Page 29 of Under the Lies

Noah watches me for a moment. “You know she wouldn’t do this for you, right?”

I do, but the roles aren’t reversed and my conscience won’t let me do this any other way.

He regards me in a thoughtful manner and I’m trying to make sense of it when he nods. “Okay.”

Two syllables. One word.

Okay.

“Just like that?”

He nods.

Just like that, I have the word of a dangerous man on my side.

“How do I know you’re not going to screw me over?”

Noah leans across the table. “Are you planning on screwing me over, Sayer?”

“No.”

After what feels like an eternity of me staring into the dark depths of Noah’s nonexistent soul, he nods. “Then you have my word I’ll protect you from your sister when she comes back.”

If I’ve learned anything from my father, a prominent lawyer, it’s that verbal contracts only last as long as the time it takes to say them. Uncapping my pen, I furiously scribble on the paper I ripped out.

By the time I’m done writing the most pathetic contract in the history of ever, making the details of our arrangement clear, I slide it to Noah, who takes his time reading over it.

“Would you prefer I sign this with my blood?” he asks when he’s finished.

“That’s not necessary,” I tell him. “A simple pen will do.”

He reaches over to my side of the table and takes the pen from my hand. His fingers brush against mine and leave an electrical current in their wake, shooting up my arm.

After it’s signed, he slides it back over to me.

“Now what?” I ask while I fold the contract up and stuff it in my bag.

He pushes away from the chair. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

Noah extends a hand toward me. “To get started on drawing your sister out.”

I should be worried, maybe even scared. But I’m not. And that’s what scares me the most as I place my hand in his, giving myself over to the unknown.

Sayer Brooks.

Blonde hair. Gray eyes. Five foot seven.

And that’s it. Those three facts are the only things that have stayed the same with her in the last six years.

Where did the fifteen-year-old wallflower go?

In her place is a twenty-four-year-old sharped tongue woman.

As she walks next to me, with her shoulders back and confidence in her steps, it becomes clear. Sayer Brooks isn’t the same little girl she was when she left.

I spent a lot of time in the Brooks’ mansion as a teenager. Dating the delinquent daughter, nothing pissed Harlow’s parents off more than seeing me hang around the pool smoking a joint or with Harlow lounging between my legs.

---