Page 71 of All Your Lies
Alexa
My doorbell rings precisely at six. I already know who it is. I open the door and gaze into Gage’s deep-blue eyes.
This is our first official date, though I’d never tell him I thought of it as such. It would go right to his head.
His black suit molds to his body, conveying power and control—not just physically, but mentally, and perhaps spiritually, as the effect he has on me when I’m near him would suggest.
I step out and lock the door, and when I turn around, we’re almost chest to chest, which makes my body hum with awareness.
Then, he holds up a rose and I remember why I’m so irritated with him and his lies and why I still need to keep these feelings locked up tight.
“I don’t want that.”
“Neither do I. Who the fuck is putting roses on your porch?”
I raise a brow. “Don’t act like you haven’t been doing it. Your silly little game is over.”
“I haven’t put anything on your porch besides those gift boxes.”
“You sure?”
“I remember you saying cutting a rose from the bush where it was born was like killing it.”
My head tilts as I regard him. “You remember that? I said that forever ago.”
“I remember everything. Now, who?”
“I-I don’t know,” I say, my voice wavering as I take a deep, shaky breath. The thought of Gage leaving roses pissed me off because that meant he was following my every move. But now I’m creeped out because someone I don’t know is following me. “It started weeks ago.”
“Just here?”
“No, on my car or Jenna’s when we would be out together,” I say as I bite my lip. “But it could be someone bothering her. She works as a bartender at a strip club. I’ll ask her about it.”
Gage looks around. He has a white-knuckle grip on the rose stem.
“I thought we were going out to eat,” I say, hoping to derail whatever murderous plot he has running through his head.
He glances back at me with a huge grin before grabbing my hand. “Then let’s go.”
The car ride is silent aside from the low music in the background. I steal a glance at Gage as he drives, obviously lost in thought.
Something is intriguing about his nose—a slight upturn at the tip, contrasting with a subtle bump on the bridge that suggests a history of many injuries. His lips are fuller than I recall, and I can confirm they possess a softness matching their appearance. His beard has grown in the past few days, giving him a more rugged appearance, which contrasts with his polished suit. My attention shifts to his firm grip on the steering wheel. Eventhrough his tattoos, the bulging veins in his hand are visible. I lick my extremely dry lips and blow out a breath.
“Like what you see?”
“What?” I murmur as I lift my gaze.
He keeps his eyes on the road, but his grin is huge.
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, averting my eyes to the road ahead.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Whatever.” I move my hand to the volume of the radio and turn it up loud enough to drown out his laughter.
The moment I hear the beginning beat, my head whips to him. “This song is so old. I haven’t heard it in forever.” One song drowns into the next, all old and from our teens. “You know, there are new songs out there.”
