Cruel Lies (Lies 4)

He does nothing.

What game is he playing?

I pull my gun out.

He keeps his hands in his pockets, surrendering to his fate.

“You going to kill me here, in the church? Isn’t that like a double sin or something?”

“Why do you assume I’m going to kill you?”

“Because you are.”

“Move,” I say, nodding my gun toward the church’s basement door behind the altar.

Maxwell walks with slow and steady steps, not like a man about to die. He walks like he isn’t afraid of death.

He’s like me—always knowing death will come sooner for him than it will for most people. It’s one of the many reasons why my marriage to Liesel isn’t real. It won’t last, so what’s the point?

We descend into the dark basement. This is the moment where I could torture Maxwell, get answers to my questions, ensure my family is safe and free the boy Corbin kidnapped. But Liesel is waiting for me in a hotel room, hopefully naked. My only goal is to secure him so I can spend the night with my wife. Tomorrow, I can deal with this bastard.

Every second I spend with Maxwell is a second I don’t get back with Liesel. I may have just married her, but tomorrow is never promised. Tomorrow she could hate me, divorce me, kill me.

I grab pull ties from my pocket while keeping the gun on Maxwell.

“Put your arms behind your back,” I say.

Maxwell slowly removes his hands from his pocket and slips them behind his back.

I walk behind him, jerking him backward until his arms are around a pole. I tie his arms with the pull ties, and then I walk to the door.

“I knew you didn’t have the balls to go against her,” Maxwell snickers.

I fire.

He yelps and then stares at his thigh, where blood oozes out.

“Fucking bastard,” he yells at me.

I smirk; there’s his reaction. He is human, after all.

“I’ll be back in the morning, to see if you survived the night.” And then I walk the fuck away, to go find my wife.

17

Liesel

I pace back and forth in the hotel suite, still not believing what just happened. I have to stare down at the thorn-covered ring on my finger as the only proof I have that I just married Langston.

I. Married. Langston.

What the hell was I thinking?!

I shouldn’t have married him. This will fuck everything up. It will distract us both from the task at hand. It will end up hurting him in the end.

And as much as I used to enjoy hurting Langston, I don’t want to put him through the pain I know I’ll end up causing.

So I pace—trying to find a way out of this that won’t end in destroying Langston even more than I already have. He’s my killer. My protector. He has a hard exterior capable of enduring any explosion, but inside he’s sweet, kind, and warm.