Page 7 of Tell Me No Lies

Considering how long I've lived here, I should be embarrassed about the state of my home. But I can’t bring myself to do what I’d need to do in order to get it where it should be. Maybe one day I’ll get there.

I stayed at the shop late, spending an hour cleaning out the breakroom fridge and mopping the floors in a subpar form of penance, so the first thing I do when I let myself in is go straight upstairs to take the shower I skipped. As much as I didn’t want to go to family dinner, I wanted to be late even less. I didn’t want to face the disappointed look Jill would give me, making me feel like a complete ass.

Little would she know how deserving I am of it.

After peeling off my clothes and dropping them into the hamper, I step under the hot spray, washing away not only the grime of the day, but also the delicate scent of Piper’s skin. Every time I moved, the hint of vanilla and cherry wafted around me. Every breath I took was permeated by her. It was fucking maddening. Tortured me all afternoon. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t get rid of it. I washed my hands, scrubbing up to my elbows. I brushed my teeth. I even went so far as to change my shirt, but nothing worked. Almost like the universe wanted to taunt me. To constantly remind me of how badly I fucked up.

After scrubbing down, I grab a towel, drying off as I leave my mostly finished master bathroom and head into my bare-bones bedroom. I’ve swept the subfloor enough times it’s grit and dust free, but the chipped surface is still rough on my soles. Reaching what will someday be a walk-in closet, I dig through the neat piles of clothing stacked against the walls. Letting the towel drop, I pull on a fresh pair of boxer briefs, well-worn jeans, and a T-shirt. After hanging my towel over the bathroom doorknob to dry—since I’ve never bought towel racks—I go back downstairs, headed for the rooms at the back of the house.

I'm not sure anyone else would recognize them as a family room and kitchen, but they function well enough for me. I have a refrigerator. A sink with hot and cold water. A microwave and coffee maker along with a few other countertop appliances. Considering most of my meals are either eaten at work or leftovers sent home with me from work, it's been easy to continue dragging my feet on the remodel that should have been done years ago.

Perusing the fridge, I settle on a beer and a container of some sort of pasta thing Nancy made a few days ago and sent home with me. After cracking the lid on my dinner, I slide it in the microwave, popping the lid off my beer as I wait for it to heat.

Initially, I planned to eat across the street, but I couldn’t stick it out. Not with Piper shooting daggers at my face while all my brothers doted on their wives and children, reminding me of what I don't have.

And might never get.

The microwave beeps and I pull out the food, stirring it around before shoving a forkful in my mouth. It's barely lukewarm, but—like so much else—that doesn't really matter. Juggling the pasta and my beer, I make a beeline for the reclining sofa situated in what might someday be a family room. For now it’s nothing more than studs and a dangling lightbulb with sheets covering the large windows. Flopping down, I switch on the television balanced on an old coffee table, and crank up my footrest.

I don't even know what I'm watching, because I'm sure as fuck not seeing it as I continue inhaling my food, caught somewhere between dread and excitement about what’s coming.

What Christian, Simon, and I have been doing has given me purpose. Made me see myself as something other than what I was for so long. What I expected myself to someday be. I need to go save Myra's friends, if for no other reason than to get that feeling back. Because I’m starting to think I might be a piece of shit.

Specifically, a piece of shit who fucks his employees.

I'm just finishing my food when my cell dings, letting me know Christian’s home and ready. I flip down the footrest and stand, refusing to drag my feet. The reminder of what I've done is about to stare me down again, but so is the reminder of what I've tried so hard to be.

Hopefully they even each other out.

When I get to Christian’s back door, Simon is jogging up, brows lifted in question. "Do you know what this is about?"

"Only that Myra heard from her friends today." Using the keypad, we let ourselves in the back door and walk through the house together without saying another word. Simon's usually a little more chatty than this, but I'm not sure I could stand having to carry on a bullshit conversation, so I'm grateful for whatever's got him in the same mood I'm in.

All eyes come our way as we walk into the office. Lydia's in the chair behind Christian’s desk with him perched on the edge right next to her. Myra is seated on the leather sofa and Piper stands near the window, arms crossed, her narrowed gaze fixed right on me.

I glance down at her foot, unable to stop myself. She was sitting at the island at family dinner so I couldn’t easily get a look at her lower legs. The walking cast she's been sporting for the past few weeks is gone, but the lower half of her left limb isn’t bare like I expected. I know she was hoping she'd be done with wearing shit on her foot after today, so I'm sure the large, unsightly brace strapped in place has her spitting mad.

And for some reason that soothes me. A pissed Piper is a familiar thing. An appealing thing. One I know how to deal with.

Propping myself against the wall farthest from her, I try to look more relaxed than I feel as I put my attention on Christian. “What have we heard?”

“They’re ready.” Lydia’s the one who answers, and I can almost feel the happiness radiating off her. She’s like the fucking sun sometimes, and it can be a little blinding for someone like me.

Someone who’s spent too much time in the dark.

“The women have found a place to go and want our help getting there.” Christian’s tone is clipped. Almost like he expects one of us to argue with this new development.

“Really.” Simon angles one brow. “All five of them want to go to the same place?”

“Seven.” Lydia’s voice steals my attention.

“Seven, what?” I’m trying to keep up, but the surprise that all the women plan to go to the same place has me falling behind.

“There’s not five. There’s seven.” Lydia lifts her chin, staring me down like she thinks I’m going to argue over the addition. “One of the women has two little girls she’s bringing with her.”

“How’s that going to work?” Simon hesitates, likely knowing his next observation isn’t going to go over well. “Won’t her husband file kidnapping charges?”

“Her husband was one of the men they arrested.” The chill in Piper’s tone is almost as icy as the glare on her face. At least this time it’s not for me. “No one’s bailing him out because they know he’ll end up dead.”

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