Page 47 of Cruel Lies

In a heartbeat, the woman in question had her hands against Nash’s chest and was shoving back against him, trying to keep distance between him and Angel. "Nash, Nash, come on, now, let’s not start shit, I’m almost done cooking?—"

Nash shoved her off like she was little more than a fly on a horse’s ass, moving around her with ease to get in Angel’s face. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Angel?" He shoved our middle brother, who had moved from the couch to stand nose to . . . well, top of the head, with Nash. Their height difference wouldn’t deter Nash, though. He had pounds of muscle on Angel, and where Angel was quick, Nash was ruthless. He played dirty, and he didn’t hesitate.

"Alright, assholes," I started, moving to stand in between them, for all the good it would do me. "Let’s just chill the fuck out and let Harper finish cooking, so we can eat. Then you two can go off and do your own shit and?—"

"No,fuckthat. If he wants to start shit, let him start shit, Ro. Don’t get in the way this time, or I’ll take you with him." Nash tried to move me out of the way like he had Harper, but I wasn’t as light, and I was used to his tactics.

"Nice try, Nash. Why don’t you go take a cold shower or something?—"

"If he wants to die, Rowan, today is as good a day as any." Angel put a hand on my shoulder, glancing over it at Nash’s murderous face. "I can take him. And he knows it."

Out of nowhere, Harper was behind him, and she pulled his arm off me and dragged him to the door. "Rowan, you deal with that one, I’ve got the skinny one," she said, and then like a bolt of lightning, she yanked Angel by the arm out the door and slammed it in her wake.

I turned my attention to Nash, who I promptly shoved onto the couch. "You have to fuck everything up, don’t you?"

The crossed arms and tilt of his nose made him look like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. And I didn’t have the patience to be his fucking father right now.

Nash huffed and rolled his eyes. "I wish you’d let me beat his ass just once, Ro. He’s got it coming with that fucking attitude."

I shoved a finger in his face. "Not happening. We acted like perfectly civilized men before Harper came on the scene, and now, suddenly, you’re at each others’ throats. What gives?"

"I don’t really care to discuss it with you, Mr. High-and-Mighty." His gaze turned inward for a second, and then he was up and off the couch, hustling across the room to grab his jacket. "I’m hitting the fucking club. You know where to find me if you need me. But I’d prefer it if you don’t."

He was gone in a flash before I could think of a way to stop him. It was getting to the point where if things didn’t come to a head soon, they’d explode, and we might all be caught in the crossfire if a man like Nash blew up in our midst.

My locs bounced off the sides of my face as I shook my head and returned to the office to make some calls.

Someone here had to keep their cool. It might as well be me.

TWENTY-TWO

ANGEL

It shouldn’t have surprisedme that Harper somehow knew her way to the roof, even though she’d only left that room three times in a week.

The hot sun beat down against my skin as I turned to her and forgot how to breathe.

The way the sunlight shone against her black hair was nothing like when she’d been a blonde in high school. The roof escape was our thing, but I couldn’t remember a single time in my past that felt like this.

Charged. Heady. Yet, somehow wrong. It was like looking at a picture that wasn’t quite straight, or the colors were faded, and you didn’t know quite how to explain it, but you knew it just wasn’t the way it should be.

She braced her hands against the concrete ledge, eyes squinted against the sun as she stared out over Port Wylde.

The view was impeccable for a mental institution. We were seven floors up, on the tallest hill in the city, so you could see everything she had to offer from the top of our lovely little sanatorium. For all that the place itself was gloomy, it boasted one of the best views in town.

Neither of us spoke for a long time. I just watched her, standing there, leaning out over the edge with all the confidence of a woman used to spending time on a rooftop. I finally sat beside her, and there was no mistaking that I had my eyes on her, but if she noticed, she sure didn’t show it.

Those nails of hers had always been manicured in her pampered days, but now they were short, practical, void of polish or a shine. Her hands were working hands, dotted with little freckles here and there, tiny cuts in various stages of healing all up and down the length of them.

Her gaze fell to her hands, where mine was, and she balled them into fists, crossing them so I couldn’t stare any longer.

"It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a rooftopwith you," she started, her voice a tad hollower than usual. "The last time was when we lived in the Richford Hills community."

My gaze turned to the horizon, as if I could see that far. Richford Hills was a gated community in Khula City, where our parents had moved us all in together, Brady Bunch style. The roof had these Mexican stucco tiles or some shit, fancy clay—all I remember was Father talking about how much she spent on the damn roofing tiles. If you wore shoes, the rubber slid across them, but if you went out there barefoot, you could curl your feet around them, conform to their shape, and it was like walking on uneven ground—irritating, but manageable.

The last time we were on that roof, it’d?—

"It was raining," I whispered, remembering it like it was yesterday. "Your hair was so wet, you looked like a drowned rat when I finally found you."

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