Page 2 of Vengeful Lies

“Then it’s sure as shit not me because I’m trying to be celibate and not fuck anyone,” Hawke says as if that’s answer enough as to why she’s talking about me. I thought she was pissed about barging between us. Wasn’t she?

“You literally fucked Tanya last week,” Ford reminds him.

“She doesn’t count if she’s already on the rotation,” Hawke says with a casual shrug. “Look, toots, you owe my man here an apology. Don’t take it personally that he doesn’t remember you.”

I realize then we have onlookers, most likely because of what appears to be three men berating one woman. A woman, might I add, who started this shit in the first place.

This time, with a brilliant smile and ignoring Hawke, she points at me and makes it very clear who she’s addressing, “Asshole.”

Me? I’m the asshole? Not far from the truth, but I still don’t remember her.

“See, didn’t fuck her,” Hawke says proudly like he didn’t have any doubts.

“You’re either new here or have a screw loose if you think you can speak to me that way,” I say with so much ice in my tone even my men beside me straighten. I don’t give a fuck who she is; I don’t make exceptions for men, women, or their dogs on how they will speak or act around me.

But the woman doesn’t flinch; she simply flicks her hair over her shoulder as she starts to walk in the opposite direction. She looks back over her shoulder and adds, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you real soon, sweetheart.”

I clench my fists and count to three, as my mother taught me, to reclaim my composure. To be honest, her number was a lot higher, but three seconds seems like enough time to pretend I have the discipline to not immediately break someone’s neck.

Before I step forward, she opens the door to a car, a little yellow beetle-looking thing. She doesn’t even look back; the most dangerous act she’s performed all day, especially with men like us.

Who the fuck is this woman?

She makes a point to wind down the window and flip us off as she drives away.

My jaw tics. As I count to three again, I make a point to memorize her license plate. Outright pulling a woman by her hair in broad daylight in the middle of New York City isn’t one of my brightest ideas, which is why I bury the impulse.

Hawke whistles as he casually puts his hands in the pockets of his torn-up jeans. “She’s fiery, that one. I thought you were seeing Michelle?”

“I amfuckingMichelle,” I correct him. She’s a means to an end, despite the pressure and stipulation that we should marry to keep our family relationship.

Just then, my phone vibrates, and I pull it out to see a text message from an unknown number.

Unknown number: Check your pockets, asshole. Thanks for the show.

It’s followed by a kiss emoji, and I’m almost certain that my littleI’ll leave a dead rat in your drawervisitor is the same woman in the short orange dress who just flipped me off. It’s rather extraordinary she was able to get my number in the first place. That’s one thing I do not hand out to women, not even Michelle, who I’ve known for years and fuck on the regular. The only people who have my number are my family.

I feel the edges of something in my pocket, furious that I hadn’t even sensed her featherlight touch as she stepped between Hawke and me.

A cool calm washes over me, hiding the rolling rage within as I pull out a small photo.

“Oh fuck, you keep souvenirs now?” Hawke asks, looking over my shoulder. I cut a glare in his direction, and he immediately puts his hands up and takes a step back, although the asshole grins me.

It’s a picture of me and Michelle, from two weeks ago, outside of her apartment on the balcony as I fucked her against the railing. My hand is over her mouth, smothering her screams. I’m fully clothed as she’s bent over, taking my full length, tears streaming down her face.

It was a sufficient night, enough to take the edge off at least. I left shortly after, even with her insistence that I stay.

Scrunching up the image, I dial the number that texted me. It rings and rings with no answer.

So I respond with the calmness of a man who’s ready to burn a city down just to find the woman who’s stupidly chosen to fuck with me.

I go to slide the picture back into my pocket when I feel another; it’s smaller than the first. A wave of cruel delight flushes through me, and I can’t help but smile.

“It’s always creepy as shit when you smile, man,” Hawke says.

The photo is of my underwear drawer…with the fucking rat in it.

A follow-up text message from the same number appears with a single kiss emoji.

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