Page 62 of Cold Hard Truth

This apartment is starting to feel like a prison, and if I don’t get out soon, I might begin carving tallies into the walls.

I understand why he’s avoiding me, especially since I gave that girl his number and Echo told me she’s been texting him nonstop. But if we’re going to be roommates, he’s going to have to talk to me at some point.

The silent treatment is worse than him and my dad locking me up in a horse stall. And I’m getting it from both of them. They won’t tell me why I’m actually here or who they think is after me, and it’s irritating.

I’m not a child anymore, running around the Twisted Kings compound picking flowers with Ellie and pretending we didn’t know they were watered with the blood of Kane’s enemies. I’m not naïve as to what evil follows me when I have the Michaels last name.

Still, it changes nothing.

At least Sage’s apartment isn’t quiet. With the thin walls and the city always making noise, the bustle of LA keeps me company. Traffic and horns and sirens ring out depending on the day and time. It probably bothers most people who live around here, but I don’t mind the noise that fills the gaps where I’d otherwise have too much room to think.

Walking into the kitchen, I start the coffee maker and grab the mug that’s slowly becoming mine. The pot hums to life as footsteps come from down the hallway.

“Coffee?” Mason says, walking into the room. “It’s almost ten at night.”

“Caffeine doesn’t affect me.” That, and I don’t mind if I don’t get much sleep because that’s when I have to relive the memories I’d rather run from.

At night, my subconscious takes the reigns. I travel back to those cold concrete walls and lose my sister all over again. I wake up crying more often than I like, even when I’ve learned how to better control the way I respond to it on a daily basis.

It took years, but I managed to bury my trauma beneath my smile. What happened in the basement didn’t kill me, so I kept moving forward. Even if I don’t think it necessarily made me stronger either.

I’m still here, regardless of what they did or what they took. And I get through every day for Ellie. One after the other, keeping her memory with me. Reaching down, I twist the silver pinkie ring around my finger.

Mason grabs a glass of water and takes a long drink. I appreciate how laid back he is because it makes it easy for us to coexist.

While Sage mostly ignores me, Mason keeps me company when he’s around. He’ll ask me about my day, and he doesn’t mind when I tease him about his revolving door of women. We almost feel like friends sometimes, and I appreciate that he never flirts with me. Even if I suspect that has something to do with the unspoken threats Sage issued when I first moved in here.

Mason is uncomplicated on the outside. Like me, he hides whatever deep scars he carries. And I know they’re there—I sense them. He’s a kindred spirit who makes the apartment feel less lonely.

Tonight, Mason’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His dark blond hair is styled, while still managing to look like he didn’t spend too long on it. And he’s towering over me in the small kitchen, bathed in cologne.

“You heading out?”

“Yeah.” He leans against the counter, watching me make my coffee. “A band is playing at Incinerate tonight; they’re supposed to be good. You want to go?”

The second the question comes out his eyes widen, like he realizes he’s not allowed to ask me, confirming Sage probably did have a talk with him.

I don’t appreciate that both he and my father still treat me like a sheltered child.

“Don’t worry, I’m staying in.” I pat Mason on the shoulder as I walk past him with my coffee. “God forbid I actually have a life.”

Shaking my head, I make my way into the living room.

“Sorry,” he says, following me. “What is it with you and Sage anyway? I get you’re Kane’s daughter and all, but why aren’t you staying at the club then?”

So many questions that I’m sure sound simple. Mason doesn’t see the rot that started at the roots, spreading up through the club and out to anyone who gets close.

Dropping down onto the couch, I look up at Mason. “You’ve never been a biker, have you?”

He shakes his head.

“Consider that a good thing.” I tuck my legs under me.

“Why’s that?”

Blowing on my coffee, a million reasons race through my mind, but there’s really only one that matters. “Because once you’re one of them, you’ll never be free of it.”

Much lessborn one of them. I never even had a choice. I might not be a Twisted King, but I’ll never escape them either.

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