Page 22 of Deceit

“Where are your bags?” Marty interrogates me as soon as I walk through the front door of his cabin. He eyes me suspiciously, fully aware of my lie, but it’d only be valid if I confirm it.

Which I’m not.

“In the car,” I reply slowly, sending him a glare before making myself at home by going to the kitchen to grab a beer.

Marty suddenly rises from the couch, beer in hand, when he beelines for the door I just entered.

My heartbeat skids and slams into my chest because I know where the fuck he’s going.

He’s about to call out my bullshit.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer, determined to prove me wrong in any way he can. He only halts his palm touching the doorknob when I pull back on the hammer of my 9mm. The loud sound piercing through his muffled sounding TV and aimed right at his head.

“Don’t trust me, Marty?” I purr, my tone anything but delighted.

I’m pissed.

First, because of the obvious, trust.

Second, I don’t need to tell him everything even though I make him spill all his crap.

Third, because I’m not having the Bishop conversation.

“You can bet your ass, Emmy Lou,” he assures me, still staring at the door. “You’re hiding something from me.”

I literally loathe how he can feel me too.

It’s like we’re separated twins, except we look nothing alike. Marty with dark hair and piercing green eyes and me with my pale blonde hair that almost looks white with light brown eyes.

We might be able to pass as second cousins, but nothing more.

It’s as though we were linked somehow in a past life, and I don’t like how it is used against my favor.

“Did you adopt me and become my new daddy?” I seethe, watching Marty slowly peer over his broad shoulder at me, eyes drilling into my face.

“You need a daddy...but he doesn’t look like me.”

My nostrils flare. We’re both in a shit mood, both hard-headed, petty as fuck, and can make a war out of nothing.

But we’re close friends.

He’s had my back, I always have his, and it still does nothing when we’re like this. We’re downright assholes.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I snap, gesturing with my weapon for him to go sit back down. “Go enjoy your beer, best friend.”

“Tell me where you were,” he retorts sternly. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“Out shopping,” I lie through a whisper.

Marty’s brows furrow. “What?”

“Shopping,” I repeat louder. “I was shopping for dildos, Marty.”

“You’re an idiot, Emmy.” He steps away from the door, hurls it open, and whistles loudly. A faint sound of jingling comes from the other side, Armageddon’s collar.

The dog barrels through the door frame, tongue hanging from his mouth as he searches for me. And when he does, he obediently sits without being asked.

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