Page 3 of The Next Lie

Just like that. No explanation.

No hug, or I love you.

No I missed you or I’m sorry.

No I thought you were dead too.

She walks away from me, slipping between two men near the curtained hall, and my body refuses to follow.

For a second, I cannot move at all.

I hear Shiloh say my name. I feel Ever’s presence on one side of me, solid and tense. Nash is somewhere behind me, quiet in the way that usually means violence has stepped into the room and is choosing which throat to close first.

Deacon, the coward, says nothing.

My hand is still lifted.

I curl it into a fist.

Skin presses into my palm. Nails bite deep enough to hurt. Good. Pain is real. Pain has edges. Pain doesn’t turn into your dead sister and walk away in a black dress.

I force air into my lungs and uncurl my fingers, searching for my rubberbands. Shit. I took them off; they didn’t go with the ‘look,’ Sonny said. They’re not there.

Another breath. Too shallow.

Another. Worse.

My chest tightens. The bass in the room seems to move inside my body now, a hard thud beneath my ribs. My throat closes around all the things I want to scream.

I want to burn it down.

Noir. Noir Night. The Syndicate. This city. Every man who knew. Every file, every photograph, every whispered name.

All of it.

I want flame in the walls.

I want ash on my tongue.

I want someone to tell me why my sister is alive and why she looked at me like I was some kind of threat.

“Reva.”

Ever’s voice is low near my ear.

I drag my gaze toward him, but the club blurs. His face won’t hold still. The lights smear over his cheekbones. His mouth moves again.

I know he is speaking.

I cannot make the words form anything useful.

My lungs seize.

No.

No, not here.

I bend forward, one hand pressed to my chest, the other still locked in a fist. Air scrapes in and rushes out too fast in a pained wheeze. My body tries to breathe for me and fails at it. The room goes soft at the edges, then sharp, then soft again.