Page 4 of Cruel Lies

I was tired of it all.

I wantedchange.I wanted to do somethingdifferent.

But it was hard to do things differently when your face resembled a lousy imitation of the Black Dahlia Murders and the Joker’s painted scars blended together.

Not a single target had ever seen our faces, and I planned to keep it that way.

"Yo, man, you good?" Angel turned around in his seat and stared at me like I was broken. It took me about three seconds to realize the car had stopped, and I spent the whole ride zoned out in my own thoughts.

"Fine, I’m fine, you fuckstick," I growled, shoving his seat up with him still in it to force my way out of the car. Clearly, I was anythingbutfine, but I didn’t need his patronizing bullshit or Ro’s overbearing concern. But considering where I ended up when I stepped out of the car and slammed the door, maybe I should have reconsidered that thought.

Because I’d emerged dead center of a busy intersection.

Fuck me, man. I was really in my own head these days.

Angel and Ro motioned for me to get back in the car, but I was pissed. My brain was on autopilot, and it was dark out. I had a painted face, and this was Port Wylde. Nobody would bother me here after dark. I flipped them the bird and turned around, walking through six lanes of traffic not likely to stop for my ass when their lights reflected off the metal studs in my jacket.

The sidewalk under my feet felt familiar, the same texture and stability I’d walked on for three years every night after that—after our first hit. The only one that’d ever stuck in my brain in a bad way.

Harper.

Fucking Harper Daniels.

When I turned back around, the Torino was gone, likely because even as a member of the Guild, certain things were still illegal. Like driving around with a body in your trunk, still warm, covered in marks. And if the cops caught them, that’d be the end of us. We had an understanding with the force, the Guild did, but we’d always known if the wrong cop caught us out doing illegal things, we were on our own. That’s why we operated mainly in the dark.

That was Keehn’s shift. Or whatever St. Clair’s ex-husband’s name was. He had been cleaning up behind her and hiding her illicit business model for damn near twelve years. Hell, I still thought the fucker had feelings for her, even after all this time, and their messy divorce.

I wasn’t the only one, either.

But that was none of my business.

Lights blurred together as I walked down the street with no destination in mind, just pure, unrestrained wandering. My feet led the way, my mind disconnected—par for the course these days, with me. Around me, the city was a blur, the noises melding together until it was nothing but a muddled chorus of horns honking and people screaming out their windows at the other drivers. Somewhere in the distance, someone played street music, a low, melancholy tune that perfectly fit the city's mood. At night, nothing good happened here. You didn’t go on evening walks on the beach. You didn’t visit cute little nighttime cafes, even though there were some that stayed open this late. You didn’t make midnight runs to the corner store unless you had a death wish.

Nighttime in Port Wylde was a free-for-all, like the Purgemovies come to life. It was a lawless city. And I’d been living here for far too long. I’d become desensitized to it all.

One more day, one more night, just another twenty-four hours in my fucking pathetic life.

And many more to come.

Not that they were worth looking forward to.

The thought of continuing this pitiful existence as I had been for years clung to me like the stink of fresh shit on your shoe as I marched into a familiar convenience store just around the corner of the Asylum where we lived, grinning at the cashier as I whipped the blood from my hands on my undershirt and reached for an empty soda cup at the fountain.

"Hey, Vinnie, how’s it going?"

TWO

ROWAN

Twenty-four hours.

Just twenty-four hours of downtime before we were being called in to accept another hit contract.

This one was special, though. Or at least that’s what St. Clair told me on the phone when she called at eight in the fucking morning to wake me up.

Now, I was sitting in her office, a dossier in my hands, open to a picture of a woman that was blurry at best. Hell, I’d seen CCTV footage from the nineties that was clearer.

My eyes skimmed the file, listing off the details on the target. "Ms. Hannah Flagg. Late twenties, works in a mechanic shop. No known family, lives on the seedier side of the Wharf District in a second-story apartment that charges—holy shit,landlords really charge these prices for astudio?Fuck me, I’m glad I don’t rent from public homeowners."

---