Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel

by Huntington, Parker S.

  We walked to the hotel in silence, stopping at the entrance. I opened my mouth when I realized he’d never told me the word, but I shoved my curiosity down my throat and replaced it with my own magic words.

  Nyctophilia.

  Basorexia.

  Ibrat.

  Nash eyed my lips, watching them form and pocket the words.

  “I’m driving you home.” He nodded in the direction of the parking garage. That would go horribly when he realized I didn’t have a home. “Before you waste our time arguing, it’s non-negotiable. It’s late, dark, and cold enough that I see your nipples every time we pass a streetlamp. I know you don’t have a death wish, so your stubbornness will only come off as stupidity.”

  Ignoring all but his first sentence, I backed away, inch by inch. “I’m good.” My shoulder lifted. “Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do, Nash,” I taunted, a little pissed that he never told me the word.

  “Emery.”

  “Stop saying my name like it’s a demand.”

  “Emery.”

  My eyes dipped to the penance tattoo I wanted to taste. I allowed myself two seconds to study it, turned, and walked away.

  I pivoted when I remembered how persistent he could be. Better to let him scheme where I could see him. He already had his phone pulled out when he glanced up at me, like he’d known I would return.

  Dick.

  He'd already opened the Uber app. “Where do you live?”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I do?

  I kept my mouth shut and held my hand out. As soon as his phone touched my fingers, I moved the dot on the app to a random residential neighborhood close by. Giving him my back, I leaned against the hotel, tapped my fingers on the glass, and stared at the sky.

  I’m starting to think Nash isn’t the villain, Starless Sky. Maybe you are.

  Nash held out his palm. “My phone.”

  Oh.

  I glanced down at it, my eyes pausing on the Eastridge United app before I returned it to him. Of course, he had the app. He owned it. But did he have a pen pal? He didn’t seem like the type.

  Then again, if I used it for phone sex, maybe he did, too.

  That, I could see him doing.

  Jealousy coiled around my throat. I pulled at the collar of my tee, forgetting the huge rip as I flashed Nash with some serious skin.

  Ignoring him, I tipped my head at the sky.

  Shut up, dude. Even the moon is jealous of the stars. And you, Starless Sky, have no stars. I bet that makes you jealous of everyone.

  When I lowered my head, Nash still studied me, so I watched him back, daring him to break the silence. Secretly thrilled at the feeling of his eyes on me.

  I had no intention of kissing Nash tonight, but if I had to explain it, I’d chalk it up to the look in his eyes when he told me about the starless night in Singapore.

  Nash reminded me of a favorite song. One you play so often you think you can't stand anymore. But in the silence, when the world is quiet and your brain is pliant, the chords repeat in your mind, and you remember it’s your favorite melody.

  I broke first, dipping my eyes until he followed suit, much slower than I had. We stood a foot apart, neither of us talking as we stared at our phones. He was probably playing Candy Crush, but I opened the Eastridge United app to check if Ben was on. I squashed a smile at the sight of the green dot.

  Durga: How was your night?

  Benkinersophobia: Satisfying. Until it wasn’t. Yours?

  Durga: Satisfying. Until it wasn’t.

  Flicking a glance at Nash, I angled my screen away from him. I didn’t need the headache of him catching me on his app and accusing me of whatever shitty things he thought I’d done. Cryptic comments my pride didn’t allow me to ask about.

  Durga: Tell me something ugly.

  Benkinersophobia: My heart.

  Durga: That’s not true.

  Durga: If your heart is ugly, what is mine? What am I?

  Ben didn’t reply for a minute. I slanted a glance at Nash. Brows furrowed, he typed something fast. My head fell again before he could catch me staring.

  Benkinersophobia: You are a fantasy, a goddess, a heroine, a dream. Those have happy endings.

  Durga: And what are you?

  Benkinersophobia: I am Sisyphus, a treacherous sea that will drown you.

  A car honked twice. Dragging my attention from the screen, I caught the telltale Uber sticker before approaching. Nash opened the back door for me, which I ignored. I slid into the passenger side.

  Gifting me a scowl, Nash tapped the window, indicating I lower it. I didn’t, but the driver listened. The frosty air bit my skin as the car’s heater seeped outside. Nash made a show of pulling out his phone, taking a picture of the driver, then photographing his license.

  “Derrick Atterberry, of 8143 Adair Lane, I have your face, your driver’s license, your name, your address, and your license plate number.” Nash’s forearms rested on the open window frame, his hands dangerously close to touching me. “Nod your head if you’re following me.”

  Derrick’s throat bobbed. He nodded his head like the Usain Bolt bobblehead on his dash.

  Nash held up his phone. “I also have the numbers of every important politician along this coast, including the president; an ability to lie my way into and out of any situation; an ethical code that sits somewhere between Jordan Belfort snorting cocaine off his mistress’ asscheeks and using toddlers as test subjects for torture à la MK-Ultra; and a strong repertoire for vengeance, including but not limited to one-starring your ass on Uber.” He paused. “Did I tell you to stop nodding your head?”

  Derrick cleared his throat and swiped the sweat off his forehead. “No.”

  “Are you not following?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I mean, I’m following.”

  “Then nod your fucking head.”

  Derrick nodded his head. He didn’t stop, even when Nash continued.

  “Get her home safe, wait until her fucking front door closes, and I’ll spare you the receiving end of a wrath you’ve never known and are unequipped to survive.” He reached into my wallet and tossed three hundreds at the driver. “Do whatever she says,” he slid three more hundreds into the inner pocket of his suit jacket I wore, brushing against my hard nipple, “and she’ll give you the rest.”

  My heart still hiccupped as we left Nash behind, skipping a beat every few seconds. The side mirrors showed him watching the car until we left his line of sight. I should have assured the poor driver Nash hadn’t meant any of that, but A—I think he did and B—I remembered what Nash once said about not kissing.

  I brought my fingers to my lips, grazing them. I couldn't get my mind off his lips on mine. Worse—not knowing why he’d done it would drive me crazy.

  “Can you mark the ride as finished on the app, then take me back to the hotel?” I asked when the driver arrived at the random house address I’d chosen.

  “Uhh…”

  Furrowed brows hovered over his eyes. They peeped at the three hundred-dollar bills littered across the center console. He hadn’t picked them up. His hands had shaken too much on the drive here. They still plastered to the steering wheel. Positioned ten and two like a Boy Scout, even with the brakes on.

  I reached into my jean pockets for the money. My hand brushed against the note Nash had given me at the soup kitchen before I remembered he’d placed the money inside the jacket pocket. I pulled out the note and retrieved the hundreds from the inner pocket.

  Waving the bills, I offered the most innocent expression I could muster. “I’ll give you these regardless, but he did say to do whatever I tell you. Please?”

  On the drive back, I pressed the car light on and read the note, hunching my shoulders to cradle it with my body.

  If you think about it, the concept of a photograph is fucking mind-blowing. A moment in time. Captured. Preserved. Forever. I shouldn’t have torn your Polaroid of Ree
d.

  Nash

  Nash’s version of an apology.

  I shut the light off, folded the note as carefully as I could, and peered out the window at the sky.

  Not bad, Starless Night. Not bad.

  I existed in a state of permanent irritation any asshole with a brain could diagnose as blue balls, because I couldn’t fuck the two people I wanted to fuck. One was a faceless username, and the other drove me so crazy, I didn’t fully understand why I wanted her.

  I just knew I did.

  Admitting it felt like holding my arm up to a dog and asking it to bite me. (An actual dog, like a Belgian Malinois or a Rottweiler, not a Rosco. Rosco’s teeth would probably fall off if he tried to bite me, and then he’d be hairless and toothless.)

  Unlike the dumb-fucks that enjoyed teeth play, my masochistic tendencies didn’t include physical pain.

  And it fucking pained me to admit I’d kiss Emery again.

  Repeatedly.

  For days.

  Jesus, are those teeth I’m feeling?

  Delilah lapped up the sight of construction workers from her desk. They left the kitchen a goddamn pigsty. Loud drills reverberated to my side of the penthouse. Randell carried in a section of the countertop with ease, whereas his son Bud knocked the cabinet door cradled in his arms into everything.

  Delilah: You should have hired Chip and Joanna Gaines.

  Setting my phone down, I tossed her a water bottle from the mini-fridge built into my desk. “Who and who?”

  “Seriously?”

  “You’re not sparing anyone by texting.” My voice never wavered. If anything, I raised it. I cracked open my bottle and chugged half of it in one gulp. “If you think Randell and Bud are fucking up, just say it.”

  “Nash,” she hissed. “What is up with you today?”

  Two words—blue and balls.

  I leaned back in my executive chair, eyed the scratched wall, and beckoned Bud with two fingers. The lanky kid ambled over here with the grace of a newborn giraffe learning to walk.

  “Bud, define nepotism,” I ordered, wondering what the design crew was doing downstairs.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worked up here, but I had to supervise the kitchen, considering I had half a mill stashed in the safe, and the construction crew had drills, hammers, and saws.

  “Um…” His calloused fingers gripped my desk, leaving wood residue. Bud’s eyes darted to Delilah. “When someone hires a person because of whom they're related to?”

  “Continue.”

  He snuck a glance at Randell, who watched him suffer with a chuckle. “And, um, it's a…favor?”

  “Keep going.”

  “And… the person hired is… um…”

  “Fucking hell,” Delilah muttered. She scrawled her signature and set down her pen. “Nash, the kid’s sweating enough. This is painful to watch.” She put Bud out of his misery. “Bud, what Nash is trying to say is, you and your dad both work for us, which poses the question of whether or not nepotism was involved in the hiring process. People will think so if you continue to make mistakes without learning from them. Can you be more careful from here on?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bud nodded at me and Delilah a second before fleeing. Even the back of his head appeared relieved.

  “Mother Teresa,” I shot at Delilah. Pulling up an account, I wired a few thousand dollars to the company I hired to move the sculpture from my Eastridge home to the lobby. “You chose the wrong job for mercy.”

  “I chose the wrong job in general.” She closed her laptop, rested her chin on her knuckles, and stared at me. “Is there a reason you asked for the sudden rush on the kitchen? You could’ve given me a heads up. I would have slept in.” Her pointer finger twirled in a circle. “I can't work with this noise, and Rosco hates wearing his puppy earplugs.”

  “Chill. First, the rat will survive. They live in sewers, for fuck’s sake.” I peered at the foot of Delilah's desk, where Rosco curled into a ball on a Louis Vuitton four-poster miniature pet bed. Orange faux fur-lined earmuffs covered the two Dumbo flappers sprouting from his head. “Second, the crew has been at it for hours. They’re almost done. The cleaners will be here in,” I eyed my watch, “twenty minutes give or take.”

  “You didn’t answer the question, which in itself is intriguing.” Delilah repeated, “Is there a reason for the rush job?”

  “They already had the cabinets drilled in, the flooring placed, and the appliances installed.” I tapped my fingers over my keyboard, double-checked that the word bribe had been replaced with a show of gratitude and friendship, and pressed send on a memo to a Singaporean diplomat. “You act as if they’re creating a kitchen from scratch. It’s just the counter and cabinet doors.”

  “You still didn’t answer the question.”

  “Is this what we’re doing now? Playing Twenty Questions instead of working? If so, I’ll start.” I closed my laptop and blanketed her with my full attention. “What’s that word called when you dismiss an employee from her job for failure to work?”

  She hit me with an unimpressed eye roll. “I detect an unusual and entertaining level of defensiveness.”

  Of course, I was fucking defensive.

  She would be, too, if her first kiss in over fifteen years went to a girl who talked more to the sky than she did with actual goddamn humans, and whispered made-up words to herself, and snuck into other people’s beds and showers as if she owned the world, and possessed a level of stubbornness that would make hostage negotiators quit, and wore the same outfit every day with a different ‘magic’ word on a fucking shirt manufactured by the pathetic bastard responsible for Dad’s death.

  And every time Emery mouthed something to the sky, or muttered a word, or showed up somewhere uninvited, or declined food she clearly needed, or wore one of those stupid fucking shirts, my lips wanted to devour her, followed by her body, and finally her mind.

  It drove me goddamned nuts.

  Clearly, I didn’t disclose any of this. For a lawyer, Delilah had the tact of a socially unaware toddler when it came to me.

  I exited my browser and focused on her. “What happened during your trip to Cordovia that makes you flush bright pink every time I mention the country?”

  Her cheeks flamed.

  Called it.

  All I knew about her trip to the tiny European island was, she left single and ended up with Kingston Reinhardt VII, second in line to the throne, as her husband.

  Delilah greeted the cleaning crew to save face, giving me her back.

  “Thought so,” I muttered.

  I moved closets last night.

  It shouldn’t have made me sad, but it did.

  Like leaving a relative you saw once a decade. In theory, you weren't supposed to get attached in so little time, but it happened. Next thing you know, you’re crying into a bottle of pinot, promising to see each other soon.

  Or, in my case, running around the hotel, putting out fires. Bags lined my eyes. I wore my t-shirt backward, but the energy required to run to the restroom and flip it convinced me backward tees could be the new trend.

  I zipped up the hoodie I wore to cover my shirt and set out to find Cayden. Two floors later, I spotted him arguing with the foreman.

  “You look like shit.”

  “I feel like shit.” I unsaddled bags of dresser knobs from my arms and shoved them into Cayden’s. “You were supposed to help me arrange carpets on the fifth floor.”

  The foreman yawned before sacrificing Cayden to deal with my wrath. I’d spent last night sneaking my things three floors up to a closet on the 19th floor, because the 16th floor would get its finishing touches in a few days.

  With the project further along and expensive furnishings involved, hotel security had beefed up. It made me paranoid. I lunged from door to door, dodging shadows in the hall. No one caught me, but I panted by the time I lugged my t-shirt printer to the corner of the new space and passed out.

  “Sorry. I forgot.” He scr
ubbed at his face, blinked away the lethargy, and sifted through the knobs. “Mr. Prescott requested a rush on his room, so I had to reassign the construction crews and find replacements.”

  Cayden handed the bag to someone.

  I trailed him to the elevators. For a fleeting second, excitement energized me. “We’re getting a centerpiece.”

  “I know.” He pressed the button for the lobby.

  “Already? How do you know?”

  “It’s downstairs.” He leaned against the wall and kicked one ankle in front of the other. “Near the entrance. Come on.”

  I followed him out of the alcove of elevators. “What’s it of?”

  “Not sure. It’s covered in thick canvas. We’re not supposed to remove it until the grand opening of the hotel. Look.”

  He jerked his chin straight ahead. I pivoted and took in the monstrosity. The architect had gone with one-hundred-foot ceilings, which spanned the equivalent of about seven stories. Thick canvas covered something that descended from the ceiling and hit the floor.

  The sheer size of it struck me, rendered me speechless, and had my eyes darting left and right to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. For the life of me, I had no clue what it could be. I wouldn't put it past Nash to mount a giant middle finger in his hotel lobby and call it a day.

  The press would somehow spin it into Nash making a statement against the pervasive evils contributing to world hunger. They loved him that much.

  “We’re not allowed to unveil it.” Cayden tapped the heavy canvas material. It didn’t budge. “Mr. Prescott was adamant about it.”

  “Why?” I wanted to rip it off and feast my eyes. “How are we supposed to design if we don’t know what we’re designing around?”