Her pictures of her and Reed still decorated the walls. Her photo albums remained on the shelves. The Polaroid camera she loved peeked out from beneath her bed. I’d pegged her as the sentimental type, and now I owned every memory of hers, including the ones in my pocket.
I shook the purse upside down until another cracker packet fell out. Ripping the seams with deft fingers, I fished around the hole, sliding my finger beneath the fabric until I was sure she had hidden nothing inside before discarding the clutch a foot from her snoring body.
Figuring Emery was passed out for the foreseeable future and the storm didn’t seem to let up, I loosened my tie, pulled out my phone, checked a few emails, and began crushing candy. Twenty minutes later, I’d eaten all of her crackers and paid my way through a couple dozen levels of the game.
A groan that could awaken a bear in hibernation was the first indicator she had woken. The second indicator came as she swiveled her head to take in her surroundings and realized the lone light originated from my phone—and I’d set it on the lowest brightness to hide my face.
To her credit, she didn’t gasp. She pawed at the back of her head and sat up. I watched as she blinked rapidly, unadjusted to the dark, and swiped at the mess of sweat, tears, and mascara.
She faced my direction, staring at me crush two more rows of candy. The words “cold,” “emotionless,” and “bastard” left her lips, a rapid mutter—in that order. I ignored her, letting her sweat it out a few more minutes.
“How long have we been in here?” No hesitation seeped into her voice.
I allowed myself to wonder if anything could shake her before remembering the night we’d accidentally slept together. Wide, innocent doe eyes that made me want to fuck her all over again.
Now I was hard as a rock, and despite the darkness, adjusting myself would bring attention to it. Plus, the Winthrops might have abandoned their morals, but I hadn’t. Getting hard at the thought of someone who’d been an adult all of two seconds was all sorts of fucked up.
“About two-and-a-half hours,” I responded, voice level, though it was closer to thirty minutes.
Amusement lined my lips as she jerked upwards and flung toward me, barely stopping herself from launching completely at me. I was quick to shut my phone off, so she couldn’t see me with the light. The darkness blanketed me, concealing my identity. Concealing our past.
Her heavy pants brushed her chest against my abs. I could only hear her. Feel her. So close, she had my jaw ticking and my pulse racing. Her energy mobbed me, chaotic like the storm. Unpredictable, despite fifteen years of knowing her.
She didn’t back away even though I heard one of her feet slide back like she wanted to but couldn’t bring herself to show weakness.
“Two and a half hours?!”
The vodka on her breath assaulted my senses, but she sounded more sober than I had given her credit for. That, or the situation had sobered her up quickly. Beneath the alcohol, a rich scent hit my nostrils.
Citrus.
Mango.
Vanilla.
Musk.
Almost masculine.
Something familiar.
The scent invaded my space.
She tried to get into my face, probably on her tiptoes to reach it. “I was knocked out for two-and-a-half hours, and you didn’t think to check for my pulse? To see if I was still breathing?”
“You were snoring, and you smell like you took a bath in vodka,” I offered.
“Unbelievable.” She muttered a few curses and stepped back, which did nothing.
I could still sense her.
Feel her.
Breathe her.
“For the record,” she added, “someone spilled their drink on me.”
I caught a quick movement of her hand and tsked twice. “I know you’re flipping me off.”
“It’s dark. How—” She stopped herself, but I had an answer.
Because I know you.
I kept it to myself, content in the knowledge that everything about this situation bothered her. She hadn’t looked at me once earlier, even as I was hyperaware of the long legs and generous cleavage—then disgusted with myself when I saw the name on her name tag.
She plummeted to the floor again, the sound of her snapping off her mask filling the air.
It’s cute that you think you’ve hidden your identity from me, sweetheart. I know your secret. Wait until you discover mine…
As if she could hear my thoughts, she pushed herself away from me, sliding across the marble until her head hit something loud. Probably the metal bar that wrapped around the elevator.
“Ugh.”
My eyes had long since adjusted to the dark, and I caught the outline of her hands reach behind her head and probe. The wince was obvious, her body curling inward before she took a deep breath and straightened.
I felt sorry for her for a split second before I buried my sympathy in a grave beside Dad.
Emery Winthrop secreted wealth from her pores. A trip to the doctor’s and a few bags of fluids to fight the hangover would do nothing to her wallet. Meanwhile, poor people—people who’d grown up like me, like my dad—had spent their lives without the luxury of doctors, refusing to escalate health concerns to situations that required money.
Not until it was too late.
Emery dropped her hands to the elevator floor, beating out an uneven rhythm on the same statuario that lined the mansion she’d grown up in. The mansion full of people who’d ruined my family.
The beat dragged out, rapid and loud in the confined space.
Tap.
Tap. Tap.
Tap.
“Stop,” I demanded, hating her ability to fill the room with her presence.
She didn’t. If anything, her fingers fluttered faster, brushing against a cracker wrapper I’d discarded on the floor.
Tap. Tap.
Crinkle.
Tap.
“Stop.”
Louder.
As if she had one compliant bone in her body that didn’t bend at anyone but Virginia’s will.
Her tapping persisted.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Crinkle.
Tap. Tap.
The elevator felt smaller, like the walls sucked in her direction, pushing me with them. Our breaths fogged the little container—hers heavier than mine. Her chest heaved to the point where her breasts hit her chin after a sharp exhale.
Her lips moved fast, quick mutters I could barely make out.
Tacenda.
Moira.
Koi no yokan.
I’d either heard her wrong, or she’d made up the words. You never knew with Emery. Her palms pawed at the floor, pushing her body further into the corner opposite of me. She stared blindly at me, unable to adjust to the dark as she blinked rapid blinks.
A smile curved my lips. I watched her fall apart, accompanied only by blackness. No mother to tell her what to do. No daddy to run to. No Reed to serve as a conduit of bravery. Meanwhile, I looked like the poster child for Xanax, calm and uncaring as I pulled out my phone and continued to crush candy.
Ding.
Ding.
A game played by children, yet my success brought me pleasure.
“I hope his battery dies, and he suffers with me,” she muttered, probably to herself, but I wasn’t deaf.
My attention clung to her side of the elevator, enraptured by the little differences becoming clearer with each second. Anxiety, mostly. The same quirky Emery, packaged differently and stamped with extra baggage.
Good. How does it feel to live a fucked-up life, Princess? Welcome to the club.
I paid the ninety-nine cents for five more lives after I used my last one and turned the volume all the way up until the crushed wrappers and pinging drowned out her insanity. The distinct sound of a zipper unzipping halted my fingers above a coconut wheel. I waited to see where she’d take this.
Her hands worked at the corset of her dress until it loosened, and she heaved ou
t another exhale. She bent both knees, rested a forearm on each one, and leaned her head between her legs.
The first dry heave elicited an eye roll from me.
The second one had me pulling up my Spotify app.
The third one pierced my ears until my fingers ran marathons across the keyboard.
The fourth one came, and I pressed play on “Shut Up” by Black Eyed Peas.
One second.
Two.
Three.
“Turn that shit off!” Her voice bounced off the walls, an unbridled shout. Her anger formed tsunami waves in the elevator, lashing at me. “I swear, I will smash your phone against your head unless you turn that shit off!”
Following orders had never been a strong suit of mine.
I let it play, “shut up” repeating over and over again. She shot up from her crouch and pushed me, putting all her weight into the effort. A kitten who’d mistaken herself for a tiger.
My phone clattered to the floor between us, but I planted my feet, not budging an inch, even when her tiny fingers flexed against the hard ridges of my pecs and her tits delivered her rapid heartbeats onto my abs.
They fluttered like hummingbird wings across my skin, sending goosebumps up and down my arms. Her scent repelled and lured me. I leaned forward when I should have leaned back.
I wanted to fuck with her.
I wanted to fuck her.
I couldn’t do one, so I settled for the other.
Stepping into her touch, I reveled in the sound of her breath catching as I whispered against her ear, my lips touching the delicate curve, “Faking a panic attack is not cute attention-seeking behavior.”
Pulling back, my body hit the wall and my hip brushed against her pinched waist at the movement, conjuring a breathy gasp.
So fragile.
So delicious.
So wrong.
“Word of advice,” I drawled. Slow. The speed you’d use on someone just learning English. “If that’s how you sound after sex, I suggest cardio.”
The words made me as much of a liar as the Winthrops.
Her hands still sat on my chest, clenched around the shirt fabric, breaths coming out in quick pants.
She sounded like sex.
Reeked of sex.
Moved like sex.
The last thought I needed was of Emery and cardio with the memory of her riding me branded on my brain.
Tiny nails grazed my pecs. Her hips rolled forward, unaware my eyes had adjusted to the dark half an hour ago as she sought something I’d never willingly give her. She had to steal it from me. Rob me.
A little thief.
Like her father.
Like me.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
That’s okay, little Tiger.
I hate you, too.
And if she ever asked for forgiveness, I’d throw her pleas back in her face and ruin her life for sport.
Her family killed my father. It might as well have been tattooed onto my flesh, because I would never forget it. I would never forgive it.
I pressed a pointer finger to her forehead and pushed until she took the hint and stepped back with the attitude of an unfed dog. “You don’t know me, sweetheart.”
She laughed, lazy, psychotic, maddening. It was the kind of ceaseless laughter that didn’t have a beginning or an end. Just noise.
Raucous.
Unhinged.
Worthy of a horror movie soundtrack.
She’d lost it.
Emery Winthrop had finally lost it.
But crazy had always fueled her blood. She sought adrenaline highs like a junky, climbed trees and fell down without blinking an eye, snuck into beds, proudly wore her emotions on t-shirts, and defended herself fiercely.
She reminded me of a cornered predator, ready to lash out, desperate to differentiate herself from the Virginia 2.0 her mother demanded her to be.
It made her wild.
Reckless.
Foolish.
So, so foolish.
“I know your type.” She swiped at my finger, swatting it to the side. Her dress bowed forward, unzipped, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Not just rich but wealthy.”
The word spat out like a curse. She edged herself onto me. Not edging herself onto me—edging herself onto my phone. She drove her heel into the screen and twisted until it cracked, a kaleidoscope of reds, greens, and blues that did nothing but light up the Converse she wore beneath her floor-length gown.
“Handsome.” Another word she’d turned into a curse. “Over-privileged. You think you’re better than everyone else, that you can do whatever you please and get away with it. You disgust me.”
It wasn’t lost on me that her description suited her dad. I didn’t tell her this, though, because doing so would reveal my identity. I unveiled a saccharine smile she couldn’t see and laughed. Loud. In her face. Spearmint caressing her skin.
She could enjoy her pretty, perfect world—her emails from Gideon and the fat sum that sat in a trust fund under her name—a little while longer. Soon enough, everything she owned would be mine.
Her hopes.
Her dreams.
Her future in the palm of my hands.
I was hard at the idea of revenge.
Beneath us, my phone sputtered out.
Dead.
Another casualty to the Winthrop name.
Anger stained her voice. I let her revel in it. My pulse thrummed at the realization I might have lost my final photos of Dad on there. Dad’s birthday party. Ma had packed a picnic because it was all she could afford, but it was the last time I’d smiled. Really smiled.
My fingers itched to snatch my phone and fix it, but I couldn’t do anything while stuck here.
“Do you have a last name, Emery?” I enunciated her name, taking pleasure in the way her body stilled.
Her bravado vanished.
She backed away from me. “Who’s asking?”
“A concerned guest, who’d like to report an ill-mannered employee,” I lied.
She nestled herself in the corner, relieving me of the vodka scent. Of her. “Don’t bother. I’m with the catering staff, and we’re gone after the night.”
The puzzle clicked into place. The name tag. The rail-thin frame. Prescott Hotels hired models to serve at every event. Usually, ones who hadn’t made a name for themselves and needed money.
Emery needed money like I needed a bigger dick. Any more would be excessive.
Silence spread until her legs twitched, tapping on the floor again.
“Claustrophobic?” I could have hidden the amusement in my voice. I didn’t.
“Not really. Just bad in confined spaces.”
“That is literally claustrophobia.”
She also hadn’t had it when I’d known her. I took pleasure in her baggage, tangible evidence justice existed after all. Not in the court systems. Guilt and evidence lived separate lives, rarely meeting one another.
Hence, her baggage delighted me.
An appetizer for the main course to come.
“I know what claustrophobia is,” she snapped. “I don’t have it.” She sat in her corner, legs straight out. They brushed against my shoes until she jerked them back to her chest like she’d been stung.
I allowed silence to settle between us. Sitting, I palmed my broken phone and felt around the edges. Definitely smashed, tiny little pieces of shattered glass digging across my palms.
Hopefully, it only required a new screen.
An hour later, Emery caved, shaking her head, probably to stop herself from falling asleep. “What’s your name?”
“We’re not doing this.” My clipped tone spoke of finality, unyielding to her pathetic probe.
“Doing what? Introducing ourselves?”
“Talking.”
“You are such a piece of work.” She pulled at her dress, adjusting the top around her, and I imagined she’d at least become somewhat used to the darkness by now, but it
was still too dim to capture my face. “No wonder you hired an escort as your date.”
“What I do with my money and whom I do with my time are none of your business, Emery.” I enunciated each syllable of her name, taunting her.
I know who you are. Do you know who I am?
She edged forward, closer to me, her voice sounding like she was a hundred percent awake now. “You people are all alike.” The words came in pants. She seethed at me, and I realized my first assessment had been right—she needed cardio.
“You people?” I humored, because there was nothing better to do while stuck in a box than watching Emery Winthrop lose her shit.
“Rich people.” She drew it out, like it disgusted her. “People like Nash Prescott. People like you.”
I almost snorted at the irony.
Instead, I scoffed, like the idea was laughable. And it was. Had she ever looked in a mirror?
“Tread carefully,” I taunted. “You don’t know me.”
“Or what?”
Or you’ll look like a fool.
Too late.
“You’re reckless,” I observed, ignoring her question.
She’d inched closer since picking this new fight with me. Always picking fights, this one. “Reckless is hiring an escort, then getting an S.T.D.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t fuck them. Even when their legs are spread, fingers dipped knuckles-deep inside their soaking wet pussies, begging me to make them come, I don’t.”
I hired escorts because I worked in a world that required dates for corporate events, and I had neither the time nor inclination to fend off Eastridge housewife wannabes, who saw me as nothing more than a golden ticket to a privileged life.
A sharp inhale met my words, but she recovered quickly, never one to back down. “You leave women unsatisfied. Fits the profile.”
“Of?”
“Rich men whose only claim to fame is their net worth. I’ve met hundreds of men like you. They have no skills to call their own, other than the money in their bank accounts. And when their money is gone, what’s left of you? A man who can’t satisfy a woman he paid to satisfy.”
“For starters, you’re objectifying these women. Such solidarity,” I mocked. “Secondly, the escorts are simply a means to an end. They’re dates, not fucks, and I compensate them well for their time.”
Devious Lies: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Cruel Crown Book 1) Page 11