Page 11 of Tell Me No Lies

Tate scoffs, head bobbing back in offense. "My shop’s not fucking dirty."

I roll my eyes at his offense. "You know what I mean. Even though the shop is clean, what we do there is messy."

A betraying bit of my dumbass brain jumps forward, thrilled to remind me of just how messy things got today at the shop. I don't want to react to it, but my body is just as big of a dumbass as that part of my brain, and heat races across my skin, creeping over my face and down my neck. I swear to God, if I could punch the dumbass part of my brain, I would. She'd deserve it.

Any hope I may have had that Tate would miss my reaction disappears as a smirk curves his lips. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

Maybe he's thinking it too.

Instead of calling me out on my inappropriate thoughts, Tate leans back in his seat, looking like the smug overlord of orgasms sitting on his throne. "It's comfortable enough. I've got a television. A couch. A bed. What more do I need?"

Now it's my turn to scoff. "How about carpet?" I fling one hand in the direction of his quote, unquote kitchen. "A counter that's not made of plywood?" I lift my eyes. "Ceilings?" My gaze drops back to meet his. "Do you want me to keep going?"

"I don't need all that to be comfortable, Piper." Something dark skitters over his expression. "This is the nicest place I've ever lived. Plywood counters and all."

My chest goes tight as I realize that flash of emotion was vulnerability. There and gone in a second before he offered me a tiny bit of insight into his past.

I haven't been a part of this family long, but I've been around long enough to know none of the men Tate knows have pasts filled with sunshine and butterflies. I didn't expect Tate to be the exception. But knowing this is the best home he's ever had hits me hard. Makes me forget everything I'm supposed to be doing to ensure my life doesn't go down the wrong path.

"That doesn't mean you don't deserve to want more."

I may or may not have imagined Tate going home after work a few times, and it was never to a place like this. But now this is what I’ll think of at five o'clock every workday. I'll imagine Tate walking through his back door, worn out and tired. And instead of being in a warm and comforting home, he'll be somewhere that reminds him of all he's never had.

"You say that, but you don't know the things I've done." He sounds almost resigned. "I do, and I'm pretty sure this is way more than I deserve."

I know a little of what he’s talking about. I’ve heard stories from some of the other women in the neighborhood. Talk about the shady past Tate shares with the men he calls his brothers. Was some of it shocking? For sure. Do I think Tate should punish himself forever for the things he’s done? Not when I know of men who’ve done worse and sleep like fucking babies at night.

“That’s stupid.” Normally I work hard to be a brat to him, but this time it comes easily. “You’ve done a lot of fucked-up shit, I’m not gonna argue with you.” My eyes drift to the sheets hanging over the windows behind us, angling in the direction of where Lydia and Myra are safe and sound in Christian’s house. “But you’ve done a lot of really fucking great shit too. More than enough to cancel out the bad.”

Tate’s nostrils flare, like what I’m saying is pissing him off instead of making him feel better. “I’ve killed people, Piper. More than a few.”

“Yeah, well,” I can’t help but laugh at what I’m about to say, “some people need killing.”

I know of one in particular. And I sure as shit wouldn’t beat myself up over taking him out.

Tate’s expression darkens and his voice is low when he asks, “Who made you think that?”

I swallow hard because I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

And by that, I mean I fucking love the way he’s looking at me—like he’s ready to hunt down whoever wronged me and put them in the ground with his bare hands. No one’s ever wanted to fight my battles for me. Hell, most people don’t even want to fight their own damn battles.

I’ve never had someone to fall back on. Someone supporting me. Looking out for me.

Protecting me.

And I can’t let myself think that maybe Tate might be able to do it.

“It’s late.” I check my watch. “Way past your bedtime.” I shove my way up from the couch, wincing a little as I put weight on my achy ankle. “I need to go.” I don’t look his way as I hobble as fast as I can to the front door, flinging it open and rushing out onto the porch like the place is on fire.

I’m all the way down the steps when Tate’s voice calls out behind me, deep and smooth. “I’ll figure it out, Piper.”

I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder and find him leaned against the open door, arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the dangerous man I know him to be.

His eyes slide down my body, heating me all the way to the chipped polish on my toes. “I’m sure I can come up with a way to make you tell me who.”

He’s not wrong, but I can’t let him know that, so I roll my eyes and flip him the bird. It’s not my best comeback, but it’s all I can manage since I’m now thinking of all the ways Tate might try to convince me to spill my secrets.

5

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