Game of Lies

by Amanda K. Byrne

  I draw a heart on his chest with my fingertip. “What does this app do?”

  “Parking app. This one catalogues all the available street parking in the city. It’ll tell you if you need a permit to park on a specific street, or how long the pay parking is, or if there’s a parking garage nearby. We’re considering an add-on feature that allows users to report if they see an empty spot, or if they’ve just left a spot, but… I doubt it would be useful.”

  I snort. Considering parking’s at a premium in this city, the service would be a waste. Any spots are gone within minutes, if not seconds. “I agree. So why consider it at all?”

  He yawns. “Money. Add on this feature, we can justify bumping the price of the app.” He trails his fingers down my spine and works them under the hem of my tank. “Why are you wearing clothes?”

  “Random people in the house that didn’t necessarily need to see me naked. Besides, you’re more likely to get out of bed again if I keep them on.”

  “Maybe.” The word comes out garbled, and his hand relaxes and falls away. “Don’t let me sleep too long.”

  I resettle my head on his shoulder. I’ll let him sleep as long as I feel is necessary. The last twenty-four hours were draining for both of us. I may have been asleep for hours already, but the soothing blankness of sleep beckons me back.

  When I wake again, it’s full light. Neither of us has moved, and when I try to roll away to stretch, Nick’s hold tightens. I manage to wiggle my way free and slide off the bed. I dig a sweatshirt and my slippers from my bag and tiptoe out of the room. Whether he agrees or not, Nick needs more sleep. He’s tired enough he could make a mistake, and then he’d get grumpy and broody. As much as I love grumpy, broody Nick, I can’t handle him right now.

  I detour by the alarm control panel out of habit and check the system. Alarm’s on, as are the motion sensors. I frown. When I came out of the guest room to rinse off my plate, the men were still cleaning up the backyard, so I didn’t bother activating the motion sensors. I didn’t get up when Nick came to bed, either.

  Nick must have figured it out. He’s smart like that. After a moment’s debate, I turn them off and backtrack to the kitchen and the coffee maker.

  One sniff of the grounds left in the canister has me searching for the bag of beans I know Mom keeps in the freezer. The question is whether I can grind them without waking Nick. I end up wrapping a bunch of towels around the grinder and groping under them for the switch. It’s awkward as hell, but my reward is the heady, bitter scent of fresh coffee.

  While it’s brewing, I wander to the patio door. The grass is flattened near the shrub, and before I realize what I’m doing, I flip the lock and open the door.

  They did an excellent job. Aside from the grass, nothing appears out of place unless you look closely. A few broken branches, some ragged leaves, dirt turned and not quite smoothed out. I pad around to the back of the shrub and squat down. I shift a few inches until I have a good view of the door.

  I hadn’t bothered following Nick’s driving protocol yesterday when we left his office. An oversight on my part, though I didn’t see anything that looked remotely like a tail. So how were we found?

  Better question. Who was he here for?

  I plop down on the dirt and stare at the door. Nick says his father wants me alive, and I believe him. Several of Isaiah’s men are still alive, but everything I’ve observed about them is they’re followers, not leaders. And while Constantine’s behavior in the last couple of days is odd, I’m not willing to leap to the conclusion he’s behind this. Gathering the necessary information to confirm or clear will take time. I’m just not sure we have time.

  The patio makes a good entry point into the house. With the solid wood fence concealing the backyard, an intruder would only need to be worried about being caught entering the yard through the front by a concerned neighbor or by the occupants of the house.

  Exactly why Turner had motion sensors in addition to the alarm.

  Whoever our would-be attacker was, he either knew about the sensors and counted on them being off, or he didn’t know and got lucky. Until I had more information on who he was, I couldn’t answer that question. I stand and brush dirt from my shorts. Coffee. I can’t continue thinking without coffee.

  I walk inside, and the rich, dark scent hits my nose, bringing with it one of my few good memories of Turner. Maybe I’d blocked it, or maybe I’d truly forgotten, but he was the one who gave me my first cup. I was fifteen. We hadn’t completed training until very late the night before, and I was going to miss the first bell. Turner poured coffee into one of Mom’s travel mugs, doctored it with milk and sugar, handed it to me, and smiled as I took my first cautious sip.

  A smile. A real smile, one of quiet happiness.

  I turn away from the coffee maker, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. How many of those smiles have I overlooked and locked away? Blinking rapidly to clear the tears, I shuffle down the hall to the guest room, no longer interested in staying awake.

  Nick’s still fast asleep as I crawl in beside him. He rouses when I press myself to his side to seek comfort. “Cass?”

  “Go back to sleep,” I whisper, trying to keep the sobs out of my voice.

  His response is to cup the back of my head and guide me to him, his lips soft and seeking. On a whimper, I open for him, stroke his tongue with my own, ready and willing to use this as a distraction from the pain.

  Little by little, the fierce ache of grief fades into the sweet warmth of Nick’s kisses. His mouth never fails to amaze me. He teases me, seduces me, leads me exactly where he wants me, and I’ll follow blindly because I know I’ll get what he promises. I strain against him. I can’t get close enough. When he strokes his hand down my side to clasp my hip, I hesitate. I want him. I want to drown myself in him and the chaos we create, but I’m afraid I’ll unintentionally hurt him, and I’m afraid the intimacy of it will push us closer together when we’re still so very far apart. It would be temporary, and all the more painful when it ends. Pressing one last kiss to his mouth, I try to ease away. He grips me tighter.

  “Nick.”

  “Cassidy.” He nips into my bottom lip. “You won’t hurt me, love. Trust me.”

  Trust me. Odd choice of words, considering that’s up for debate. His eyes never leave mine as he waits for my decision. And it is mine. This is one area I know, with bone-deep certainty, that he will never, ever do anything to hurt me.

  I move over him. His hips come up to meet mine, the hard ridge of his cock pressing into my clit. “Oh, fuck.” I need this. I need his hands and mouth on me, him inside me, making me forget that my world’s in tatters. I rock on him, encouraged by his hands on my hips, and my lids drift shut. Spark after spark of desire flares outward, setting fire to my blood.

  He works his hands under my tank, grips the hem, and pulls it off. Cupping my breast, he captures the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinches tight. The sharp sting draws a whimper from me, and he does it again, repeating the move with my other breast. He skims a hand down to my waist and around my back, urging me to bend forward for a kiss. Silly Nick. All he has to do is look at me, and I want to kiss him. I cover his mouth with mine, moaning at the back of my throat as the heat inside me surges.

  It becomes a game. He trails a line of burning kisses along my jaw, I nuzzle the soft spot under his ear, the one that drives him insane. He scrapes his teeth down my neck, I flick a nail over his nipple. But I have the advantage of mobility, and I wiggle free of his hold, mindful of his injured leg. Limited as he is, he can’t keep me from my destination, and for once, I have him at my mercy.

  I grasp the waistband of his boxers and draw them down, helping him ease them over his hips. His cock lies heavy against his abdomen, the tip glistening with moisture. I run my tongue down the fat vein and close my lips around the head, pleased when he groans quietly. The more I focus on his pleasure, the easier it is to lose myself. I circle the base wi
th my fingers and stroke up. Down, up, down, up, each stuttering breath urging me on, whispering yes, yes, this is it.

  His cock grows slick, salt spreading over my tongue, his hips jerking in time with my movements. He pulses in my mouth, and I pull back, sealing my lips around the crown.

  “Stop,” he rasps, and shoves his hands into my hair, pulling free of my mouth. “Are you trying to make me come?”

  I lick my lips and smile. “That was the general idea.”

  Hands sliding to my shoulders, he pulls gently, his eyes dark with lust. “C’mere. And take your shorts off.”

  For a second, I consider ignoring him. I was enjoying myself, high on the power I had over him. But my clit throbs, telling me it needs friction, and it needs it now. I shimmy out of my shorts and panties and crawl up his body, dropping kisses on his groin, his stomach, his chest, breath hitching as he strokes his fingers between my legs and plunges them into me.

  That sound can’t be coming from me. That…that… That whining, that greedy keening is not me. Yet I can’t stop. I buck my hips, craving speed, incoherent mutters falling from my lips. Tension coalesces and spreads through my belly, and I dig my fingers into his chest.

  He stops. He fucking stops and withdraws his hand, leaving me panting and wild-eyed, groping between my legs, hand closing around his dick. Our groans are loud and embarrassing as I sink down onto him.

  It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve done this. It feels new and amazing every time, his thick length stretching me perfectly. I rise and fall in slow, shallow movements, my eyes never leaving his.

  We’ve come so far in a few months. The difference between fucking and making love can be long or short, and here, it’s short. We’ve done it all, surrendered to our animal instincts, fought the other for control, stripped ourselves bare. He’s ripped me open and given me everything, and it’s there, in his expression, in the tenderness of his lips on mine. This is our world of stolen moments and, for now, it’s enough.

  He clamps his hands on my hips, thrusting up hard, and the change in pressure ratchets the tension higher. No fingers on my clit, nothing more than the angles of his strokes pushing me closer to the edge. I bear down, his hiss of pleasure lost to the pounding of my heart.

  The orgasm is a shock, heat streaking up my spine and stealing my breath. The roaring in my ears renders me deaf. Nick pushes up one last time and mouths a single word—a curse, my name, I don’t know—his face twisting in a rictus of pleasure.

  I collapse on his chest, panting for air. I needed this on so many levels, this connection, this distraction. “I love you.” Maybe he can hear it. Maybe I only thought the words. It doesn’t matter. He knows.

  He knows, and he loves me back.

  Chapter 16

  “Crane Movers had a last minute cancellation. They can take care of the furniture this afternoon.” I set my phone on the arm of the couch and draw my knees up. It doesn’t do much for the hollow sensation in my chest, but I do it anyway. “Do you need to go anywhere? I’ll need to leave soon to let them in.”

  The five or six hours of sleep Nick got clearly weren’t enough, but he insisted on going to work. He didn’t bother to shave, which only adds to the fatigue evident in his expression. He drags a hand down his face. “No? I don’t think so. We’ve repaired all the code, but Peter’s still running tests on the servers, so I’m not going anywhere.” He picks up his coffee cup and swallows the contents with a grimace. “Why are you the only person around here who makes decent coffee?”

  I shrug. With the memory of Turner and the coffee still fresh in my mind, the thought of coffee makes me teary. I’ve succeeded in going twelve hours without crying. I don’t want to break the streak now. “Did you recognize the guy in the yard?” We were too busy with each other earlier for that particular question to come up, but now that the haze of lust is gone, I want the answer before I leave to deal with the movers.

  Nick frowns. “No. And that’s…concerning.”

  Concerning is too mild a word for my paranoid and overtaxed brain. Worrisome is slightly better. I was counting on Nick identifying our would-be killer. Without that knowledge, we don’t know who he was after—or who he was sent by. “Are you sure your dad doesn’t want me dead?”

  He sighs and motions for me to come closer. “Not everyone in my family is trying to kill you.”

  I get up and walk around his desk. He scoots his chair out to give me space to lean on the edge. “That implies that someone other than Isaiah is after me. So. Your dad?”

  “It’s a possibility,” he admits. “If he thinks the danger to the family outweighs the need to placate the police, he’ll do it. It would explain why I couldn’t ID the guy, either. He’s still holding some of the family secrets close to the vest.”

  Rubbing my hands over my face, I close my eyes and try to think through the possibilities. My brain doesn’t want to work. It wants to shut down, leaving me to stare at nothing and curl into the fetal position.

  I can’t shake the pain. It’s in my bones, my nerve endings, my cells. It’s fat and clumsy and smothering, and I wish it would smother me. Then I wouldn’t have to wonder what other happy memories I’ve buried are waiting to lunge forward and rip into me.

  “I need to get going.” I don’t particularly want to. Moving into a too-large apartment I can’t actually afford doesn’t sit any better now than it did when Nick badgered me into signing the lease. Part of me is so tired of pushing him away that I want to throw up my hands and tell him to move in now. But another, much larger part, warns if I do that, I risk never truly forgiving him for what he did.

  My mind finally wakes long enough to offer an additional angle I’ve danced around for the last few days. “Nick?”

  “Mmmhmm?” He tips his head back and slouches farther in his seat.

  I can do this. He needs to know. “What if… What if it’s Constantine?” When he stiffens, I fight the urge to take his hand. He’s an adult. He doesn’t need handholding. “Wait. Please. Just listen.” He dips his head once, and I let out a breath. “I don’t have a lot to go on. I could be wrong. I want to be wrong. But I can’t shake this feeling there’s something he’s not telling us. The night Isaiah died—” I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything about that night is wrong wrong wrong. “You had just hung up the phone with him when he showed up. When the virus was launched? Why wasn’t he there for the interrogation? Then there are the failed acquisitions and the ones you stepped in to save. I overheard a conversation a few days ago that made me think he was telling someone not to kill me because it would only make you suspicious.” I open my eyes and stand straight. “It’s little things, Nick. Things that’d be easy to overlook or push aside. But I can’t. I’m not built that way.”

  His mouth remains stubbornly shut, and new fears coalesce. I could be wrong, and voicing my doubts just widens the distance Nick and I are trying to bridge. “I’ll see you later,” I whisper. Wanting to hold on to some of the closeness we had last night, I kiss his cheek, heart sinking as he sits there stiff as clay. “I’ll text you when the movers are done.”

  My tearless streak ends as I shuffle out of Nick’s office and head for the stairwell. Even though I don’t have time to waste, the first tears spill over as the door shuts behind me, and I slide down the wall and bury my face in my hands.

  Someday, the pain will fade to a manageable ache. Someday, I won’t automatically jump to the worst possible conclusion. Wishing that day is today won’t make it easier to move on.

  I wipe the tears from my cheeks and push to my feet. The movers said they’ll be at my old apartment in about two hours. Denise and I packed up a lot of the apartment, but there are still odds and ends to sort out.

  While I don’t take a roundabout route to the apartment, I give myself a headache from constantly darting my gaze from the road to the rearview mirror and back again. I find a parking place two blocks from our apartment and call Denise as I walk over. She doesn’t
answer, so I leave a message about the rest of the crap that needs to be taken care of and stuff my phone into my purse.

  Once inside the apartment, I stack the full boxes in a corner of the living room, then grab a rag and wipe down the furniture. Nick’s efforts are appreciated, but a thin layer of dust has already settled, and I want to start my new life with clean furniture.

  My phone rings in the depths of my purse, startling me from my thoughts. It stops ringing by the time I manage to dig it out. Denise’s number flashes on the screen before it goes black.

  This time, she answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”

  “I’m over at our old apartment.” I wander through the living room to my bedroom. “I found a moving company with a last minute cancellation, and they’re coming over in about an hour to move the furniture. They’ll take the boxes, too, but do you have time to go through what we didn’t pack? The more they can take, the better.”

  “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be there.”

  I stick the phone into my pocket and nudge the blinds aside to study the street below. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary when I came in, and there isn’t anything now.

  Paranoia. Not a girl’s best friend.

  I’m in the bathroom, pulling half-empty bottles of body wash and lotion from the cabinet under the sink when I hear my name. “Cass?”

  “In the bathroom,” I call back.

  “Wow.” Denise stares at the counter. “Where’d all that come from?”

  “Our habit of buying pretty-smelling things and then getting bored before we finish them?” I set several bottles of nail polish on the edge of the sink. “Do we just want to throw these out?”