Page 2 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

Outside, the sunlight slammed into me like a slap across the face.

Too bright. Too clean. I squinted and slipped on my sunglasses so I didn’t fry my retinas.

The hangover wasn’t done with me, and neither was the world.

The air stank of cut grass and chlorine, manicured and artificial—like everything else in this gated community.

My black ’69 Dodge Charger waited in the driveway like a beast in chains.

Low, sleek, and humming with restrained power.

The paint gleamed like obsidian, warm from the morning sun.

It was the only real thing they’d ever given me.

A gift for my sixteenth birthday. Not because they wanted to— hell no —but because the Whitmores had bought their daughter a Range Rover and appearances mattered most.

Always did with them.

Not love. Not presence. Not truth.

Just optics.

I slung my duffel into the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel.

The leather interior embraced me like a memory—one of the only good ones I had.

I turned the key, and the engine roared to life with a sound that was more animal than machine.

Deep. Guttural. A promise of chaos barely restrained.

The vibration in my chest was the first thing all morning that felt right.

The gate at the end of the driveway loomed like the final bars of a prison I was breaking out of. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was trading one prison for another, either.

As I drove out, I caught sight of the front of the house in the rearview mirror. Blinding white facade. Pristine windows. Polished brass. The body still lying in the entryway like discarded trash ruined their image of perfection.

A throaty chuckle slipped past my lips as I rolled down the windows and flicked open my Zippo with a metallic snick , lighting a cigarette. One drag. Then another. The smoke curled in my lungs like anger made tangible, something to exhale when it got too thick to carry.

When I hit the gas, the Charger peeled out with a scream that echoed off the white stucco walls of the neighborhood. Tires skidded on the smoke-kissed asphalt, and I didn’t even flinch.

Two elderly neighbors watering their hedges froze mid-spray, their judgmental eyes tracking me like I was a stain they couldn’t scrub out. The same neighbors who’d whispered behind champagne flutes about my “potential” back when I was ten and still smiled like I gave a damn.

I flipped them off as I passed, much to their horror.

The wind tangled in my curls as I picked up speed, the Charger eating up the road.

The scent of cigarette smoke, motor oil, and freedom filled the car.

I didn’t look in the rearview mirror again as the guard waved me through the open gates of this fake ass community.

There was nothing back there I wanted to see or remember.

They thought they were punishing me by exiling me and cutting me off. But they weren’t sending me away. They were setting me free. I wasn’t their problem anymore. I was a fuse they just lit—and they had no idea how long it was.

The farther I got from the hills, the tighter my grip on the wheel got. LA bled into smoggy suburbs, glittering glass traded for strip malls and chain restaurants. The Charger devoured the miles, black steel and fury on four wheels.

I reached over and punched the stereo on, flipping through static until something hit like a gut punch—“Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails—Not the Johnny Cash cover. The raw, unfiltered original—poured through the speakers. It fit. Too well. I turned it up until the words reverberated through my soul.

The distorted chords filled the car, Trent Reznor’s voice dragging through my chest like broken glass. My knuckles whitened on the wheel. That voice—barely a whisper, a scream held on a leash—wrapped around every ache in me and made it bleed.

I lit another cigarette with shaking fingers. The smoke burned, bitter and sharp, and I welcomed it. Needed it. Like a reminder that I was still here. Still breathing. Still angry.

The open road stretched ahead, two lanes slicing through the California desert like a scar. Somewhere behind me, LA shrank into a mirage of memory—numb sex, loud parties, deafening silence.

What had I become?

A castoff. A problem. A mistake with a trust fund—that I couldn’t touch until I was married—and tattoos to prove I felt things once.

The Charger tore through the long stretches of empty freeway; the sun trailed low and gold behind me. Gas stations blurred past. I didn’t stop unless I had to. Coffee. Gas. A piss behind a truck stop. Nothing more.

By the time I hit the outer roads of Brookhaven Ridge, the sky had dipped into the bruised shades of twilight.

Shadows bled across the windshield in long, deliberate strokes, like the town was painting over anything it didn’t want to be seen.

Even the trees looked older here—taller, more severe—as if they’d been standing sentry for centuries, judging every passerby with a rooted kind of contempt.

Everything felt curated. Controlled. Immaculate.

L.A. was nouveau riche chaos—plastic palaces and overpriced trends. Brookhaven Ridge was the opposite: old money arrogance, woven into every brick and wrought iron gate. There was no flash here. Only expectation. Silence. Legacy.

The houses weren’t houses. They were estates—tucked behind limestone walls and manicured hedges so perfect it looked like God herself had trimmed them with gold-plated shears.

Driveways rolled out like red carpets. Fountains trickled like whispered secrets.

Every home was a throne, and every resident a monarch pretending not to watch.

I passed a wide-lawned Georgian with black shutters and gas lanterns flickering at the door. A kid’s bike leaned against a marble lion statue. I caught sight of a woman in pearls sipping tea on a wraparound porch. She didn’t wave. She just stared.

It made my skin crawl. This wasn’t a town—it was a goddamn mausoleum. Preserved. Polished. Soulless.

My GPS finally crackled to life in a warped, metallic voice: “Your destination is on the left.”