Devious Lies: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Cruel Crown Book 1)

by Parker S. Huntington

  “What would be the point in that? He’s a devious liar. I can’t trust anything he says.”

  I’d never been able to reconcile Reed’s version of Nash with the one who saved me too many times to count. Even if three years passed since he flipped a switch, I’d still hoped Nash hadn’t become as bad as Reed accused him of being.

  Until tonight.

  That hope died a painful death.

  Rocking back on my heels, I faltered for something to say before settling on, “Who did you think I was?”

  “Katrina.” The words were blunt, like it wasn’t a big deal that he’d been waiting for a married woman to have sex with him.

  Worse—he’d mentioned a boyfriend, which meant she was cheating on Basil’s dad and another man with Nash.

  What happened to you, Nash?

  He had gone from Knight in Shining Armor to a version of Maleficent that was so indifferent toward me, he didn’t even bother extending a poisoned apple.

  Until now.

  Only the apple was a rock-hard penis, and I imagined it felt much better than a poisoned apple tasted.

  I whisper-shouted, conscious of Betty and Hank one door down, “You fucked me thinking I was someone else?!”

  My hypocrisy wasn’t lost on me. So what if I thought he was his brother? It was different. I was in love. He thought I was a married woman. Okay, we both mistook one another for other people, but for my sanity’s sake, I needed to believe we were different.

  You are not as bad as Nash Prescott, Emery. This is his fault.

  Nope.

  Even I didn’t believe my bullshit.

  I’d been the one to climb onto him, not bothering to confirm his identity.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  “Fuck,” he toyed with the word, looking genuinely surprised. “Dirty word for a goodie two shoes…”

  Good.

  Like being nice and biting my tongue every time Mother spoke somehow made me less than him.

  It pissed me off. I raised my arm stupidly. I wouldn’t hit him. I didn’t know what I would do, but it was a reflex, and it amused him.

  “Easy, Tiger.”

  He didn’t waver as he desecrated two words he’d said to me years ago when I’d run into his and Reed’s arms at the cotillion. I pushed the past away, not wanting to humanize Nash while I felt so furious at him.

  He continued, either oblivious or uncaring, “I figured it out a second before you came. I wouldn’t have fucked you if I’d known it was you. I don’t fuck teenyboppers.”

  A wave of awkwardness and embarrassment descended upon me.

  I fought it.

  Hard.

  Lifting my chin, I glared at him. “I’m eighteen.”

  Barely.

  The ten-year age gap between us felt unbridgeable.

  But at least it gave me something to focus on besides the fact that I had sex with the wrong Prescott.

  Fuck.

  Reed.

  I continued, “Reed—”

  “—won’t know,” he seethed. “You tell him and you fuck up your friendship.”

  His tone didn’t match his eyes.

  One screamed, you’ll fuck yourself over.

  The other screamed, you’ll fuck me over.

  It wasn’t only me who didn't want Reed to know. It would damage their relationship beyond repair.

  I knew you still care about Reed.

  The realization returned a sliver of my confidence. He still had a heart, and needs, and feelings. Blood ran through his veins, just like mine. He wasn’t invincible.

  I folded my arms across my chest, pulling the material tighter around me. “Aren’t you supposed to be in New York, opening some destined-to-fail business venture?”

  At least that’s what Reed had told me a few weeks ago. Not the destined-to-fail part, but a wound named Ego bloomed beneath my skin, and I didn’t like it. Cruelty was a knee-jerk reaction, one bred into me through years of catty prep school drama, and I almost apologized but couldn’t quite bring myself to.

  Two hazel eyes hardened, and he leaned back against the headboard, studying me with a scrutiny I wasn’t used to. Even with Virginia Winthrop as a mom.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Winthrop, I’m in town for a business meeting. Reed is spending the night at Basil’s, so I figured I’d crash in his room since Ma turned my room into a fucking craft room. I didn’t think I’d be accosted by an eighteen-year-old child.”

  Fury exploded from my chest to my fingers at his coldness, and I wanted to punch him back—because that was exactly what his words were.

  A punch I felt in my gut, worse than anything a physical hit could land.

  He’d transformed from the older brother Reed had once idolized to this monster neither of us could recognize.

  It hurt more than I’d thought it would.

  I buried his jab beside my pride.

  Nash grabbed a spare pillow and wiped our cum off his cock with the case, uncaring of the audience or the fact that I laid on that pillow every time I lounged in Reed’s room. “Do you often come into my brother’s room, looking for a quick lay?”

  Never, I almost defended, half transfixed and half horrified as I watched him express his nudity so comfortably.

  But I didn’t say it, because it made me feel vulnerable. The one night I professed my love for Reed had backfired in spectacular fashion, and Nash Prescott had the misfortune of witnessing it.

  “All the time,” I lied to save face. “He’s a better lay than you.”

  Another lie.

  I couldn’t imagine anyone being better at sex than Nash Prescott. He made my toes curl and my lungs burn from exhaustive pleasure. He had pushed my body past its limits, and part of me wanted him to try again, just to see if the first time had been a fluke or if sex was supposed to be like this every time.

  I still craved him, felt an obsessive thrill at the angry, rose-colored marks my nails had left across his chest. The thought terrified me. I wanted to run, but I also wanted to take a picture of the way I’d bruised him like he’d bruised me.

  Deranged would be the perfect word to describe me. I had several teachers younger than Nash, and the idea of having sex with them sickened me.

  Nash’s eyes narrowed as he studied me, lingering on my collarbone, where he’d sucked so hard, I knew his mark would last for weeks. “If he can make you come harder than you did around my cock, he deserves a medal.” His knowing eyes took in my flushed skin and the way my lips parted at the word cock. “My brother has a girlfriend. You know this, right?” he spoke as slow as he implied I was.

  “For the record, Reed texted me, saying that he and Basil broke up.” I clung to the robe’s fabric.

  “So your idea of being there for him is being his rebound fuck? Classy.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than I already had. He snorted a laugh. “That break up lasted all of thirty minutes before he apologized to her, practically begging on his hands and knees.”

  I flinched.

  The worst part was, I knew it’d be like all the other times they’d “broken up” and gotten back together ten seconds later. I’d succumbed to the magic of a starless night, convincing myself it would be different because that was what I wanted to believe.

  For a startling moment, Nash’s arrogance fled, and he took me in.

  Really took me in.

  My whitened fingers clenched the robe. My chest rose and fell to a staccato rhythm as I reminded myself I needed to breathe to live. The alarm gleamed within my eyes. They darted from Nash to the framed picture of me and Reed laughing on the wall, and I realized that I’d ruined my chances of ever being with Reed after having sex with his brother.

  It was pity mixed with that damned disgust I saw in Nash Prescott’s eyes.

  He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and said, “Either sleep or leave. I have a meeting in a few hours.”

  His words were harsh, but I recognized them for what they were.
/>   Sympathy.

  He was giving me an out, a way to flee without addressing any of the mortifying details that brought me here tonight. I latched onto it like he’d thrown me a life raft.

  “You’re unbelievable,” I retorted, but they were halfhearted words, because if he treated me any differently, I’d probably cry.

  And I was not a crier.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He nodded to the mess of cum we made on the sheets. “We’re going to forget this ever happened. You didn’t fuck the wrong brother. I didn’t fuck an eighteen-year-old.” His lips curled into a sneer as he said my age. “Neither of us will tell Reed. Understood?”

  Finally, something I agreed with.

  “Crystal clear.” I grazed my lip with my front teeth. “Promise you won’t tell Reed?”

  Nash watched me for a moment, something like disappointment flickering in his eyes, before he reached over and switched off the light. “Get out of the room, Winthrop.”

  “Gladly, Prescott.”

  I dashed back to my house, fumbling with the lock to my back door and rushing my way into my room. Flipping the lock behind me, I turned the knob twice to be sure and dove onto my bed. Pulling the sheets completely over my head, I panted into the silky fabric.

  I’d left my ripped underwear on Reed’s floor. I prayed Nash had the decency to throw them in a ditch somewhere or burn them in a fifty-foot bonfire. My breath fogged under the covers, but I couldn’t bring myself to lower them or do something sane like take a shower.

  Five-thousand threads of bliss stained with sweat and our cum.

  I’d learned two things tonight.

  First—I could orgasm during sex, and I would never be the same.

  Second—I hated Nash Prescott.

  Emery, 20; Nash, 30

  Guest Column

  On the Anniversary of The Winthrop Scandal, We Remember Victims

  by Aaron Bishop

  We remember the sirens, the surprise F.B.I.-S.E.C. joint raid, the rumors spreading like wildfire across Eastridge: Gideon Winthrop allegedly embezzled from Winthrop Textiles. None of us could believe it. Not even after acting Mayor Cartwright announced the formal FBI investigation launched into Gideon Winthrop and Winthrop Textiles.

  Two years later, a company that once employed over eighty percent of the Eastridge workforce has shut down, the life savings of Winthrop Textiles employees who had the misfortune of investing in Winthrop Textiles have been obliterated, and two people have lost their lives. Yet, no concrete evidence has been found, and no charges have been pressed against Gideon Winthrop.

  On the anniversary of The Winthrop Scandal, we remember the victims.

  We remember those who fell homeless after losing their jobs.

  We remember the elderly who have continued to work past retirement age to recuperate what they can of their savings.

  We remember the children who went hungry.

  We remember Hank Prescott, who died of a heart attack working three jobs to provide for his family after losing not only his job but also the life savings he invested in Winthrop Textiles.

  We remember Angus Bedford, who committed suicide after losing his job at the Winthrop factory and his son’s college fund.

  Gideon Winthrop may have fled Eastridge, North Carolina and no charges may have been pressed, but we remember.

  Note: If you or anyone you know has suffered from The Winthrop Scandal, The Eastridge Fund, set up by Eastridge’s very own Nash Prescott, provides 24/7 support, including over-the-phone counseling, a 100% anonymous pen pal system, and a suicide prevention hotline.

  Comments:

  Mary Sue: I invested all my savings in Winthrop Textiles! I lost my home. That wicked family deserves to burn in Hell. God will not be kind to the Winthrop family.

  Derek Klein: The Winthrop family should have died! Not Hank! Not our Angus!

  Beth Anne: Bless Nash Prescott. To lose a father then make The Eastridge Fund after the fact. Kind of makes you wonder what would have happened if he had struck rich sooner. Would Hank Prescott still be alive?

  Joshua Smith: If I see Gideon Winthrop, he’s dead. No two cents about it, no hesitation. That man deserves to meet the Devil.

  Ashley Johnson: @Beth Anne, that’s an awful thing to say. Delete your comment!!!!

  Hallie Clarke: Does anyone know what happened to Emery Winthrop? Her social media is silent. My daughter goes to Duke and says she’s not there.

  Demi Wilson: @Hallie Clarke, no clue.

  Bruce Davey: @Hallie Clarke, don’t know either, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s just as guilty as the rest of ‘em.

  ’mȯirə

  (noun) a person’s fate or destiny

  In Greek mythology, the three Moirai spin the threads of Fate. Men, women, and gods submit to them, forced to accept Fate as Destiny.

  Moira is the idea that each person possesses a predetermined course of events that shapes his or her life. It is the idea that some events are inevitable—a person’s fate (every decision leading to the present) and their destiny (the future) is not always in his or her control.

  Moira reminds us some things happen no matter how hard we fight them.

  Emery, 22; Nash, 32

  Burn.

  It crept up my fingers, down the side of my wrist, and across my palm.

  My fingers flexed. Straight. Curled knuckles. Straight. Fist. I did this eight times until I could pick up the needle and thread again without wanting to chop off my hands.

  I would withstand this torture every hour of the day if it meant I’d created something tangible. Something that couldn’t be taken from me. Something I could latch onto and call mine.

  Five yards of curtain laid in front of me. The fabric pen sat uncapped beside my thigh. I dropped the needle and thread, picked up the pen, and dragged it across the fabric in a sweeping motion.

  Empty.

  I shook the pen and tried again.

  Still empty.

  “Motherfucker.”

  I didn’t have money for a new one, and my next paycheck didn’t come for a week.

  “What happened?”

  I took Reed off speaker and pressed the phone to my ear. “Pen’s out of ink. No big deal. It’s a recreational project.”

  All my projects were recreational, including this curtain-turned-peplum-dress. I had zero design gigs lined up and a stack of unpaid bills I hid in my freezer so I didn’t have to see them. Every time I thought of the bills, I was tempted to dip into my trust fund. I never caved. That, and Mother dangled stipulations over my head like poisoned mistletoe.

  The tension in my neck was another sign I needed to get my shit together, or I’d die of a heart attack before I turned twenty-three. Thanks to shitty construction and my inability to afford AC bills, the heat sweltered in here despite the cool fifty degrees outside.

  It was always either too cold or too hot in my two-hundred-square-feet studio, but at a hundred bucks a month for rent, I had no reason to complain. And no super around to complain to.

  My phone dinged with a message from the Eastridge United app.

  Benkinersophobia: I finally looked up Durga. A goddess of war? Please, tell me you have a sari you roleplay in.

  The snort slipped out before I could stop it. The Eastridge Fund had assigned Ben as my anonymous pen pal three years ago. I shouldn’t have signed up for the app. I wasn’t a victim. I was the daughter of the victimizer.

  But I’d been lonely and a little drunk, two dollars short of my utility bill, and clinging to a torn quilt for warmth.

  Desperate for comfort, to put it bluntly.

  I’d meant to stop. Truly. But Ben turned out to be something I was in low supply of—a friend. Sometimes, we felt like one mind in two bodies. Then, one night when the flirtation transformed into something more dangerous, we’d made each other come with nothing more than dirty messages. And, well, that was a rabbit neither of us could put back in the hat.

  I shot a reply to Ben through the
app.

  Durga: You waited three years to look up my username? I Google’d Benkinersophobia day one.

  Benkinersophobia: And?

  Durga: You don’t know what your username means?

  Benkinersophobia: I used the random username generator. I don’t have time for frivolous things.

  But he had time to look up “durga.” I rolled my eyes, but a smile tipped my lips up.

  Durga: Benkinersophobia is the fear of not receiving a letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on one's eleventh birthday. I was sure I’d hit the jackpot with a Potterhead. I would have enjoyed that more.

  Benkinersophobia: A Potterhead?

  Durga: God, your lack of knowledge of pop culture references is horrifying. You could always change your username. Perhaps ‘Underwhelming’ would be more accurate.

  Benkinersophobia: Underwhelming. I’ve never heard that complaint before, but don’t trust the Yelp reviews. You’re welcome to try for yourself.

  My lips parted and my cheeks flushed before I reminded myself I didn’t even know what he looked like. I typed out a response, deleted it, typed out another, deleted, then settled on one word.

  Durga: Rules.

  Sweat lined my palms as I remembered the gift he’d sent me—a vibrator I kept tucked under the corner of my mattress. He’d found a way around the Eastridge Fund’s anonymity rules by sending it to me through a gift list service that made recipient addresses anonymous. As if we needed a middleman to broker my nightly pleasure.

  Benkinersophobia: Fuck the rules. And no, I’ve never considered changing the name. Change implies regret, and I do not regret.