Page 11 of Threaded Lies

Shit.

Guess that part has backfired, huh?

Steal Chad’s childhood crush, fuck her for the pleasure of it and for the pain it would inflict on Chad?

Guess that backfired. But why? What the fuck does Chad have that I don’t?

Nothing.

Fucking nothing.

I’d bet my goddamn life on it.

But that still doesn’t answer the question.

Antsy and agitated, I get out of the car without thinking. Glances are aimed my way, sizing me up and questioning what I’m doing here. A luxury SUV in this part of town usually means one of two things—a drug dealer or a pimp. I pay them no attention. They’ll see the dress shirt and tie, the shine of my Rolex and the confidence in my walk, and think I don’t belong here. But I do. Just as fucking much as they do. With a heavy sigh and a messed-up head, I rest my arms on the left field fence and stare back at the eyes turned my way.

It takes a moment for everyone to get their fill of me before attention slowly turns back toward the game. The inning continues and I watch a runner get thrown out at third.

Manhattan.

The jet ride home.

Feeling like I was on top of the world when we landed.

And then … Chad and his revelation at the country club. The rug being yanked the hell out from under me. Then Rowan finally answering the phone.

Touch some grass.

Fuck that.

Not when I feel like this.

But this one was on me.

I let my guard down. I let the complication in. I let myself feel when numb is all I’ve ever allowed myself to be.

That’s my fault.

I blow out a sigh and shake my head. Is this really fucking worth it? Our twisted histories? The threaded lies? Our twined fates?

“Hey, Three-Piece Holden?”

I snap my head up, more than surprised that I happen to be here when Leo is actually playing. I size him up as he jogs over toward me.

His smile is wide but cautious as he glances over his shoulder and back toward the stands.

He’s still the same teenager I met on the sidewalk weeks ago, but there is a bit more confidence to him now. A swagger. And I’ve done nothing more than pay him to clean up where he lives—where I used to live with Mason—and give him some goals to strive for, but I like to think I added to that swagger some.

Oddly, I hold on to that.

“Hey,” I say and smile.

“You came to watch me play?” That grin. The surprise in his voice. The pride as his expression lifts.

I may be looking at Leo, but I see Mason.

His innocence. His potential. His presence.