Page 77 of The Truths that Deceive

The gun I tucked into the back of my pants is something I can’t take with me. So I pull it out and leave it on the edge of the island while I buy time and wait for her to tell me whatever it is she has.

“My brother?”

Deliberately, I shrug. “Tell me what you know.”

“That they’re pieces of shit and they got ripped apart. One arm of them. They make you seem nice.”

I let that slide. “Why are you so interested in them?”

“A man. He’s supposed to be dead, but his accounts, his secret accounts are active. And I had to dig into some dark web stuff to find that out. But his wife—widow—whatever is in New York, and I want to find her. See what she knows.”

“Why?” I type back a message and tuck the phone away.

“Because I’m pretty sure he raped my mom. When she was young. M-my brother?”

With a sigh, I turn.

The gun’s in her hand, pointed at me.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” I ask her softly.

“If I have to. Promise you’ll help him.”

I walk up to her slowly. “If you cooperate. And if you’re going to do it, pull the trigger now.”

“I will.”

Calista’s hand doesn’t shake, I’ll give her that. And she holds the gun in the proper position, a CIA girl down to the bone. What I’m not sure of is if she’ll actually pull the trigger. I walk right up until the barrel presses against my chest.

Then I close my hand around hers.

“Do it, Calista. Pull the fucking trigger.”

“You don’t think I will?”

“I don’t know. Will you?” I counter.

“If you push me.”

She still doesn’t shake, even now, but her eyes get wild, a little bloodthirsty and it turns me the fuck on.

So I help her. Slide my finger in over hers and she jerks, pulling the fucking trigger.

The gun clicks.

“Empty. I didn’t put a clip in it. But good to know what you’re capable of.” I ease the gun from her hand and slide a thigh between her legs, pressing up against her pussy. I lean down to graze my mouth along her cheek and up to her ear. “There are different kinds of chases, Calista. And this one is fucking exhilarating.”

“You’re a sick bastard.”

“You’re the one who picked up my gun and threatened me.”

“I…”

I kiss her, tangling a hand in her silky hair. I angle her head and slant my mouth more fully over hers, invading her depths, tasting her. The scotch and the fear. The anger and the desire. Her claws and the rivaling softness as she goes down for me, fighting as she gives it up with a whimper of need.

She’s hot and wet and rubbing on my leg, her tongue fucking and twining with mine.

Her small sounds of pleasure slide down into my bones, burning the center of me. I’m hard, of course, I’m fucking rock-hard.

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