Page 3 of Twisted Truths

“Why are you showing me this?” I neatly fold the T-shirt with the bar’s name on it and place it in my bag, then shoulder the strap of my bag to face him.

He narrows his eyes. “You know exactly why.”

“I don’t.” I try to move past him, but he steps in front of me.

“Cut the shit. I know it was you who rescued that guy.”

I keep my features smooth, not about to give him the reaction he’s searching for. “Oh?” Arching a brow, I continue. “Seems to me the headline reads mystery woman.”

“Yeah, well, the article says it was a woman with long red hair and that it was a miracle she was able to drag him out of the ocean in that weather and administer CPR. I’m thinking that miracle happened because my little sis spent three years as a lifeguard at country clubs and is an adept swimmer.”

I stare blankly at him. I shouldn’t have to hide the fact I saved a man’s life, but in this family, doing anything that might put a spotlight on you, good or bad, is seen as wrong.

“It could have been anyone.” I shrug and shoulder past him.

“Maybe, but it was you. Ari, what were you thinking? You could’ve had the cops question you.”

God, I’m so sick of this. This is exactly why six months ago, I told my dad and my brother that I wanted no part of their lifestyle.

I wheel around and face Bastion. “The guy was going to drown, and I was right there. What was I supposed to do? Swim past him and catch the next wave like a guy wasn’t dying?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what you should have done.”

I narrow my eyes. Is he for real? “I guess that’s where we’re different then, Bast. Because I wouldn’t swim past a drowning man, knowing I could help him.”

Even if I have my own questions about whether he wanted to be saved or not. It was obvious he wasn’t skilled enough to be out in the water in that weather, so I’m not sure why he was.

My brother shakes his head. “You’re such a softie.”

It used to drive me crazy when he referred to me as a softie. Back then, I was so focused on proving myself to him and my dad, it made me cave to whatever demands they made. But at twenty-four, I see it for what it is—a manipulation. A way for them to get me to put my conscience aside and do their bidding. Generally, something illegal or immoral and something that involves ripping someone off.

“Well, I guess that’s why I left the family business then.” I turn to leave before my dad catches wind of this conversation and finds out what I did.

From him, I’d get a lecture about how we can’t do anything that draws any attention to us, especially from the cops. My dad would be concerned that the press might pick up the story and do some digging. And when you’re grifters, that’s not a good thing. The rule is to fly under the radar, move around a lot, don’t make friends. Basically, be invisible. Oh, and to do what I’m told without exception.

“Ari, we can’t let this just slip by us,” Bast says before I reach the door.

So that’s what this is really about. My brother can sniff out an opportunity from a mile away. He reads the word billionaire and automatically sees dollar signs.

With my hand on the knob of the front door, I turn to look back at him. “I told you and Dad I was done with all that. I’m not interested.”

Bast shakes his head for the thousandth time since he barged into my room. “So what, you’re going to work a nine-to-five making shit money, find some boring schmuck to marry, and settle down? C’mon, you know that kind of life isn’t for people like us. Or are you just gonna work two jobs for the rest of your life like you do now and put yourself in an early grave?”

I actually don’t blame my brother for the way he thinks. He’s a product of his environment, the same way I was. The day I finally worked up the courage to tell him and my dad that I was no longer going to participate in their scams was the hardest day of my life. I couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t kick me out because I’d no longer be useful to them. Sometimes I think my dad only lets me stay here because he thinks I’ll change my mind.

“Don’t worry about what I’m going to do. I’ll be fine.”

His lips turn down as if he pities me, and my hand tightens around the doorknob. “We’re not done talking about this, Ari.”

“We are.”

The screen door slams shut behind me, and I walk quickly toward the bus stop. I had to sell my car a few months back when I could no longer afford it. Unfortunately, Bastion is right—a regular job doesn’t pay nearly as well as crime.

But a clean conscience is worth having to use a bus pass. At least to me.

Chapter

Three

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