Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel

by Huntington, Parker S.

  Delilah set her pen down and watched us with her full attention, amusement lighting up her eyes. “Who confuses Chantilly for Chasmophile?”

  Good question. I had no answer.

  “If anything,” she continued, “you’d think it would be Chartreuse.”

  “Oh, you’re so funny, Delilah. Chartreuse.” Chantilly paused mid-laughter, fingers indenting the chair’s upholstery. “What does chasmophile mean?”

  Delilah mocked a patient smile that reeked of condescension. “A lover of nooks and crannies.”

  Oh.

  Emery.

  Always Emery.

  She’d worn a shirt that said ‘Chasmophile’ when she went through her Twilight phase, reading in every corner of the house, migrating with Virginia’s movements. Wherever Virginia was in the mansion, I’d always bet Emery sat in the exact opposite end of the house, legs curled up against her chest as she read in a little nook.

  And I was about ready to donate my brain to science to cure whatever ailment made it continually think of Emery.

  “Delilah,” I began.

  “I know that tone enough to know I’m not going to say yes.” She turned to Chantilly. “Cover your ears.”

  “What?” Chantilly’s eyes begged me to save her.

  I didn’t. “Cover your ears, Chartreuse.”

  Delilah talked back to me. I let her. Enjoyed it, even. But she knew not to do it in front of others.

  “Relocate a temp from your office to design,” I said as soon as Chantilly covered her ears.

  “I don’t think so.” Delilah stapled a stack of papers together with the vigor of a running back diving into the end zone. “We’re busy enough as is.”

  “You, perhaps?”

  “Ha. Ha. You’re so funny. You have a career in stand up if your hotel fails—and it will if you continue to pay employees more than their positions call for and exceed project budgets.”

  For the record, I paid well because the company had started out hiring from a pool of the poor half of Eastridge. The half that suffered most from Gideon’s betrayal. What was I supposed to do? Pay every non-Eastridge employee less?

  Delilah leaned down to pet Rosco when he pawed at her shins and continued, relentless, “And in case you’re not joking, and I know you’re joking because you cannot be serious, I can’t afford to relocate one of my temps. I’m already working remotely here, which is a hassle that cuts into my time. Plus, I am busy renewing my contract with my husband.”

  “You mean your wedding vows?”

  “No, I mean my contract.” She dragged the word out like I was an idiot for not following.

  “You have a relationship contract with your husband? Who does that?”

  “Lawyers. The asshole wants anal written into the contract this year.”—Chartreuse choked on her Evian. I’d forgotten she was even here—“I want two kids.” Delilah turned to the redhead. “Chartreuse, honey, I said cover your ears. I won’t repeat myself.” She turned back to me. “We’re entering negotiations.”

  “How about no anal and no kids?” I suggested, returning to my mounting to-do list. “It’s a win-win situation. He doesn’t have to wipe baby asses, and you don’t have to take anything up your ass.”

  “You’re saying that because you don’t want me on maternity leave.”

  “You’re the head of an entire department.” I pulled up a folder on my laptop, opening Mary-Kate’s employment file. “Come to think of it, so is Mary-Kate.” I swore as I read. “A year of maternity leave? Are you fucking serious?”

  Standard maternity leave in the states ranged from zero to twelve unpaid weeks. Paid leave if you lived in California, Rhode Island, or New Jersey, but we didn’t, so what the fuck.

  “You told me to write up the company’s employee contracts. So, I did.” She rested her smug-as-hell face on her knuckles as if she hadn’t just told me the company overspent on employee salaries earlier. “Do you expect women to pop out babies and head back to work, milk leaking from their nursing bras?”

  “I knew I should have hired Earl Haywood.” I tucked back a smile, knowing the mention of Earl would piss her off.

  “Earl Haywood has a beer belly from drinking at work.” She mimicked his permanent drunk sway. “Plus, his name is Earl. Hay. Wood. But by all means, hire him and watch your company crumble.”

  “Um,” Chantilly raised one hand, waving it a little like a preschooler who needed to use the restroom. “Can I uncover my ears yet?”

  “No,” I said the same time Delilah said, “Yes.”

  Chantilly dropped her hands and shook them a little, like pressing them to her ears had caused an ache. “So… can I hire someone new?”

  Delilah arched a brow at me before turning to Chantilly. “No need. Mr. Prescott has agreed to become more hands-on with the project.”

  I should have said no.

  I should have hired someone else.

  I didn’t.

  Instead, I nodded because Emery worked in the design department, and I needed Gideon’s location even if I had to pry it out of her unwilling fingers. Plus, I wanted her miserable, and nothing made her more miserable than my existence.

  “See you bright and early tomorrow, Chasmophile.”

  The cafe across from the hotel served chicken and dumplings that reminded me of the ones Ma made. So, even though I preferred unclogged arteries at seven in the morning, I indulged myself for sentimentality’s sake.

  Chicken and dumplings used to be Dad’s favorite. We had it every holiday and for all three meals on his birthday. These didn’t hold a candle to Ma’s, but the dumplings had been cut into the same shape, and if I squinted my eyes and medicated myself enough, I could probably convince myself they were Ma’s. Add in some hallucinogenics, and I’d be fighting Dad for the leftovers.

  I sat in the cafe, at the table nearest the window, my eyes fixed on the sight across the street. Leaning against one of the red maples at the hotel entrance, Brandon Vu checked his watch twice before pulling out his phone and dialing a number.

  He dressed in a suit he’d had tailored to fit him, but the polyester-rayon screamed, “I live on a government salary! Please, don’t ask me to pay for this date.” His suede loafers tapped twice on the sidewalk. He beat his fingers against his thigh.

  I’d taken my time eating as soon as I’d clocked him half an hour ago. The waitress had set down my food, and I could have left a big tip and dipped out the back, but I reveled in watching Brandon wait.

  He had the patience of dog waiting to piss. His thumb and pointer fingers twitched, like someone kicking a smoking habit. With his free hand, he reached behind his ear but came up empty and patted the front and back pockets of his suit slacks.

  Empty, also.

  He paced a few steps, pulled out his phone, and begun shouting at the poor schmuck on the other end. I couldn’t hear from here, obviously, and reading lips was a myth television shows made up, so I watched impassively as Brandon hung up and stopped his pacing.

  He was staring at something.

  I followed his line of sight to Emery. She wore the same black hoodie, unzipped, with a pair of oversized sweatpants. Something that resembled a shoelace—if it’d been chewed up by Rosco—held the sweats up at her waist, but she still found herself adjusting them every ten steps.

  She was beautiful in a way that disgusted me. The type of beautiful nothing could conceal. Not sarcastic t-shirts that made no sense to anyone but her. Not that dollar store crap she called makeup on the days she even bothered. Not the oversized sweats she had to pull up every five seconds.

  Just. Fucking. Beautiful.

  Period.

  End of statement.

  Delilah spent hours at the hair salon, perfecting her balayage so it looked natural. Virginia still bore scars from a Brazilian Butt Lift she swore never happened, even after she came back with a new ass and a figure the shape of a violin, claiming to have caught mono for a month. Chantilly caked herself in makeup, scanty dresses, and despe
ration that screamed for attention.

  Meanwhile, Emery didn’t care.

  She simply gave no fucks.

  It made no sense because she was a fashion design major. She’d grown up in a world that told her appearances mattered and pursued a major that enforced the idea, yet she possessed no interest in succumbing to societal expectations.

  So authentic.

  So fresh.

  So fucked up, I reminded myself.

  The hood of Emery’s hoodie had been pulled over her head, but I knew it was Emery because her shirt read, “Selcouth,” this time in a sans serif font that took up the width of her chest. The chest I’d stared at a couple of nights ago.

  So perky, her tits begged me to slap them and watch them bounce.

  She’s twenty-two. Don’t give in, asswipe.

  I did.

  Tugging my phone out of my inner pocket, I opened up the dictionary app and typed in, “Selcouth.”

  Adjective.

  Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet marvelous.

  She was selcouth like I was a rainbow-riding unicorn. For the record, I was well aware I was lying to myself. I knew I wanted Emery, but on account of her being a Winthrop and twenty-fucking-two, my dick could sit this one out.

  When I glanced back up, Emery had pulled a full-body coat out of her bag. With a quantity of pockets that veered more on the side of functional than fashion, it had a cotton hood popping out of the thick wool.

  She continued walking, and before I could stop myself, I placed two hundred-dollar bills on the table and left the diner out the front with my head down, hoping Brandon wouldn’t notice me.

  Sanity, it turned out, was a deadbeat dad—it fled when you needed it the most.

  When Emery turned left, I followed but kept my distance as I realized Brandon hadn’t been waiting for me. He’d been waiting for Emery, and now he was trailing her to wherever she was headed.

  About four blocks from the hotel, which I walked in a suit not intended for walking in, Emery stopped in front of the tent city the Haling Cove city council had been trying for years to eradicate.

  The suit pinched my skin. I watched Emery weave through tents like she owned the place. She didn’t. I knew this because, I did.

  Rows of homeless men and women lived in tents in a vacant lot owned by yours truly. (Through a shell corporation, because making enemies of the city council wasn’t on the top of my to-do list, thank you very much.)

  I knew many of these people first-hand from volunteering at the soup kitchen a few doors down. Since I’d arrived in town, I donated money for groceries and volunteered five times a week, usually during peak hours.

  Maggie squeezed Emery in a tight hug. She had a smile on her face despite the fact that she’d married young, lost her husband to an IED, and lost her home a few months later. Emery handed the coat to Maggie, making a show of popping the hood on and off before she bent down to hug Maggie’s twins.

  Harlan dug inside the bag, pulling out smaller, kid-sized coats. Stella jumped on Emery’s back, the teddy bear I’d given her last week dangling from her fingertips. Emery spun Stella in a circle before she checked her phone and grimaced.

  They parted with drawn-out hugs, Maggie swaying Emery side to side like she was a sister she hadn’t seen in years. At this point, we were both late for work, and I had no clue why I even bothered to follow her, except my eyes continued to trail Emery even when I told my legs to cut this shit out and return to the hotel.

  Work, Nash. Remember that? The thing that keeps a roof over your family’s head?

  As Emery walked out of the tent city, Brandon grabbed her upper arm, pulling her into a secluded area of the street. She fought him, clawing at his fingers. I almost intervened until she glanced up at him and stopped fighting.

  She knew him.

  She knew Brandon Vu.

  She knew the damn S.E.C. agent investigating me.

  Worse—she took whatever he handed her, glanced around the street, and shoved it deep into her pocket.

  I’d seen enough.

  I made my way back to the hotel, firing a text at Delilah to have the P.I. look into whatever connection Emery shared with Brandon.

  Before I could send it, I deleted the fucking text, because I wasn’t stupid enough to leave an electronic trail. Instead, I pulled up the Eastridge United app, releasing a centimeter of my frustration at the sight of a message from Durga.

  Durga: Is poison a discreet way to kill someone? Asking for a friend, who may hate her boss. (FYI—That friend is me, so I expect a useful response.)

  Benkinersophobia: Tell your friend she can always work for me. With her mouth. Beneath my desk. The hours are long and hard. Consider yourself warned.

  What I really wanted to do was to ask Durga if she’d fucked the douche nozzle yet, which if you thought about it, was hypocritical of me considering I’d spent the past few nights jerking off to the memory of Emery’s tits pressed against my shower door and how tight her pussy had been when she’d snuck into Reed’s room…

  Damn, you are a special brand of douche.

  I released a breath, leaning against the entrance to the hotel. Emery stopped as soon as she saw me blocking the door. It hadn’t been my intention, but I took advantage of the situation, crossing my arms against my chest—the message clear.

  Do. Not. Cross. Me.

  Too late.

  She looked thrown off-balance at the sight of me. Her recovery came quickly, and she tried to move around me, but I shifted with her.

  “I have work, Nash. Chantilly will dock my pay if I’m late.”

  You’re already late. I wonder why, my Trojan horse.

  I didn’t budge. “Considering I’m your boss, I’d say I’m more important.”

  “Consider this—Bieber bangs would hide that overinflated head of yours.”

  I nodded my chin at her chest. “Speaking of inflated things, are your nipples patriotic, or are they saluting me for no reason?”

  Douche.

  I shouldn’t have brought up her nipples, but one—did she even own a bra? and two—I hadn’t had sex in ages (unless phone sex with Durga counted), and now it seemed like the only thing I could think of, along with exactly how flexible twenty-two-year-olds were.

  Stop it, creep. You finished college and knew the ins and outs of anal while she still thought she pees and fucks from the same hole.

  Emery’s arms wrapped across her chest, because no, I hadn’t been lying. Her nipples were hard as fuck, and they pointed right at me like two tiny sorting hats choosing my lips as their Hogwarts House.

  (Yes, I’d watched Harry Potter after Durga mentioned it.)

  Wishful thinking was a real thing, and I had a bad case of it when it came to Emery Winthrop. But I would never give in.

  I’d broken Emery, whittled her will down to nothing but rage.

  She battered her way past me, ramming my arm.

  I latched onto her elbow, buried my face into that wild mane of black hair that smelled like me, and whispered, “Watch yourself, Winthrop. I am the king in this palace, and Prescott Hotels is my empire. If you think you can stand toe-to-toe with me without a fight, an hour of docked pay will be the least of your concerns.”

  She needed to realize life was not a game of Chess. It was a game of Battleship, and the last person to sink wins.

  I had two assholes following me.

  First—Brandon Vu had stalked me to the tent city, shoved a card into my hand, and demanded I take it. Afterward, I realized I still hadn’t shaken the feeling that I knew him from somewhere. Even the way he’d said, “We need to talk.” sounded familiar.

  Second—Nash Prescott and his relentless jabs.

  If I were being honest, I would have taken an S.E.C. agent—who was probably gunning for Dad and taking it out on me—over Nash any day of the week.

  Nash had stood in front of his building in ripe shape, always looking goddamn near murderous. Any resemblance between his behavior and civility was compl
etely coincidental. In fact, I wondered how he conducted business with anyone who wasn't a rabid wolf.

  This morning, I’d convinced myself that it would be a good day. For starters, I managed to avoid Nash after the unfortunate shower incident. Then, the gym opened a day sooner than expected, so I showered before work.

  I was finally clean, but the second he came near, I felt dirty again.

  Evidently, this wasn’t a good day.

  I should have remembered that good days didn’t exist at Prescott Hotels. Not when its “king” was a tyrant with an ego so fat, it could break a dollar into change just by sitting on it.

  “Why are you following me?” I hissed.

  He trailed behind me in the lobby, his threat still ringing between my ears. The man made washed-up child actors look sane.

  “I work here.” His offhand comment needled its way beneath my skin.

  “Take the next elevator.” I stabbed the elevator button, pulled up my sweats when they slid down again, and turned my nose up to inhale, hoping he read it as defiance.

  Did the cleaning products smell like cinnamon rolls or was I actually that hungry?

  “You’re having a hard time understanding the employee-boss dynamic.” Nash’s arm shot out, blocking me from entering the elevator. He crept forward, but I felt his presence tumbling toward me at the speed of an avalanche. A cloud of frost and wrath descending on my sanity. “I could give you a refresher course.”

  “I don’t need anything if it’s from you.”

  Other than money.

  The thought tasted bitter. Oh, how the tables had turned.

  I dipped under his arm and sliced through his overwhelming scent, clutching onto my sweats so they wouldn’t slip off. I needed my jeans back from his bathroom floor, but A—he had probably burned them and B—on the off chance he hadn’t, asking him nicely would bring attention to that night.

  No, thank you.

  I continued from the elevator, “Why don’t you take your lessons elsewhere? I’m sure Stalin, Mussolini, and Hitler are begging to learn a thing or two from you.” I pivoted to face him, pressed the close button, and added, “In hell.”