The Truth About Lies

by Aly Martinez

  Stepping forward, I palmed either side of her face and lowered my voice. “None of us want this bullshit life, babe. But this is what we have. And as much as I hate to admit it, this is all I’m probably ever going to have. But you? You’re sixteen.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but I didn’t give her a chance.

  “And I’m not saying that like it’s a bad thing. You have time. You can still get out of here. And I swear on my life I will take care of you until that day comes, but I need you to work with me. You can’t be out on the street. You can’t be getting drunk or smoking weed with the other girls.” I grabbed her arms and motioned to the scarred track marks. “It’s going to lead you back down that road to addiction. All it would take is—”

  The rest of my lecture died on my tongue as our front door slammed shut.

  “Cora!” River’s arms were stretched out to the sides and her back was against the door as if she were trying to prevent a pack of wild animals from clawing through the wood.

  And, with her next statement, I realized that was exactly what she was trying to do.

  “They’re…here,” she breathed.

  She didn’t have to elaborate. I knew the who from her palpable fear alone. Moving from the door, she allowed me to pass.

  I went straight to the railing that overlooked the parking lot.

  Two men I didn’t recognize were climbing out of a beat-up, red extended-cab pickup truck.

  Then there was Marcos in his black Mercedes.

  And…

  “Fuck,” I hissed.

  Dante.

  His visits were rare, especially during the day, but not unheard of.

  Racing back into the apartment, I barked at both girls, “Go. Now.”

  Neither of them delayed in taking off down the hall. They knew what to do. We’d discussed it at length the day Savannah had moved in.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I clutched the silver star that hung around my neck. Nic had given it to me what felt like a million years earlier. “You gotta help me here, baby,” I begged to the heavens. “I really need you right now, Nic.”

  As to be expected, my dead husband didn’t reply. And after a few deep breaths, I did what I always did: I pulled up my big-girl panties and went right back to unloading groceries, cool and calm, as if the devil himself weren’t about to knock on my door.

  “Dante,” I greeted minutes later with a bright and entirely fake smile.

  From behind his aviators, his sickening gaze traced over me. As far as he was concerned, since I had large breasts, a flat stomach, a round ass, and a functioning vagina, I was his for the taking. He didn’t care that I was Nic’s. He never had. Not the day after he’d found out Nic and I had gotten married and ripped my shirt off then sent me to the streets where he thought I belonged. Not the day he’d cornered me at the funeral home and kneed me so hard in the stomach that I’d thrown up. And definitely not on the five-year anniversary of Nic’s death, when he’d wandered into my bedroom, high on whatever the hell his drug of choice for the week had been, and beat the hell out of me. It was my punishment for getting his brother killed, or so he’d said as he’d stumbled out a few hours later.

  Dante Guerrero owned my world. And every so often, he liked to pop up to make sure I couldn’t forget it.

  I remained statue-still as he reached up and caught the end of one of my curls.

  “Cora. It’s been a while,” he said, his gaze aimed at my chest. His lips were curled in what would have been a breathtaking smile on any other man.

  I fought the urge to gag. Waving a hand out, I stepped away, my hair slipping through his fingers. “It has. Come on in.”

  As he walked in, he shoved a hand into the pocket of his black slacks and pushed his Ray-Bans to the top of his head. “Where’s River?”

  Every muscle in my body became taut as I shot my gaze over his shoulder to Marcos.

  His lips were in a thin line that didn’t bode well for me. Neither did the almost imperceptible jerk of his chin ordering me to answer Dante.

  It took two attempts before I could finally say the words. “She’s in her room.”

  Dante winked as he strolled away.

  Fear consumed me, but I didn’t let it show as I followed after him. “She’s probably sleeping.”

  He ignored me, and when he reached her door, twisted the handle, and swung it open—not a single lock in place—I wanted to die.

  But it was safer this way; the locks only pissed him off.

  “Oh, hey, Dante,” River chirped, pulling one of her neon-green earbuds out.

  Just as we’d planned, she’d dragged on a baggy hoodie and gathered her hair into a messy knot on the top of her head. A sigh of relief breezed from my lips when I saw Savannah’s bed blissfully empty.

  “You look like shit,” he growled.

  She crossed her legs at the ankle and wiggled her dirty sock-covered feet at him. “Well, when you live in a mansion like this, there’s not much need for a prom dress. Besides, not looking like shit,” she said, throwing him a pair of air quotes—yes…fucking air quotes, “costs money. And when you’re thirteen and your only potential income is from pedophiles, you learn real quick to be okay with looking like shit.”

  I physically braced as Dante’s body swelled with anger.

  “You little fucking—”

  “Hey,” Marcos called, shoving me out of the way. “Leave the kid alone.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled his wallet out, and then threw a fistful of bills at River’s feet. “Get some goddamn clothes. And for fuck’s sake, take a shower.”

  She cocked her head to the side and sniped, “Does that mean you’re gonna do something about fixing the water? Or should I use the cash to buy some new threads and a bucket to bathe in?”

  Marcos glared.

  Dante let out a string of expletives.

  And I clenched my teeth, mentally locking her in that room the rest of her life.

  Completely unfazed, she flashed them a smile, leaned forward to collect the money, tucked it in the front pocket of her hoodie, and then put her earbud back in. Yelling over the music, she said, “Great to see you again! Don’t be a stranger!”

  “That little bitch!” Dante snarled as Marcos herded him out of the room.

  My shoulders sagged as I hurried back down the hall to the living room, hoping like hell they’d follow after me.

  Away from her.

  Away from them.

  I came to a screeching halt when I saw the two new men standing on the peeling linoleum of what was supposed to have been a foyer.

  The taller of the two looked like every thirty-something white guy to walk the Earth. Plain brown hair. Plain brown eyes. He had a nose, lips, even ears, but not a single noteworthy feature on his entire plain face. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt. Plain jeans. And—yep, you guessed it—plain brown work boots. He was simple, unassuming, and completely nonthreatening. I immediately didn’t trust him.

  The guy beside him was a different story altogether. While he was an inch or two shorter than his counterpart, his powerful presence cast his shadow far and wide. His skin was tan and his short, brown hair was rich with natural flecks of mahogany and chestnut as though he worked in the sun. His eyes were blue, but not like the indigo of mine. His were…well, heavy blue—deep and hollow. He had the nose of a Roman gladiator, distinguished and slightly crooked from battle, while his jaw was composed of sharp, regal angles masked by a thick layer of scruff. He was made of a million counterpoints that somehow formed a brilliant whole. He was wearing a similar thirty-something white-guy uniform, but there was nothing simple about the way it hugged his thick muscles or covered the intricate black tattoos that traveled down his arms to the backs of his hands.

  He was entirely gorgeous. Slightly terrifying. And most likely known as Inmate 401.

  But the most interesting part of all was that neither of these men was a Guerrero.

  Men were not allowed inside our building. This was one o
f the few rules I agreed with and strictly enforced. All it would take was one call to the cops—the real ones, not the crooked badges Dante had under his thumb—for the majority of the building to be hauled away in a set of cuffs—myself included. And for me, I was on my third strike. I’d never breathe outside of a prison cell again.

  “Um…” I mumbled. “Who are you?”

  Marcos stopped beside me while Dante moved to the couch and started cutting lines of coke he’d retrieved from his pocket.

  Marcos stared at him in disgust, but he didn’t utter a single admonishment. Clearing his throat, he shook his head. “Meet your new maintenance men. Drew Walker and his brother, Penn.”

  I turned my head to look at him. “I’m sorry. Was there a plague that wiped out the entirety of the Guerrero family that I somehow missed?”

  “Order came straight from Pop. Seems he became close with Drew while they were cellmates.”

  Ah, yes. I was correct: Inmate 401.

  Marcos flipped his dark gaze on me. “Apparently, the Walkers used to work construction. When Pop heard about Hugo’s…unfortunate accident, he sent word for me to assign them here.” He paused, his jaw ticking with an intensity that made me fear for his teeth. “Said he trusts Drew like a son.”

  Which really meant Manuel Guerrero, Inmate 402, trusted this Drew guy more than he did his own dumbass sons. Something I did not find shocking, but something I found abundantly amusing. I did everything I could to hide my smile, including looking back at Drew and Penn just in case a lip twitch squeaked out—and it totally did.

  “Show them your problem,” Marcos ordered.

  “My problem?” I parroted because, seriously, he was going to have to be more specific with that. I had more problems than not.

  A loud snnnnft came from the couch before Dante elaborated. “Your fucking water leak or whatever’s got this goddamn place smelling like a landfill.” He snapped his fingers at the men and pointed down the hall. “Do your goddamn job and figure it the fuck out.”

  Like good little minions, they both started toward the hall with the same foot.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” I told their backs.

  The tall one, who I assumed was Penn, replied, “The way that wall looks, it’s probably leaking through from a bathroom.”

  Oh, shit! Oh, shit.

  Oh. Fucking. Shit.

  Savannah.

  Things I was good at: math, the Dewey Decimal system, and time management.

  Things I was not good at: hiding sixteen-year old girls from psychopaths.

  I’d planned for that day the best I could. Any time Dante had shown up, he’d always go into River’s room. And he’d come into my room more times than I’d ever care to admit—or remember. There were no doors on any of the closets, and all of our mattresses sat on the floor. There were only so many places she could hide.

  However, in all the years I’d lived in that apartment, Dante had never once stopped by for a shower.

  With these two assholes convinced that my problem was in the bathroom, my good friend Panic blasted through me.

  Jogging after them, I called, “The bathroom’s fine.”

  They kept going.

  I kept freaking the hell out.

  “Seriously, it’s fine.” I glanced over my shoulder. Marcos thankfully hadn’t followed.

  As we reached the bathroom, my heart was beating so fast that it probably could have been read on the Richter scale. They entered before me: Penn and his lanky body then Drew and his brickhouse frame.

  The three of us would barely fit in that tiny bathroom, but I forced my way in and strategically wedged myself between Drew’s tattooed bulk and the shower.

  “Could be leaking from behind the sink, running down the wall into the second and first floor,” Penn guessed.

  His brother’s only acknowledgment was a grunt.

  “The sink!” I repeated a little too loudly for such a small space. “Good idea!” Whatever. Just as long as they didn’t think it was the shower.

  “Could be coming from the line to the shower,” one of them suggested, though I was too busy cursing Murphy’s Law to notice which one.

  “It’s not the shower!” I exclaimed.

  They both turned to look at me. Penn’s eyes were wide with surprise. Drew’s narrowed with suspicion.

  I laughed awkwardly. “Look, um… Any chance you guys could come back in say, an hour? I really have to use the, um… No!”

  Drew snatched the curtain open, revealing Savannah curled into a ball in the tub. Her knees were tucked to her chest and her eyes were filled with terror as they slid from him to me.

  “Jesus, fuck,” Penn mumbled.

  Drew remained stoically quiet.

  Suddenly, Dante’s voice floated down the hall along with his footsteps. “The fuck are you yelling about, woman?”

  With shaking hands, I yanked the curtain shut and whispered, “Please don’t tell him about her.” I grabbed his tattooed forearm and peered up into his hollow blues. “I will do anything you want if you just don’t mention her.” I could sell myself to the devil. One time wouldn’t kill me. At least not physically.

  Especially not if it saved her.

  When he didn’t reply, I stepped closer until my breasts brushed his arm. “Drew, please.”

  As if I’d punched him, his whole muscular body recoiled.

  Glancing to the curtain hiding Savannah and then back to me, he silently waited for an explanation. But I had none to give. At least not any that I could convey in the seconds it would take for Dante to reach us.

  “Drew,” I hissed urgently.

  His gaze never drifted to my breasts the way I’d expected. Nor did he seem to have any interest in my promise of anything. He just stared at me, the massive weight of his gaze alone anchoring me in place. And then, finally, in a jagged voice that was equally as intriguing as it was intimidating, he rumbled, “I’m Penn.”

  My mouth fell open. No. Freaking. Way. That would make Mr. Plain cellmates with Old Man Guerrero?

  I blinked.

  The “alleged” Penn Walker blinked back, and then, just as Dante rounded the corner, he jerked his arm from my grasp and marched from the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “Leak’s in the kitchen.”

  Goose bumps pebbled my skin as relief exploded inside me. I was positive my hands were shaking as Dante pinned me with a vicious glare before following after Penn, but I didn’t care.

  No one, not since the day Nic had used his body to shield me from a wall of bullets, had anyone done anything to actually help me.

  Not without a price.

  Not without a punishment.

  Not until now.

  Penn

  “She was a fucking kid,” I growled, sliding the toolbox from the bed of my old Ford before slamming the tailgate.

  Drew lowered the cigarette from his lips and taunted, “But you said you needed this, remember?”

  “And you said we were working at a whore house. Not a fucking pedophile’s haven.”

  “It’s not too late for you to leave.” He flicked his gaze to the tattoos on my hands. “They might not let you join the country club, but I’m sure you could make other friends.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Then shut your mouth. The chick was obviously hiding her in the shower for a reason. Maybe the kid’s only in training or something.”

  “In training? Because that’s better?”

  The sound of dirt and rocks crunching behind us caught our attention. Drew straightened as Marcos and Dante approached, but my focus was pulled up to the third floor. The blonde was standing there with her small hands wrapped around the railing as if it were the only thing supporting her.

  As soon as her eyes found mine, she mouthed the one word that had the power to demolish me. “Please.”

  One in. One out.

  I immediately looked away, that hot knife twisting in my stomach.

  “Drew,” Marcos greeted.

  “You tw
o heading out?” He tucked the cigarette between his lips and extended his hand for a shake.

  Marcos spared it only a glance before sliding his hands into his pockets. “I take it you remember the rules?”

  Drew inhaled deeply and then blew it up to the sky. “Fix broken shit. Keep my hands off Guerrero property. And not one goddamn thing else.” He smirked and dropped the cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. “Though, just to clarify, it’s cool if I jerk my dick, right? Technically, I know it will be in a Guerrero shower, but don’t worry. I’ll clean it up real nice.”

  Dante lurched forward, his chest colliding with Drew’s.

  I didn’t move, but I was ready, every muscle I possessed coiled for action.

  The brothers had been on the edge of explosion since we’d met up with them that morning. Marcos and Dante had been none too thrilled their dear old daddy had assigned two strangers to work for them. But they’d both managed to keep it in check—well, almost.

  “Outstanding,” Marcos groaned as if he’d been inconvenienced.

  “Listen up, motherfucker,” Dante snarled. “You’re in my house now.” He slid his drug-induced, glassy eyes to me. “I dug both your graves last night. Nice quiet little spot where the vultures can feast for days.”

  Drew had always been an arrogant smartass. Swear to God, he came out of the womb with his hands raised loud and proud, flipping the doctor off. But he used to at least realize there was a time and a place for his stupidity. Clearly, prison had changed that.

  “So, not underground, then?” He covered his heart with his hand. “Whew! Thank God. Few years in lockup and suddenly I’m claustrophobic as fuck.”

  Dante did not seem amused—a fact he made known when, less than a second later, a gun was retrieved from the back of his pants and pressed between Drew’s eyes.