Page 5 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

SIN

T he parking lot of Brookhaven Ridge Country Club looked like the gods of generational wealth had vomited gold-plated entitlement across perfectly paved blacktop.

A line of high-end cars shimmered under the morning sun—sleek Porsches, snow-white Beamers, a vintage Jaguar glinting like it had never seen a pothole or an unpaid speeding ticket.

License plates read like family crests. Everyone here was someone.

I killed the ignition and leaned back in the driver’s seat, dragging a hand down my face.

Morning stubble abraded my palm, I screwed my eyes shut at the pristine brightness of the day as a thunder cloud settled over me.

The building ahead rose like a mirage of control—white columns, manicured hedges, and an American flag that barely moved in the stillness.

The main archway, framed in creeping ivy, sat like a judge, daring the unworthy to walk through.

Hello, that’s me! I snorted at the thought. People like me were most likely not permitted to use the front entrance. Too unsightly to be seen by the clientele.

I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this place felt like stepping into a movie where I didn’t belong. It reeked of imported espresso, golf cart privilege, and whispers in boardrooms where people decided the price of things they’d never touched. This wasn’t a job. It was enemy territory.

I was still psyching myself up when I heard the unmistakable crunch of gravel and the squeaky protest of a car that definitely did not cost six figures. A cloud of dust followed in its wake as it pulled up next to me, and the rattly engine cut out.

“You’re gonna get side-eyed by the valet just for existing, ” a voice called out, amused and unapologetic. I looked over, the corner of my lips tilting up.

She was leaning against a beat-up Fiat that had clearly seen some shit. Bright red lipstick. Big sunglasses. The kind of confidence that came from giving up on being liked. And I liked her immediately.

I lit a cigarette just to give my hands something to do and exhaled smoke toward the sky. “I’m sure the Charger would show ‘em a good time. Probably take out a couple Teslas for sport.”

She snorted, pulling out her own cigarette. “If your car gets keyed, I’ll swear it was the wind.”

“You new?” I asked, flicking ash from the tip.

“Unfortunately.” She grinned and stuck out her hand. “Thalia Duran. Server. Occasional bartender. Professional shit-stirrer.”

“Sinclair. Sin . Full-time mistake. Permanent disappointment.”

Her laugh was a cackle. “Knew it. You’ve got the face of a man who’s gonna say something wildly inappropriate in the staff meeting.”

“Please. I’ll offend everyone equally. Equal opportunity chaos.”

“Beautiful,” she said, pushing off her car and nodding toward the staff entrance tucked behind a flowering hedge. “Let’s go feed overpriced eggs to people who call their Labradoodles their legacy. ”

“You two!” A sharp voice snapped, and our heads turned towards the disgruntled man in a black polo shirt and slacks striding towards us. “Staff parking is around the back.” He looked at us with disgust, my lips twitched at the disdain in his eyes. “Move it, now! You’re already late.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Late?”

“Yes. Your shift starts at eight a.m.” He pointed to his gold-plated watch and shook his head. “Now get moving. We have a staff meeting with the new manager in five minutes. And you still need to be dressed appropriately.”

He strode off like the stick up his ass was working its way up his throat.

“Fuck me,” Thalia muttered, crushing her half smoked cigarette into the gravel. “See you ‘round there.” She slipped into her Fiat, and it spat out a big plume of smoke as it choked to life.

“Fuck my life,” I ground out. Supple leather molded to my body as my engine roared to life, startling birds from the trees, and followed the Fiat at a crawl into the staff parking area.

“Ready to enter hell?”

“Sure. Good thing I like it hot.” I slammed my door shut and joined Thalia where she waited, face down, focused on her phone.

“We got this.” She glanced up at me and winked.

We walked side by side through the narrow employee door, stepping into a corridor that smelled like citrus cleaner and generational denial. The floors gleamed. The walls were a polite beige, like even the paint didn’t want to make a statement.

“This way, you two.” Mr Stick-up-his-ass ordered and strode down the corridor.

“I’m Timothy, the assistant manager, and your immediate superior.

Listen to what I say and do everything I tell you.

The staff locker room is here.” He pushed open a nondescript door like it might offend someone if they knew the staff had their own space.

“You will find your assigned locker number on the chart on the wall. You will have one key; don’t lose it unless you’re willing to pay for a replacement.

Uniforms are in the cupboard at the back.

Take two polo shirts, slacks for the men and skirts for the women?—”

“But I don’t wear skirts,” Thalia cut him off.

“I don’t really care what you wear in your own time, but here at Brookhaven Country Club, we have a uniform and an image to maintain. You should feel lucky we took you on, Miss Duran. If it wasn’t for your father’s generous donation to the club, you wouldn’t be here today.”

“Like this place needed more investment,” she muttered under her breath.

Timothy shook his head and headed to the cupboard. He pulled out our uniforms, handing them to us without asking our sizes, only to dump them into our waiting arms.

“If you have some pantyhose, I suggest you put them on. Bare legs are not part of the uniform.” Thalia rolled her eyes, teeth grating together.

“Tomorrow I expect you to be clean-shaven.” His cold gray eyes turned to me, lips curled back in a snarl.

“Your aunt should have told you what was expected of you.”

“She might have this morning, but it was a bit hard to hear her over the pounding in my head.”

“This job is yours to lose, Mr Soul. We don’t need people like you here. I doubt you’ll last a week.”

“That’s longer than she gave me,” I chuckled at the look of outrage that blew over his face before he schooled his features.

“Two minutes. Meet me in the lobby.” The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the hinges.

“Well, he’s a ball of sunshine,” Thalia said through gritted teeth, searching in her bag. “Fucking pantyhose? Who the hell carries those around?”

“Here.” A soft voice called through the door as a small brown-haired girl slipped in.

“I heard Timothy ranting as I was passing.” She turned to Thalia.

“He’s in a foul mood because he got passed over for promotion,” she giggled.

“Such a shame. I’m Claire, by the way.” She waved over her shoulder as she disappeared into the cupboard at the back of the room, where the uniforms were kept.

“What he neglected to tell you was that we keep a box of pantyhose here in case they snag during our shift.”

“Thank fuck for you angel.” Thalia looked Claire up and down in a way that made her blush.

“It’s nothing. Now hurry, we don’t want to be late. I’ll grab your keys so you guys can change quickly, then lock your stuff up.”

“Thanks, Doll,” Thalia purred. Claire’s face was bright red as she blinked in a daze.

“Leave the girl alone and get changed,” I ordered, pulling off my t-shirt and working myself into my new uniform. It was a snug fit. I hated it on principle, but it annoyed me that he’d given me a long-sleeved top to hide my tattoos like they were offensive.

Once we were changed and looking like identical clones of every other client-facing staff member, we walked through the kitchen to the entrance lobby.

Inside, it was organized chaos—chefs yelling in French, servers rushing past with platters of every conceivable type of breakfast food.

The lobby was restrained by comparison. Staff with clipboards organized tee times for those here to play the rolling golf greens, while men in suits tried to discreetly yell into their phones and uninterested teens listened to their AirPods.

Thalia nudged me. “You get the manager’s name?”

“Not a clue. I’m sure my aunt said, but I wasn’t listening,” I muttered. “Just told me to show up, don’t throw hands, and smile even if it killed me.”

“I heard he’s some legacy kid,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Silver spoon, probably had his first stock portfolio before his first pimple.”

“Can’t wait to be micromanaged by a walking trust fund.”

“Maybe he’s hot though,” she said, mock-hopeful. “We could use a little scandal to spice up brunch duty.”

“Not like you haven’t already found a willing target.” I nudged her with my elbow as we were ushered into one of the many private meeting rooms by a red-faced and flapping Timothy.

Thalia chuckled behind her hand. “What?! She’s cute as fuck.”

I rolled my eyes. While yes, Claire was cute, she was too innocent for me. Since last night, my mind had taken on a single focus, and all I could see was him . The way his eyes burned for me. Desperate for touch. A single taste like a starving man.

A voice cut through the buzz. Low. Measured and sharp enough to gut the room. Alarm bells rang in my head, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end.

“Good morning, everyone. Staff orientation begins in five minutes. Please get yourself a drink and then take a seat.”

My body turned on its own volition. My pulse detonated because there he stood at the front of the room. My breath hitched. He looked like someone built from blueprints: sharp jaw, navy blazer, shirt crisp enough to cut glass. Not a single dark hair out of place. Even his fucking loafers were smug.

The man from the Hollow. The one who’d watched me dance like I was the only thing in the room. The one who’d nearly kissed me before vanishing into the night.