Page 101 of Cruel Lies

Convenient.

Apartment 5D was on the top floor, and the door was fucking black with one of those bronze knockers that felt like overkill. My eyes skimmed over the cheap bronze pinstriping on the finishing around the hall, the stucco ceiling, and the worn-down thick carpeting that looked like it was meant to be a few shades lighter than it was, taking in the shitty ambiance.

At least he wasn’t living too far above his means. One could almost assume he was concerned with public opinion, and strove for something that was just out of reach.

Don’t we all, buddy. Don’t we all.

He answered on the second knock wearing one of those ridiculous hotel robes, a cigar hanging from his mouth, telltale white around his nostrils that matched the dilated black pupils taking over his eyes.

Great. A cokehead. There was a cokehead walking Harper home every day. Working alongside her. Waiting in her house for rides to show up.

Who knew what else he was doing around her.

I wasn’t the kind of guy to shame a man for his vices. Well, okay, so I’d been known on occasion to yell at Nash for his excessive drinking and borderline alcoholism.

Borderline. Sure. Let’s call it that.

"Who the fuck are you?" He scratched absently at his chin, looking me up and down as I slid my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose. I marked the second he noticed my eyes, as his own widened, and he let out a low whistle. "Man, those are some wild eyes. Contacts?"

My hair started to slip free of the ponytail I’d tied it in as I shook my head from side to side. "Genetic mutation." I offered him a blank stare as I gave him a cursory once over again, noticing the white socks on his feet had seen better days. "I’m here to have a nice little chat with you. Might wanna have it inside, though, or your neighbors will find out far more about you than you ever wanted them to know."

He moved back and gestured for me to come in, so I did, strolling on by him like I owned the place. I stopped dead in the living room for a moment as he closed and locked the door, obviously on high alert now. He watched me as I took the seat he’d been occupying until I arrived, if the telltale mirror on the side table, covered in white powder lines and an ID, were any indication.

He predictably took the seat across from me and crossed his arms, raising a brow in my direction as if daring me to say a word about his choice of vice.

I wasn’t here to judge. I was here to deliver a warning.

"Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?" I steepled my fingers and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as I stared down my nose at him. "You seem to be getting awful close to someone you probably shouldn’t. I’m here to tell you that you’re crossing a line you don’t wanna be on the other side of."

"Someone I shouldn’t?" His brows furrowed, and he played the stupid card. I wasn’t sure if he was actually this dumb, or if he was playing me for a fool. "Who?"

"The pretty raven-haired girl you work with at the mechanic shop."

I watched the understanding dawn on his face, little by little, like a revelation after a good sleep. "Oh, you mean Hannah. Yeah, she’s nice." He snorted back some of the white powder trying desperately to leak down his nose, scrubbing a finger beneath it in a vain attempt to hide something that was, to me, inconsequential. "What’s she to you?"

My eyes tracked him as he moved around me, picking up the mirror with little to no fear. Clearly, the man lacked self-awareness and self-preservation as he rolled up a hundred-dollar bill and offered it to me.

"Want a line? It’s some top-shelf shit."

My nose crinkled in disgust. "I’ll pass. It’s not my thing."

His shoulders lifted in a half-ass shrug of dismissal. "Your call."

My anger was rising by the second, and I had to remind myself that I was supposed to be the better child. I wasn’t supposed to be bordering on a Nash-level mentality. Pinching the bridge of my nose didn’t help, either.

A sigh permeated the air as I leaned forward and entered his space. "Here’s the deal, asshole. Harp—Hannah—is off-limits, and I want you to make sure you don’t find an excuse to get any closer to her than you are. Matter of fact, I want you to stop cozying up to her in general."

He sniffed up the line in a move that would have made Pablo Escobar proud. "No can do, pal. It’s kinda my job to keep an eye on her."

"The fuck do you mean it’s your job?" My eyes narrowed suspiciously, and I impatiently jerked the straw out of his hand, needing an answer. "Who pays you to keep an eye on her?"

"Some guy who calls himself the Boss. Pays me well to make sure she never walks home alone, and that nobody bothers her at work. Aside from Tony, that is, but I don’t think he’s gonna bother her anymore." He sniffed up his last line, reaching for the half-empty bottle of brandy on the table between us. "So you see, I’m just doing what I was hired for."

If my eyes got any narrower, they’d disappear or close completely. "Were you hired there specifically to watch her?"

His nod was very slow in coming, almost hesitant, like he was unsure if he was supposed to be answering my questions. "Who is she to you?"

"Important." I frowned at my very unsatisfactory answer and struggled for a better one. "She’s my sister." Not a lie, but not the truth, per se. Still, he wouldn’t find it abnormal for someone to worry about a sibling. And I wouldn’t have to admit that I was out here worrying about her well-being like some lovestruck sap of a man.

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