where most vehicles were patched together with duct tape and prayer.

Last night, I figured I'd chased him off for good. Guess not. Here he was, back for more, pulling in with that polished machine of his purring like he'd just driven it from a showroom.

I was still shirtless, slick with sweat under the punishing sun, and I'd bet good money he noticed. I lifted my ponytail off my neck and crouched to check the next bolt—nonchalant but angled just right. Let him look. I wasn't shy about being watched. Years of practice made that easy. What mattered was making sure they only saw what I let them.

Without looking over my shoulder, I called out, "You lost, counselor, or just looking for a repeat performance?"

Silence. Then the creak of the car door, followed by the crunch of gravel under expensive loafers.

I leaned against the bike, wiping grease from my hands, and let my eyes drag over his body's long, lean lines. He always dressed like he had something to prove—tailored, sharp, every detail calculated. But Jesus, he wore it well.

No tie today. Top two buttons undone, just enough skin to catch the eye and fuck with my focus. The man could probably make a spreadsheet look sexy.

He didn't just get under my skin—he scraped something out of me. Every time he got close, the part of me that knew better shut down.

I wanted him. Bad. The kind of want that ruined my focus and left me running on blind instinct. I wanted him wrecked and stripped of that tight control he clung to like a life raft. I wanted him back on his knees. I wanted to see how far he'd fall if I kept pushing.

"Didn't think you'd be back so soon, slick," I drawled, tossing the rag in a bucket. "I'm starting to think you're a glutton for punishment."

He raised a brow, coolly amused, but I caught the flicker in his eyes. He was pissed. Pissed at himself for coming back. Pissed at me for making him want to.

"Don't flatter yourself, McKenna. I'm not here for you."

"Sure looks that way." I shrugged like it cost me nothing. "You're too straight-edge to have developed a taste for the swill we serve."

His jaw flexed, just once, but that tic at his temple gave him away. "I'm here to offer a friendly warning."

Oh, good. One of those.

"Lay it on me," I said, grinning as I spread my arms wide in mock welcome. "I'm all ears."

He glanced toward the Dead End, and I followed his gaze, stiffening when I caught movement near the back door.

A girl—thin, twitchy, maybe seventeen if you squinted—was slinking through the shadows like she belonged here. She didn't. Not even close. Too young, too brittle, the kind that got swallowed whole in places like this. Her fake ID was trash, but she didn't come for the drinks. Just a street kid looking for somewhere to disappear. The cot in the back room was safer than whatever waited out there. For now.

I didn't have the heart to turn her away. Not yet. But I'd seen too many girls like her turn into ghost stories—and the kind of men who liked that look were already sniffing around.

Gator's people were circling. Names I knew, faces I didn't trust, and a smell I recognized. Rot wearing cologne.

Mason's mouth flattened. When he turned back to me, his eyes had gone ice cold.

"Look, I'm not blind," he said in a low, clipped voice. "I know what kind of people crawl out of the woodwork here after dark. I've seen the money changing hands, and I've kept my mouth shut."

"Yeah?" I met his stare, all humor gone. "Keep doing that."

"I tried, but now it's drawing attention you don't want." He stepped close, crowding me, and for a second, I thought about pushing back. Just to feel him flinch. But nah. Anger was rolling off him in waves, and that took the fun out of it.

So, I let it go, settling my ass on the seat of my bike and stretching my legs out in front of me, as casual as I could fake it. Let him come closer if he wanted. Let him pretend I didn't make him shake with a single touch.

"What kind of attention?" I asked, tongue in cheek. "Health inspector? Because I shut down the kitchen for a reason when I bought the place."

He gave me that look—the one that said he wasn't buying the act. “Don’t play coy, Silas.”

I sighed through my nose. "What do you want me to say? Trouble shows up. Doesn't mean I invite it."

"And when that trouble hurts people who didn't ask for it?" he said, searching my eyes. Lord knows what he expected to find there. Most days, I couldn't even look in the mirror without wondering who the hell I was.

I forced a lazy shrug. "People make their own choices. I don't get a vote in that."

His eyes narrowed. There it was—that flicker of judgment dressed up in clean lines and legal distance. I'd seen it last night too, in the way he looked at me like he couldn't decide whether to fuck me or throw me in a cell.

"What about when they don't have a choice?"

"Maybe ask the sheriff," I said, lip curling. I didn't bother hiding my disgust. "He's the one playing blind. This place is what it is. I'm not here to play hero."

"You've got a hell of a way of justifying things."

"And you've got a hell of a way of shoving your nose where it doesn't belong," I said, but there wasn't any fight behind it. Just truth. After fourteen months of rot and sleaze, he was the only thing that'd cut through it. First flicker of light I'd seen. Shame it was already fading.

"Go home, counselor," I said quietly. "You're not built for what's coming."

Mason's shoulders went stiff. Sweat beaded at his temples, and his black hair, usually all neat and polished, was starting to curl at the edges. The heat was getting to him. I had the sudden impulse to drag my fingers through it and mess him up even more. But one look at his eyes told me to keep my damn hands to myself.

Still, there was something about the way he stood there, angry and wired, refusing to back down. It made my life harder, sure. Didn't make it less impressive.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" he asked in a clipped voice.

"Yeah," I said, giving him a slow once-over and letting my eyes catch on the spot where sweat had soaked through his shirt, just below the collarbone. "But you keep coming back."

The way his jaw ticked told me I'd hit a nerve. Good. I was pissed too. Mostly at myself for thinking I could afford to toy with someone like him. I wasn't exactly settled. Hell, I never was. I could be gone any day—new name, city, and story. That's the job. People like me didn't stick around. We didn't put down roots or build lives, and we sure as hell didn't get tangled up with men like Mason Beaufort.

I'd heard that name on day one. Five boys, all adopted by some rich, reclusive hardass who raised them into damn legends. Depending on who I asked, they were either saints or criminals. Maybe both. Either way, they were untouchable.

I didn't know all of them, but I'd heard enough to stay cautious. Dominic was the real one to watch, polished on the outside, but there were whispers about the organization he ran out of his high-end restaurant, Saxa Fracta. He was the kind of man who smiled while he buried the bodies.

Mason was different. Whenever he was around, something in me snapped awake. Maybe that made me selfish, but hell—when he was close, the guilt went quiet. The emptiness didn't hollow me out so bad.

I craved that feeling like a goddamn drug, and just like any drug, I knew it'd ruin me if I let it.

"So that's it?" he snapped. "' Screw you, I do what I want'? That's all you've got for me?"

"That's all you get," I said sharply. "We're not friends. Just because I let you get on your knees last night doesn't mean I owe you anything."

The look he gave me could've carved bone. Fury: plain, cutting, and satisfying in a twisted way.

"You're unbelievable."

"No," I drawled, tilting my head. "What's unbelievable is you standing here acting like this place just started smelling bad. You knew what it was the second you walked in. You're not pissed because it's dirty. You're pissed because you let someone like me put his hands on you."

His shoulders went tight and his mouth twitched. Just a quick tick, like he was choking down what he truly wanted to say. "You think you've got me all figured out, huh?"

I leaned back against the bike, arms crossed, grinning slow and mean. "Pretty sure."

"You think I grew up with a silver spoon? That I look down on anyone living rough?" That tone, quiet and cutting, had my dick twitching before my brain caught up. "I grew up in a trailer with roaches in the walls and duct tape holding the place together. My brother and I used to wrap our sleeping bags around our heads to keep bugs out of our ears. Getting tossed into the system could've broken us. Instead, we got lucky."

His eyes pinned me. "But even if I'd never met Boone Beaufort—if I was still out there busting windows for pocket money? I'd still draw the line at hurting people who can't fight back."

I didn't blink. I'd been looked down on by better men, and I sure as hell wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

"Yeah, well. Congrats. You won the jackpot. But you were still a kid when that rich old bastard scooped you up. You never had to check the felon box just to flip burgers. So don't judge me for surviving my way."

"Your record's not the problem." Mason closed the distance, and suddenly, he was right there, stepping over one of my outstretched legs until he was nearly straddling my thigh.

My pulse jumped, but I held still. Let him make the next move.

He leaned in, his pricey cologne curling through the heat between us, all clean spice and money. It wrapped around me like a warning.

"It's how you treat the people around you," he said, voice low. "How you let them get hurt and don't lift a finger to stop it. Because you let it happen and pretend that's not the same as doing it yourself."

My hands curled into fists, but I didn't rise to the bait. Couldn't.

His breath ghosted over my cheek, eyes locked on mine, and the heat rolling off him was enough to make the Louisiana sun feel polite.

"You're a pussy, McKenna," he said, almost whispering now. "And if you don't clean your own house, you're going to call down interest you're not equipped to handle."

This was bad. I should've told him to turn around and walk away. Should've shoved him back, gone inside, locked the door.

Instead, I grabbed him by the jaw, fingers digging in just enough to feel the throb of his pulse beneath my thumb.

"You've got a hell of a mouth, counselor," I growled. "Let's see what else it can do."

Then I kissed him—hard.

He grabbed my shoulders, not to stop me but to keep from losing his footing. His lips opened under mine, hot and biting, and I licked into his mouth, tasting salt and sweat and a hint of coffee lingering on his tongue.

He caught my bottom lip with his teeth, dragging just enough to make my blood spike, but he was the one who groaned.

I swallowed the sound like it belonged to me.

Didn't matter who might see. Didn't matter what this meant. All I cared about was his body heat and the way his shirt bunched between my fingers when I pulled him closer.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged and his lips were swollen.

"I never claimed to be the good guy," I rasped.

He dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, watching my mouth like he wasn't done. Then his storm-dark gaze snapped to mine.

"You're a mess, McKenna," he said quietly. "And you're going to take me down with you."

My smirk cut wider to hide the sting. "Probably. But you'll come back anyway."

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to.