Page 37 of The Next Lie

Relief hits so hard it almost makes me cry, which is rude. I did plenty of crying last night. I should be dehydrated. At the very least, my tear ducts should have union rules. You’re my favorite person.

Naturally, she responds. That is settled, then.

I roll out of bed and immediately regret every decision I have made in the past twenty-four hours. My legs are unsteady. My body has that loose, used ache that makes my cheeks heat even though I am alone except for a kitten currently chewing the drawstring on Shiloh’s sweatpants from the floor.

“Do not judge me,” I tell him. Homer looks up with the string in his mouth. “You were there. You’re an accomplice.”

He resumes chewing. I shower quickly in Shiloh’s bathroom, trying not to look at the tub too long. The floor is dry now. Someone must have cleaned up the water at some point. The ruined dress is gone too. A clean pair of underwear is folded on the counter beside a stack of fresh towels and a note in Shiloh’s slanted handwriting.

Dress has been retired with honors.

I should not smile. I do anyway. In my room, I find my few pieces of clothes put away in the dresser like I am someone who lives here, which is a whole separate crisis I do not have time for. I choose black jeans, a fitted tank, and a light button-down I can leave open. I do my sparse amount of makeup with the focus of a woman going into battle or brunch, which are basically the same thing depending on who orders mimosas.

Mascara. Concealer. A little liner to make me look less like I spent the night being dragged behind a truck. A swipe of lip gloss.

I pull my hair into a high ponytail, then I take it down because it makes my face look too exposed. Then I put it up again because I am not hiding today. I settle for a messy twist.

A text from Sonny lights the screen. Outside. I wore sunglasses big enough for both of us. Come be dramatic.

I grab my bag. Homer tries to follow me out. “No. You are terrible at stealth. You landed on my face this morning. That’s not a field skill.”

He mews. He darts through the doorway anyway because apparently the kitten and I share a respect for rules, which is to say none. I scoop him up, kiss the top of his tiny head despite myself, and deposit him back on the bed. “Guard the fort.”

He immediately rolls onto his back and bites his own foot. Close enough.

I make it to the bedroom door and stop with my hand on the knob. The house is quiet below. Too quiet. A trap kind of quiet. I consider climbing out the window. It would be immature, dramatic, and probably unsafe. Unfortunately, I am on the second floor, and while I do have many gifts, parkour is not one of them.

So I open the door. The hallway smells like coffee and beignets. Somewhere downstairs, a low male voice says something I can’t make out. Another answers. My stomach twists because I know that voice even before I reach the stairs. Deacon.

My hand tightens on the banister. For a second, the old fear opens beneath me. Not fear of him, exactly. Fear of what he knows. Fear of what he can say. Fear that he will look at me with those pale, steady eyes and rearrange the floor under my feet again.

I lift my chin. Then I start down. They are all in the main room.

Nash stands near the fireplace with a mug in his hand, looking like he has been awake for three days and would still win a knife fight against sunrise. Ever leans against the far wall, arms folded, gaze moving to me the second my foot hits the lower step. Shiloh sits on the arm of a chair, hair damp, shirt sleeves rolled, mouth curved like he knows exactly what I look like under my clothes and is trying very hard not to get murdered over it.

Black shirt. Black jeans. Boots. Tattoos peeking from under one sleeve, the rosary mark stark against his skin. In the daylight, he is harder to turn into a nightmare. Younger-looking than his age indicates, maybe, with dark hair pushed back from a face all sharp lines and bad decisions. Cut jaw covered with beard. Full mouth hiding behind it. The kind of bone structure that makes you angry on principle because nobody that dangerous should also be that hot.

His face is unreadable, but his eyes are not.

They find me and stay.

My body reacts like he touched me. I hate that.

I ignore him so pointedly it becomes a full athletic event. “Morning,” I say to the room at large.

Shiloh’s mouth twitches. Ever’s gaze drops briefly, probably checking whether I am armed. I am. Obviously. Nash looks at me over the rim of his mug. “Sleep?”

“Was there.”

“Eat?”

“Will do.”

“Talk?”

“Hard pass.”

Deacon steps away from the window. “Reva.”