Page 27 of No More Secrets

Rafe is big. But Lucas has several inches on him. He’s almost twice as wide. But he takes the punches, absorbs the punishment. Relishes the pain that reverberates through bones and muscle upon contact, the sting that sends shock waves through his system. He deserves it. Then he tells himself this is what he’s wanted since the day he first laid eyes on Faye.

Rafe bounces in front of him, fists raised. “Fight me back, asshole.”

Lucas stands, shaking his head. If it were anyone else besides Faye’s husband, the guy wouldn’t have gotten in a second punch, let alone the first. He would have leveled the guy for breathing on him. And if Rafe had brought out his friends to hold him down, anyone other than Jim, who guarded the door, Lucas would have gone berserk. Restraining him during a fight triggered too much bad shit.

Rafe punches him in the gut, doubling him over. Lucas gasps, hands planted on his knees.

“Touch my wife again and you die.” Rafe growls the threat, and a sick part of Lucas wishes he would finish him off. Rafe spits on the ground and turns to leave.

“How’d you find out?” Lucas gasps, curiosity getting the better of him. He lifts his head from where he’s bent over. Peeks at Rafe throughthe hair that’s fallen into his face. Faye wouldn’t have given him up. Until her stunt tonight, he was her dirty little secret.

Jim’s chest puffs up. “Saw her leaving your place the other morn wearing the same getup she had on at the bar the night before.”

Lucas nods. He figured as much would happen. His apartment faces the road. Anyone driving past sees who’s coming and going.

“Next time I bring my gun.”

Please do.

He’d take the decision out of Lucas’s hands.

Rafe throws open the thick metal door, and Jim follows him inside. The door bangs shut behind them.

Lucas straightens with a groan and rubs his stomach. He’ll be sore tomorrow.

The rear door flies open. “I leave for two minutes to take a piss, and you get hammered.” Mike stomps over, grabs Lucas’s chin, checks his face.

Lucas thumbs his swollen bottom lip and winces when he sees the pool of blood collecting on the tip of his finger. “How do I look?”

Mike’s expression is wry. “Better than McGregor but messed up nonetheless. Told you to keep your dick in your pants.”

Lucas swats away Mike’s hand. “Back off.”

Mike arches a brow. “Something eating at you, son?”

Always. Every second of the day. Every secret he’s kept. What he did to his father, what was done to him in juvie, it all wants out. And he’s not sure how much longer he can keep the pain contained.

“You’re lucky Rafe didn’t call the cops on you.”

He wouldn’t call them, not at first. He’d just let loose his prison-guard buddies on him like a pack of dogs. Then he’d bring in the police only after they left him bruised and broken.

He takes out his keys, gives them a shake. “Let’s close out. I’ll take you home.”

14

It’s late when Shiloh makes her way to the encampment. She moves stealthily around the perimeter toward her car. Heart thumping in her head, she tries not to make noise. Barrel fires have burned to a smolder, and most of the inhabitants have fallen asleep or passed out, depending on their poison. When her car comes into view, her pace quickens. She rounds Irving’s Chevy Caprice and trips over a lump on the ground.

She swears out loud before she can stop herself. Wide eyed, she claps a hand over her mouth and waits. An owl hoots, and a mouse scurries past underfoot. She dares a look down. Passed out by her feet, Irving lies facedown in the dirt. He’s naked except for the dingy tighty-whities. Frail with loose hanging skin, he doesn’t move.

She toes his elbow, afraid he’s dead. “Irving?”

He moans.

A pained noise rumbles in her throat. This isn’t the first time Irving’s passed out on the ground. But why tonight of all nights? She just wanted to get into her car and hide. But she can’t leave him like this. He could die out here, and she’d never forgive herself, even after he allowed what happened to her car the other day.

Dropping to her knees, she gives his shoulder a shake. His skin is too cold. “Irving,” she whispers harshly.

He groans, shifting his legs. His knee connects with the metal tin he uses for his drugs and syringes. It clatters across the dirt.

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