The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Royce's Ford Ranger pickup truck, parked beside a gleaming motorcycle with chrome accents and supple leather, towered over me like a menacing beast.

I had expected an older, more basic, and perhaps less expensive vehicle, but this was a relatively new monster of a machine with massive tires and a lifted suspension.

Its headlights glared down at me like the eyes of a predator, and I felt a twinge of trepidation.

My fingers gripped the door frame with white-knuckled intensity as my foot balanced precariously on the chrome foot bar as I hoisted myself into the passenger seat.

The vehicle's interior was just as stunning as the exterior, with rich leather, gleaming chrome, and a subtle masculine redolence.

Royce, with a wild look of urgency in his eyes, slammed a foot down on the accelerator, the sudden jolt throwing me around like a rag doll on impact and leaving no time to fasten a seatbelt.

With a primal fury reminiscent of a savage beast, the engine roared to life and careened out of the communal car park.

It felt like the vehicle drifted onto the main road on two wheels, but the deft coordination of his hands and feet choreographed the movements like a master of race driving, which kept the four-wheeled monster under control, even though it felt like I was on a roller coaster ride.

His eyes flitted between the road and the speedometer, his jaw rigidified. Hands seizing the steering wheel with a vice-like grip, his knuckles white from the strain, he accelerated and surged the truck forward, the tires screeching in protest on the rain-slicked asphalt and the inconvenient potholes.

Torrential rain lashed against the windshield, reducing the world outside to a kaleidoscope of blurred lights and motion.

Yet, he seemed oblivious to the chaos, focusing intently on the serpentine road ahead.

In spite of the reckless pace, he maintained complete control, his skill as a driver evident in every turn.

My stomach churned in a nauseous upheaval, and a cold sweat began to bead on my brow. I had embarked on this spontaneous escapade with a man whose acquaintance I had only recently made, and now I was questioning the soundness of my judgement.

As the truck raced toward the familiar, light-house-inspired home perched on the edge of the sandstone precipice, the headlines piercing the darkness, I could no longer restrain the perplexity that had taken root in my mind.

"How do you know where I live?" My voice was barely above a whisper. Yet, the question echoed in the confines of the vehicle, for he was not the most forthcoming.  "You have never set foot there before."

Royce turned the inquiry over in his mind. "Everyone within a two-hundred-mile radius knows where Daniel Lewis lives."

His words cast a disquieting pall over the cliffside as he brought the truck to a screeching halt outside the wrought-iron gates of the Lewis property.

The sudden jolt of the vehicle propelled me forward in the seat, and I instinctively struck the dashboard with my palms to prevent my face from colliding with the windshield or defenestration.

Royce's demeanour had shifted, his once-animated features now cloaked in a sombre veil. I sensed the familiar weight of his brooding presence, and I knew that further attempts at conversation would be futile.

Without a word, I fumbled with the door handle and stumbled out of the monster truck, narrowly avoiding a fall on the wet, grassy knoll that served as his makeshift parking spot.

I half anticipated that he would drive away as soon as I reached the gates, but he stayed in position, offering no assistance but rather the gift of his patient observation.