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

by Parker S. Huntington

  Not sexually.

  But mentally.

  Emotionally.

  He made me lunch every day and left notes like he used to. Sometimes, I’d eat them in his office. He would watch me read the notes. I pretended to toss them with the lunch bag, but I'd slide them into my pocket when he wasn't looking and leave them in my box in the closet.

  I told myself the lunches were why I was even at this gallery, about to lead Nash to the Triumphant Sisyphus over the Defeated Sisyphus.

  A paid debt.

  That’s all.

  “Are you sure? I can set you up on a date with some friends,” Ida Marie offered.

  A shadow loomed over us.

  I fixed my eyes on the loin-cloth dick.

  “We are here to work, not socialize, and his dick looks like one of Rosco’s ears.”

  Nash’s voice hit the air, and I felt like I was floating and sinking all at once. Gravity, it turned out, didn’t exist. Not with Nash roaming this earth.

  “Uhh…” Ida Marie’s eyes traversed the room, trying to bullshit two bullshitters. “Chantilly’s waving me down. Gotta go.”

  I turned back to the painting, which did, in fact, resemble Rosco’s ear. “Doesn't it bother you that everyone thinks we're sleeping together?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t seem surprised.

  I waited for him to elaborate.

  He lifted a brow. “What?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. You're impossible.” I zipped up my hoodie until it covered my wabi-sabi tee. “Let’s get this over with. The sculpture is in the private gallery.”

  The curator unlocked the private viewing room for us, offering champagne and an exclusive tour.

  Nash declined with a polite, “Fuck no.”

  Her head whipped back, jaw slacking.

  “To think she referred to you as the Patron Saint of North Carolina earlier,” I said once she left us alone.

  I would have felt bad, but A—she looked at Nash like he was a paycheck and B—when she actually did get the commission check from this sale, I was sure she’d be licking her wounds during a beach vacation in Hawaii.

  “I fucking hate that nickname.”

  But he didn’t deny its validity. It fit with the Nash Prescott puzzle beside his penance tattoo. I was missing the biggest piece. It reminded me of filling out a completely blank Sudoku grid.

  Curiosity got the better of me. “Why Sisyphus?”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Do you know what a Sisyphean task is?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “It’s one that can never be completed.”

  I kept my gaze forward, rounding the bend with him. We passed extravagant paintings, statues, and sculptures. I cared for none of them like I did the Triumphant Sisyphus.

  Nash stopped me with a hand on my hip. He continued, “Life is a Sisyphean task. You put out one fire, and another one starts. It’s easier to accept it burns.”

  I couldn’t think past his touch, but I tried. “And when there’s no place untouched by the fire?”

  “You live in a world consumed by fire, but at least it’s the truth. You’re not lured to sleep with a false blanket of security, telling yourself you exist in a part untouched by the flames.”

  “That’s a horrible way to live.”

  “Newsflash, Little Tiger, it’s life. There’s death, and betrayal, and revenge, and guilt everywhere you turn. It’s healthier to live it, breathe it, and participate in it than to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  “And when you’re burnt everywhere?”

  “Don’t succumb to the fire. Be the bigger flame.” His fingers dipped below my shirt, skimming the sensitive skin.

  You are the biggest flame I’ve ever met, Nash Prescott. You deprive me of oxygen.

  We continued down the path. I toyed with his conviction, considered fighting it, and decided against it. The creed suited Nash, the man with the penance tattoo and the unlikely streak for charity. Nothing about him made sense, which was exactly why it made sense.

  I liked odd.

  Thrived on it.

  I accepted Nash for who he was.

  Silently, because the second I told him I saw him, he’d morph into someone different, and I’d have to solve the puzzle as the pieces changed.

  My very own Sisyphean task.

  The path led to the sculpture in the center. My heart rattled its cage when we rounded the last turn. I wondered if I’d remembered it correctly. But the second my eyes reunited with it, I knew I’d made the right choice.

  “It’s wrong,” Nash said five minutes after he saw it.

  He’d spent that first five minutes silent.

  Just staring at the sculpture.

  Not a single word.

  I spent those five minutes staring at him, only to realize, in this moment, I couldn’t read Nash.

  “It’s perfect,” I argued.

  “It’s not what I wanted.”

  “It’s what you needed.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. Three times. “It’s inaccurate.”

  “Yeah?” I stroked the base of the mountain. The same reverence you’d give something holy. “What’s Sisyphus supposed to be then?”

  “Sisyphus is a treacherous sea. One that drowns you.”

  A response sat at the tip of my tongue, but all I could conjure was silence. Ben had called Sisyphus a treacherous sea. As in, Ben from Eastridge.

  Horror dawned on me the same time Nash turned to me and said, “We’re not getting it. It’s not right. Find another.”

  “We are not getting anything. You are.” I released a shaky breath, forcing myself to play it cool. I had no confirmation. Freaking out would be pointless. “This is the sculpture. There’s no other.”

  “Emery.”

  “Nash.”

  “It’s not happening.”

  My fingers trembled at my sides. I shoved them into my jeans and stared at Triumphant Sisyphus. The anguish Nash had demanded was chiseled into its face, but the artist laced it with strong undercurrents of triumph.

  When I looked at the sculpture, I saw Sisyphus winning.

  He carried the boulder above his head like a trophy rather than a punishment.

  He reminded me life was a matter of perspective. You can see your losses as failures or lessons. The choice is yours.

  My eyes slid to Nash.

  Ben.

  Whomever he was, he hadn’t turned away from the art since we entered.

  If I hadn’t been blinded by my idea of Nash, I might have considered him as Ben earlier. I inched back, allowing him to study the sculpture. The phone in my palm felt heavy. I chewed on my lip, considering what to text Ben.

  Durga: What are you wearing?

  I didn’t need a response. The read receipt would confirm it. Over ten minutes passed until Nash received a phone call from Delilah. He ended the call, clenched his phone, then held it out in front of him.

  My eyes skated between Nash and the Eastridge United App.

  The read receipt said, read.

  A few seconds later, a message popped up.

  When Nash slid his phone back into his pocket, the green dot beside his name turned red.

  I didn’t bother looking at his answer.

  It was like the end of a football match.

  Fourth down.

  Three seconds to go.

  One yard from the end zone.

  No time outs left, and the whistle blew.

  A ref had thrown down the gauntlet.

  The end.

  Game over.

  Final score.

  Nash was Ben.

  Ben was Nash.

  And I was fucked.

  Because Ben finally had a face.

  A body.

  An existence.

  He wasn’t a fantasy.

  He was human.

  Real.

  Mine for the taking.

  Because I lusted for Nash, but I lo
ved Ben.

  I reread the messages between me and Durga from two nights ago, feeling oddly guilty about them. And I never felt guilty about Durga.

  Benkinersophobia: What are you wearing?

  I'd sent her that because she'd sent me the same thing earlier. Then, ghosted me.

  Durga: A t-shirt. It’s loose and long, hitting the top of my thighs. I’m wearing nothing under, and if you asked me to, I’d take it off.

  Benkinersophobia: Don’t take it off.

  Durga: Are you on your back?

  Benkinersophobia: Yes.

  Durga: Flip over.

  Benkinersophobia: Tell me when you’re done.

  Durga: I’m on my hands and knees.

  Benkinersophobia: Reach between your thighs and brush your thumb against your clit. Moan my name.

  Durga: I don’t know your name.

  Benkinersophobia: Rules.

  She hadn’t responded.

  Benkinersophobia: Just call me Ben.

  Still no response.

  Benkinersophobia: You feel the cold air brushing your pussy?

  Durga: Yes.

  Benkinersophobia: I like the idea of your ass in the air as you cum, waiting for me to enter you, knowing I never will.

  Durga: Never say never.

  I stopped reading, changed into a tee and sweats, and wandered around the hotel, struck by how goddamned empty it was. Reed would spend this weekend with Basil and Ma, Delilah had flown to New York a few nights ago with her husband, and my plans for the weekend included Durga, who’d been acting weird, and my fist, because the idea of seeking a meaningless fuck did nothing for me.

  This was probably karma rearing its head, and it was uglier than Rosco.

  I watched a Hornets vs. Lakers replay with a night guard, drank a few beers, cursed appropriately when the Hornets lost even though I gave no shits, and wandered the floors one by one.

  When I reached the fifth floor and heard laughter, I counted down the beers I’d drunk with the guard.

  Not nearly enough for hallucinations.

  Especially considering I recognized the laugh.

  I should have turned around and left her alone, but I justified my intrusion with the reminder she'd snuck into my shower and onto me.

  Emery wore a tee that read lypophrenia and headphones in her ears. Her body laid flat on the couch, cocooned by the rattiest quilt I’d ever seen. Checkered with holes and faded to the point where I couldn’t tell if the little dots all over were a design or stains.

  Her eyes remained closed until she burst out in carefree laughter. They popped open and instantly found mine with unerring precision. I expected surprise on her face, but I got one lifted shoulder and a lazy smile.

  A smile.

  Weird shit she’d been doing since I caved and bought that Sisyphus statue. Usually when she thought I wasn't paying attention.

  She looked pure and innocent and beautiful, like a fallen red maple leaf before someone stepped on it. I wondered how I didn't see it before. Maybe Fika was right. Maybe I’d misheard the argument in the office the night of the cotillion. After all, I’d been wrong about who owned the ledger.

  Emery stretched. Her sad excuse for a blanket fell to the floor. The movement lifted the bottom of her shirt, flashing me with skin. “I feel like Sebastian York’s voice is the kind of thing that transcends time. Silent films, skinny jeans, and Sebastian York. Things that never get old.”

  The sudden urge to rip out the asshole’s vocal cords gripped me. She never talked to anyone but Reed, and I’d assumed there was no one else.

  Fuck, no, you did not just say, no one ‘else’.

  I rounded the couch.

  She caught my look and laughed again. “You’d think I’d just told you I sacrificed a toddler tonight. What’s your deal?” She sat up and sloped her chin to scrutinize me. “He’s a narrator. I borrowed an audiobook from the library. Entice by Ava Harrison.” The toe of her Chucks accidentally hit my Brionis. “It’s an age-gap romance.”

  “You borrowed an audiobook. From the library,” I parroted, fully aware her Chucks touched my shoes again, not by accident this time.

  “Jesus, Nash, are you illiterate? Do you know what a book is? They’re these things full of words, and when you read them, you live another life. You should try it sometime. Might help with the crankiness.”

  The jabs brushed off my shoulders like insignificant flies. “Fuck Sebastian York.”

  Transparent as saran wrap.

  “Really? You kind of sound like him.”

  “What does he sound like?”

  “Like you. I literally just said that.”

  “Careful.” I sat beside her on the couch, taking up most of the space. “It’s after hours. I could call security.”

  “And I could start a Change.org petition. Your wages for interns are embarrassing, and I have a student loan payment due in two days.” She set her phone down and nodded to the television. “If I use the company’s Netflix account, I get entertainment and I can still pay my utilities bill. I was watching Twilight before this.”

  I smelled her bullshit but didn’t call her out on it. Mostly because it required admitting I looked into her and knew about the Demi situation.

  “Before this—”

  She cut me off. “What do you think would happen if Edward Cullen met another mind reader? Who would be reading whose mind?”

  I allowed her lame attempts at distraction. “Neither, because mind-reading doesn’t exist.”

  “I don’t recall you being this cranky back then.”

  Ignoring the empty insult, I examined her set up. Phone, charger, blanket, and headphones. “You’ve been coming here to watch Netflix every night?”

  “No.” She toyed with the hem of her shirt, teasing me without ever realizing it. “Only recently.”

  “What did you use before?”

  “My ex from freshman year’s account. I dated him for, like, two days. He cheated, but I got four years of Netflix free. I think I came out victorious in that relationship.” She leaned against the couch back. “He changed the password a few days ago.”

  “He didn't know you were using his account?” Something about her right now didn’t add up. “Isn’t there a watch history?”

  “The trick is to create a new user each time you watch and delete that user when you’re done watching. Silent revenge is the best revenge.”

  Her words spiked my impulse.

  I wanted to slam my lips onto hers for a second kiss, but I kicked my feet onto the coffee table and sunk deeper into the couch. “You remind me of Delilah.”

  “A compliment. She’s smarter and hotter than you.” She retrieved her quilt. “She should be running the company.”

  “It’s like you’re asking to get kicked out.”

  I could have kicked her out, but I wouldn’t.

  Reed had plans of proposing or whatever, and I had... a company I couldn’t give two shits about; a friend I couldn’t bring myself to call my best friend, even though she deserved it; Durga, who was acting weird; and… Emery.

  “You can’t kick me out.” Her flippant tone suggested she knew I wouldn’t. “It’s my birthday next week.”

  “According to you, the day that doesn’t make people special.”

  “Why is it that you're the one who gets me? When the hell did that happen?”

  More pressing question—when had she become so candid about us?

  Rather than answer, I ordered delivery from every restaurant still open because she looked like she needed ten cheeseburgers, and I wasn’t giving her an excuse not to eat one.

  “We could watch a movie while we wait,” she offered. “Warning—I’m picky, and given the circumstances, I don't have a Netflix queue, which means it takes me forever to pick.”

  She grabbed the remote and scrolled through the options. “I’ll read the recommended list, but it’s mostly Chantilly and Ida Marie watching on the account. Beauty and the Beast?”

  “If you'
re into Stockholm Syndrome. Sleeping Beauty?”

  I imagined hell consisted of Chantilly’s Netflix queue on repeat.

  “Because kissing solves everything?” Her lips parted when I glanced at them. “Not to mention the DubCon. Aladdin?”

  “Rub until something comes out. Great lesson to teach children.”

  “That one’s realistic. Lying and stealing always lands you the girl…”

  One of the night guards interrupted us with bags of delivery. Peruvian. Tunisian. American. America’s bastardized take on Italian. Emery grabbed the Tunisian first, dug through it, and took the first bite out of every item before settling on the Shakshuka.

  We ate our way through four cuisines, scrolling through Chantilly’s Netflix queue and ridiculing every movie until we found one both of us agreed with. John Wick, because contrary to Delilah’s belief, I didn't hate dogs. Just ones that resembled rats.

  I shoved our leftovers into the fridge and sat down again. She glanced at me every minute, fixated on my lips like she wanted to kiss me. At this point, neither of us pretended to watch the movie.

  I opened up Candy Crush, because I needed to do something with my hands or I’d cover her body with mine and kiss her until her lips bruised. She pulled out her sketchpad and shaded in a design.

  The night continued like that. I moved up ten levels. She watched John Wick while sketching fashion designs on her pad. Really, I had no reason to be here other than the penthouse was empty and I enjoyed Emery’s company.

  There.

  I said it.

  So fucking what?

  When the movie ended, she set aside her designs, pulled her knees to her chest, and asked, “What is up with you and Candy Crush?”

  I swiped up, obliterating the level. She waited for me to respond, burning the side of my face with her attention.