Page 38 of The Next Lie

Nope. Absolutely not. I walk past him toward the entry table, where someone has placed my sunglasses. How convenient. I pick them up.

“Sorry, gentlemen. Would love to stay and unpack generational trauma over coffee, but I have plans.”

Nash’s gaze shifts past me to the front window. Sonny’s car waits outside, bright and ridiculous and blessedly not full of bossy men who know too much. “With Sonny,” I add.

Deacon’s jaw tightens. “No.”

I pause. Slowly, I turn my head and look at him, head to toes. It is the first time I let myself do it. He looks worse in daylight. Physically, Deacon looks like someone built an assassin out of skin, smoke, and really bad decisions. But the sun takes some of the myth off him. Shows the shadows under his eyes. Tired. Human. Still extremely annoying.

“Did you just no me?”

“Yes.”

I blink. “Bold choice.”

“You and I need to talk.”

“Fake news, not happening.”

Deacon's eyes narrow. I turn back to Nash. “Are we doing hostage rules now, or can I leave?”

Nash looks at Deacon. Then at me. Then he shrugs, and there is something deeply satisfying about how much Deacon hates it. “I told him I wasn’t going to force you to talk to him.”

“Growth,” I say. “Love it so much.”

Nash’s mouth moves fractionally. “Shiloh will keep watch.”

My head snaps toward Shiloh. “Excuse me?”

Shiloh lifts both hands. “I am merely a decorative shadow.”

“You are not coming on girls’ day.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“But you just said--”

Ever pushes off the wall. “I’ll stay back.”

I heave a sigh. "You are all fucking ridiculous."

I start toward the door. Deacon moves. He is faster than he should be. One second he is by the window; the next, he is in front of me, close enough that I catch the scent of smoke and soap and something darker beneath it. My back hits the wall beside the entry arch before I have fully processed that he guided me there. Not slammed. Not hurt. But placed.

His arm comes up beside my head, palm flat to the wall, caging without touching. The room goes sharp. Nash’s mug hits the table with a quiet, dangerous sound. Shiloh stands. Ever moves one step.

Deacon does not look at them. He looks at me.

My pulse trips. Hard. Anger gets there fast enough to save me from whatever else tries to rise. “You have three seconds to stop being a cliché,” I say.

His mouth does not smile, but something flickers in his eyes.

Relief—like my anger is the thing he came looking for.

“There she is,” he says.

CHAPTER EIGHT

REVA