Page 12 of Mischievous Lies

My father is an absolute genius when it comes to tracking people; throughout my life, I’ve watched him work. There’s an art form to it, really: following the leads, drilling down further and further. My parents never hid the fact that what he often did was not for the faint of heart, nor was it legal. But they always emphasized the risks. So, I pretended not to be interested in the dark web or having a side business that was unsavory.

As I got older, I naturally gravitated toward electronics, and it turns out I’m very good at it. So, when I picked IT as a specialty, my father was proud. He’s never once tried to sway me into going down the same route as him, but I really enjoyed it and the mystery behind figuring out the unknown. I dabbled in other things, even picking up a camera and pencil for a while to see if I was any good at design like my mother. But I didn’t have a knack for it in the same way that she does.

Most of the gigs I accept are above board, though I enjoy dabbling in tasks that not just anyone can complete. I’ve seen some shit and been a part of illegal activities from a distance. I always safeguard my identity and dealings in case anything goes astray. Anything is possible with a laptop or phone. But I always tread on the edge of caution and siphon my earnings from those jobs into an untraceable account. Who knows, I might use the money on a rainy day, or it might just sit there. I have everything I want, and my mainstream gigs pay for my lavish lifestyle and love for traveling. I come and go as I please, free as a bird.

Most of my friends are aware of my talents and know it’s forbidden to let their parents or mine know of their extent. I’m just not entirely sure if that’s the avenue I want to go down, and I know the moment my father finds out, he’ll act like a big old Labrador, probably wanting to work together as a father-daughter bonding experience. I love my dad, but I leave his overbearing nature to be directed at my mother, who seems to love it. And she’s not afraid to put him in his place when he gets to be too much.

“Are you sure all of these clothes are mine?” Billie yells from her room. I can’t help but laugh as I untuck my legs from underneath my ass where I’m sitting at my desk, messing around on my computer after finishing up a work project. My current employer gave me a ten-hour window to complete the task, and I finished it within the first hour, but I won’t make it live just yet. They’ve had three IT specialists fail at their expectations, so I’ll wait a while before I upload it.

My room’s covered in potted plants—some of them dying, some of them alive. There’s a pile of clothes in the corner and wrappers on my computer desk in front of the three screens that give me an exterior view of the apartment complex. I never lift the blinds to look outside.

I head over to Billie’s room and find her sitting on the floor, a pile of clothes scattered around her. I pick them up and compare them to my frame. “Well, not even my left tit will fit in half of these, so yeah, boo, they’re yours.”

“Gah, why do I have so many clothes? You did this.” She points a coat hanger at me. I chuckle because I’ve definitely been known to be a bad influence when it comes to retail therapy, but as women, we’re naturally an accessory that can be glammed up in any way we want. Why wouldn’t we want to style ourselves differently every day?

I sit on the floor with her. Multiple boxes surround her room, and the curtains are wide open, forcing my eyes to adjust to the lighting. We sit there in silence, taking in the chaos.

“I’m going to miss you,” I say glumly.

“I’m not dying,” she says, but it’s a reminder that she had almost died once. I’d just returned from Ibiza when she was kidnapped, and she hasn’t spoken to me much about it. I’d never felt so useless as a friend. I’d had no idea, and it was Hawke who contacted me to track down Ford when he realized something was amiss. It was a reminder that in this world we were born into, even if not fully associated with it, we’re at risk.

“I’ll still come around for movie nights,” she says, laying her head on my shoulder.

“You better; we have a lifetime of popcorn in the cupboard,” I joke as I rest my head against hers. We’ve been thick as thieves since we were kids. We went to college together and moved back to Manhattan together. It feels like Billie’s getting her shit together, and here I am, almost twenty-five, and all I’ve really done is party. I haven’t had to work especially hard for my lifestyle, and I haven’t had to prove myself in any way like Billie and Hope. But that doesn’t make me feel any less… lost. Shouldn’t I have found some grand purpose by now?

I try to shake it off. I’m not one to reflect or beat myself up about things I don’t have or where I think I should be at this point in my life. I love my life, the end.

The front door opens, and I know it’s Ford before I see him. Only he and Hope have access to our apartment, apart from our parents. He walks in, biting into a muffin, and I narrow my gaze. “That better not be the last blueberry muffin Billie baked.”

“What my girlfriend bakes is only ever for me,” he grumbles.

“Please. I was here before your dick was, and—” My words fall off as Hawke saunters in behind him. You’ve got to be kidding me. Hawke whistles as he scans the room.

“Damn. Nice place you girls have. Why haven’t we had some parties here?” His gaze slides to me, and he smirks.

“Do they just let any stray walk in from the street now?” I ask Billie as she stands. She laughs as she walks over to Ford and kisses him.

“Hey, I’m here to help with all of this. I’m better than any moving company. Got a van and everything,” Hawke announces as the other two leave, Billie explaining to Ford what has to go in the first load. I still don’t understand why she didn’t hire professionals, but she said Ford seemed excited to help.

Hawke offers a hand to help me up, but I uncross my legs and stand on my own. “You can’t be serious. Seriously? A van?”

He seems proud of himself as he points to the window. I can imagine this big asshole driving a van. I can’t help but peer outside and laugh. Yep, there’s a fucking van. I feel him come up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist as he pulls me against him.

“Where’s your room, Ivy?” His breath is hot on my neck.

“Where’s your sweetheart, Hawke?” I bite back. I can feel his semi-hard cock against the small of my back.

“You always dress like this at home? I should’ve come around sooner. I’m digging the pink booty shorts and crop top.”

“No.” I turn and shove at his chest. “I’m not usually wearing anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to finish,” I say as I head for the door.

“You think you’ve got the upper hand after fleeing the club early last night?” he asks from behind me, and I can’t help but glance over my shoulder and smirk, looking pointedly at his semi-hard cock. I purposely bend over slightly, giving him a glimpse of the bottom of my ass.

“I don’t need an upper hand, Hawke. You want what you can’t have. Now, pick up your chin; you’re drooling.” I slip into the hallway, my smile growing and my hips swaying on the way back to my room.

I don’t leave my room again, and I’m surprised when he doesn’t barge in to bother me further. I’m entertained when I raise my blinds ever so slowly to watch him and Ford carry boxes and furniture to the van. It makes them look so domesticated when I know they’re anything but. These men are dangerous.

Hawkeis dangerous. Yet anyone not paying close enough attention might think he’s just a manwhore with the energy of a Labrador.

---