Page 82 of Cold Hard Truth

“So are you.”

And I can’t decide whether that’s good or bad given we’re torn the fuck up. Even if on the outside we’re older versions of ourselves, inside we might as well be unrecognizable.

A waitress pauses at our side, and I assume she must have asked if I want a drink, but I can’t hear anything right now except for Lyla.

Lyla sets her empty glass down on the tray, shaking her head at the waitress, who then disappears into the crowd.

“I lied to you,” Lyla says, but I can barely hear her with the music.

Tipping her chin up with my thumb, I force her to look at me. Slowly tracing my fingers down until I’m drawing the line of that choker around her throat.

“What did you lie about?”

She swallows, her throat working under my fingers, and I’m tempted to wrap my hand around it. To pull her to me. To make her see she should never have left me.

“Not here.” She takes a step back, and my fingers glide down her throat at the movement.

And when she steps back again, my hand falls from her completely. But she doesn’t take her eyes off me as she backs up until she finally turns and walks away, still not answering my question.

I follow, just like she knows I will. Because she’s never getting out of my sight again.

We make our way down the stairs to the front door of the club. She steps out first, but while I pause under the overhang, she walks into the alley between Incinerate and the tattoo shop.

“What are you doing?”

She stretches her arms out in the pouring rain. It soaks her clothes and turns her hair into a black river down her back. Water beads over her arms and runs rivers down her face when she tips it up to the sky.

Stepping out of the cover, I walk into the rain and place my hands on her hips.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” She spins around, facing me, her makeup washing off her face with the water.

“It feels cold.”

She laughs, shaking her head like she thinks I’m ridiculous.

A car driving down the road has me pulling her against me, but she just giggles again.

“Come here.” I grab her hand and tug her deeper into the alley.

Here, the iron staircases that wind up the side of each building block some of the rain, even if a few drops still manage to find their way through.

“You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Lyla backs up to the brick wall, and I cage her between my arms. My hands press into the wet brick like it’ll stop me from touching her. Her chest heaves, and her nipples peek through the thin, wet fabric of her T-shirt. Her mouth parts and beads of water run over her plump lips as she looks up at me.

Violet eyes.

Purple violence.

She’s the center of an amethyst. Plain on the outside, but the moment you crack her open—the moment you get a glimpse of what’s hidden—you’re never going to see anything more beautiful for the rest of your life.

“What did you lie about?” I ask again, keeping my hands on the wall, even as they start to itch in desperation for the smoothness of her skin.

“When I said I was also out there getting experience.” Her face flushes and she shakes her head. “I’m not saying I did nothing these past eight years. I just didn’t…you know.”

My hands ball into fists, even if I have no right. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because of what happened in the basement…” She closes her eyes, tipping her head back to the rain. “Trust is a hard thing to get back once you’ve lost it.”

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