Page 35 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“I mean it.” I frown at her. Does she see me posing for the camera? No. I don’t need to do this, any more than I needed to save her from that violent psycho. “Even if you show up to my house, they’ll know to let you in.”

She nods once, then again, as if coming to two separate conclusions. Then she lifts her face to me with a smile that’s not.

“Thanks, but I’m good.” She presses the stack back into my chest. “I don’t need your pity.”

My back teeth grind down. “I never said—”

She’s already turning away. “I may be on the streets, but I’m not desperate. I don’t know what you think you can get from me, whether it’s some good publicity or whatever, but no thanks. I’m not interested.”

She keeps her head high as she walks away. Doesn’t look back.

I’m sure the cameras got a nice shot of that. Although they won’t be able to do shit with it without a story. And they certainly won’t be getting one from me.

The reporters are a necessary evil. But I know more than most how they’re like a pitbull with no owner. As long as you have a juicy steak ready, you’re safe. For a time.

I turn to join them, navigating my way through the crowd, sliding the twenties back in my pocket.

I can feel the crisp bills rustling between my fingers.

But not the business card.

Whether on purpose or by accident, she took it.

I pause as I get to the podium. I have nothing planned, but that doesn’t bother me. Words come and go when I need them to. There’s something else that’s snagging my attention.

The press of my erection against my jeans.

Her fault.

Joy.

Sgorayu ot lyubvi.

It comes to me in a swipe of certainty: I’ll win this campaign, that goes without saying. I decided that back in my campaign office days ago.

But I’ll win her, too. Find her. Claim her.

No matter what it takes.

9

Joy

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

I stop at the first park bench I see and slump on it, careful to avoid the plop of fresh bird poop on the right corner.

My thoughts need time to catch up to everything that happened—pizza, Mr. Hot Rich Politician, the Rainbow Psycho—in no particular order. And the way he looked at me …

A shiver starts in my collarbone, gets clenched there, hoarded. As if my body is inadvertently prizing the feeling. This is not a good thing. Even sitting here isn’t—letting the thoughts worm their way in, making unwelcome suggestions.

Because I already made my decision—the right decision.

“If you need anything, anything at all …” he said.

No.

Nothing is free. Money isn’t free and help isn’t free—especially the kind of ‘help’ that comes from people like him. There’s always a price tag, explicit or implicit. And it’s the implicit costs you have to watch out for the most. The kind where they can come to demand payment at any time and in any form.

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