Page 30 of Pitiful Lies

And she’s gonna get it. I just don’t know where to start.

I’m the Vipers’ fucking Enforcer, not their poet. I never had to use pretty words or bring a girl gifts or flowers.

Fuck. I never had to.

Even Luc managed to get his girl. Maria, that pretty little bartender married him with hardly a fucking proposal.

“It’s not you. It’s me.”

That’s the last thing she said to me. I’ve been driving, my eyes on the road, just replaying her words over and over again like some kind of masochistic litany.

“Oh my God,” she murmurs as we approach the street where she rents an apartment, and my eyes flick up.

“What the fuck?”

“Um, I think the building is condemned,” I say as I come to a stop right along some police cars.

“B-but my things,” she stutters, eyes wide.

“Excuse me, officer?” I ask, rolling down my window.

“Keep moving, buddy—oh shit. You’re Angel Fury,” the young cop murmurs.

“Nice to meet you, Officer Polaski,” I say, reading his badge and offering my hand.

He takes it, and I raise my eyebrows as he simply holds onto me like we’re fucking dating.

“Sorry, um, sir,” he says.

“No worries. Tell me what’s going on here.”

He looks around, scratching the back of his neck. But no one is looking at us, and I know he’s going to tell me what I want, and fast, too.

Most people do, and I’m right. It doesn’t take long.

It’s a fucking gift.

Whatever.

He explains there was something wrong with the gas lines in the old building and a few people had to be rushed to the hospital. That’s not all. Apparently, while they were trying to fix the leak, there was a minor explosion and a subsequent fire.

“Which apartment took the brunt of the fire?” Sisi asks, and she is leaning over me.

The feel of her soft body against mine is playing havoc with my senses, but I don’t move or acknowledge it. We have shit to discuss before any of that.

“Oh, the basement apartment,” the officer replies, and I feel Sisi’s shocked gasp before I hear it.

“Thanks,” I say, and I continue to drive slowly down the block.

“That’s my apartment,” she whispers, and I know she is in shock or something.

“Oh my God. My clothes. My computer!”

“Your computer? Your laptop is in your suitcase,” I say.

“Yeah, but I had a desktop for work.”

I nod. I know she runs her own marketing business. I researched her months ago.

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