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Lying to her wasn’t an option, though. He was a hard man with few emotions. After he dumped his fiancée and punched his best friend in the teeth before smashing him in the nuts, Clay sold the house he bought with plans of living there with her and sharing beers withthatperson he called a friend.
Look where that landed him. Here with adifferentfriend, one who would never betray Clay like that. If the past taught him anything, it was how to read people better. Livingston was a trusted friend and confidante.
Then there was Lark.
He held back a gruff noise. She was much better off without a man like him. She was young—had years and years to live that were in his rearview mirror. And she was too amazing to wait around for a man who put himself in danger for a living.
Hell, taking all those pills and drinking energy drinks to stay awake could have ended badly, and Clay was willing to do much worse to create a believable persona to fit in with the criminals he was tasked to take down.
Livingston pushed back his chair. “Another beer?”
“I’m good.” Clay lifted his bottle and took a sip. “Who owns this place anyway?”
Halfway to the fridge, Quaide twisted to shoot him a look. “I do.”
“You own a house outside of East Canon?” This was getting better and better. He was already close—he could easily join Sentry.
“Yeah, this was my grandparents’ house. I inherited it. I only come here for the occasional weekend away. Check to make sure the roof’s not leaking. Do some hunting in the fall season.” He set the bottlecap on the edge of the counter and gave it a smack to pop the top.
“Nice place.”
Quaide sipped. “Could be, if I put some time and work into fixing it up.”
Clay sent a look at the ceiling. In one of those bedrooms upstairs, Lark was sleeping. Or probably lying awake. Fuck, he hoped she wasn’t dwelling on the pain he caused her.
He spun his bottle in a slow circle, spreading the wet ring of condensation on the table while Quaide silently drank.
“The kid wasn’t at the warehouse,” Quaide said after a heavy minute.
Clay looked up. “So who’d you punch?”
He shrugged. “Punched a couple of people. Had to shoot one.”
“Damn.”
He issued a low sigh. “All in a day’s work.” He swigged the beer.
“Just because the kid wasn’t at the warehouse tonight doesn’t mean he isn’t hiding there.”
“Yup.”
“I’m going to dig around more tonight. There has to be a trail of people who know blackwillow73.”
Quaide chugged the remainder of the beer and tossed the bottle at a trashcan in the corner. It sank into the depths, clinking off more beer bottles there.
Clay arched a brow. “You need to get anything off your chest, bro?” They’d been friends a long time—long enough that Clay knew something was eating at him.
“Nope. I’m good. Gonna find a bed and fall into it. You should do the same.”
“I will soon. After I spend some time fishing on the dark side of the lake.”
“You mean the wrong side of right.”
Clay grunted. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
With a nod, he pushed away from the counter he leaned against and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Clay alone.
He sat there for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the house that comforted him even though the space was unfamiliar. He pulled out his phone and connected to the forum where he met blackwillow73. That thread was silent. No new activity.
