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

by Parker S. Huntington

Think that's why we've never met any aliens?

  (Hey, Alien Supreme Leader, if you’re spying on me or Emery and read my note, take us with you. This place smells like sewage, and I caught Virginia forcing Em to eat with baby spoons to take smaller bites. By the way, I packed you an extra brownie, Tiger. I hope you eat it in front of Virginia and tell her it's laced with weed.)

  Nash

  I’d written that after a bullshit astrology breadth course lecture, taught by a philosophy adjunct in need of spare cash.

  I opened another.

  Reed said you’re obsessed with stars. I told him, if you’re obsessed with stars, you’d be obsessed with daylight, considering the sun is a star and we lose its light at night.

  He said I’m wrong, that you stare at the night sky because it proves light peeks out of the darkness. (What in the actual poetic bullshit is that?)

  Wanna know what I think?

  It's the darkness you're after, Little Tiger.

  Isn’t it?

  Nash

  And another.

  One day, you’ll reread this, and it'll be like spying on your own memory. Hope it’s a happy memory.

  Also, Virginia tossed the cottage, looking for weed. She thinks I'm dealing. I take it you ate the brownie. Worth it.

  Nash

  Emery's footsteps approached. I rolled the letters up, deposited them back into the tin box, and leaned against the vanity.

  It dawned on me that we shared the same memories.

  “Almost ready.” She exited the en suite in a dark dress so short, it would have been lewd if she didn't look so fucking pure in it. “I’ve grown a few inches since I wore it last, but Virginia hates this dress, so it is what it is. You think it’s too short?”

  No.

  Yes.

  I didn’t answer, watching as she cocked her head and examined herself in the mirror. Satisfaction unfurled across her face at the sight of the dying roses printed on the dress. She reached behind me on the vanity and grabbed a tube of mascara at least four years old.

  I snatched it from her. “You don't need it, and I’d rather avoid explaining to the press why my Fourth of July brunch date has pink eye.”

  She hummed in the back of her throat. “There’s golfing involved, too. Neither of us are dressed for it, which will probably be the only fun part about it.”

  Her hand found an ancient tube of Chapstick. She rubbed it across her lips, probably infecting them with some disease, but I’d still slam my mouth onto hers.

  Her legs kicked at the four giant boxes beside the vanity, dress sneaking up her thigh. “Think I can fit these in the closet?”

  “The closet?”

  Her hand shot to her mouth. “Shit.”

  “The closet?” I repeated, trying to figure out why she suddenly looked panicked. “Spill.”

  “Nash—”

  “I’ll find out.” I opened one of the boxes. Piles of Winthrop Textiles shirts filled it. I didn’t know what to think of it other than I needed her shirts, but I hated where they came from. “You know I’m persistent. It’s easier for both of us to tell me.”

  “It's not a big deal.”

  “Tell me.” I emphasized, “No lies.”

  She caved at the word lie, guilt crossing her face for a fleeting second. “I’ve been living in a closet at the hotel.”

  I blew up.

  Fucking. Blew. Up.

  She pissed me off.

  Could she be any more self-sacrificial, infuriating, contradicting, confusing, generous, deviant, remarkable, or fucking goddamn consuming?

  My body shook with the vigor of a pipeline drill. I needed to sprint a marathon, swim the entire Pacific, or trek the Amazon. Literally, anything to expend this energy, because mostly, I pissed myself off for not seeing any of this sooner.

  I’d started this revenge quest with somewhat noble intentions, but I’d chosen the absolute last person I should have tormented.

  “I’ll move.” Emery had the decency to look guilty, just about the wrong damn thing. “I swear, just give me some time to find a place.”

  “You think that’s why I’m mad?!”

  I shook my head, then shook it again, wondering if it’d rid me of this nightmare situation.

  Nope. Still your fucking reality.

  Piece of shit, meet your twin. Me.

  Backing away from the vanity, my footsteps pounded against the carpet like artillery fire.

  “Are you serious?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re starving and homeless, but you’re giving some chick you don’t know over two grand a month for tuition? What the actual fuck, Emery?”

  “You know about Demi?” She shook her head, as if it would wipe away the shock.

  Nope, sweetheart. Tried that. Didn't work, and here I am, feeling like the biggest asshole in the history of Earth. Napoleon Bonaparte, Christopher Columbus, and Nash motherfucking Prescott.

  “What about yourself?” I scrubbed my face. “When are you going to start taking care of yourself?”

  “When the guilt fades!”

  “What guilt?! Why are you guilty?!”

  Fucking hell, this was it.

  The moment she told me she’d been involved in the embezzlement.

  The moment I learned she was guilty and, worse, wanted her anyway.

  She glanced at the hickory clock on her nightstand. “We’re going to be late.”

  “I don't care.”

  “I have to be on time.”

  “Still don't care.”

  “Virginia is holding my trust fund over my head…”

  Shit. Cocksucker. Dickface.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “We’re talking about this later.”

  “Sure,” she said, but I didn’t believe her. She didn’t comment on the frozen peas I'd left on the nightstand, tossing the bag to me. “I said to keep this on your eye. It’s already swelling and turning dark.”

  “I can handle a black eye, Tiger. I’ve had plenty.”

  “Suit yourself.” She tipped a shoulder up, glimpsed at the full-length mirror again, and fingered a dead flower on the dress. As if she couldn't help herself, she spun. The dress moved with her, drooping petals suddenly alive.

  It was such a fucking Emery Winthrop thing to do, my nails pierced the bag to stop my hands from pinning her to the mirror and tearing that dress off her body.

  “I like that you’re watching me, mostly because I know you hate that you’re doing it,” she called over her shoulder.

  With her spinning in a dress of dead roses, frozen peas pressed to my eye, I succumbed to the fact that I wanted Emery Winthrop.

  This was happening.

  I’m going to hell.

  Gossip followed us—me—as the caddy drove our group to the next hole.

  My eye had darkened and swelled to the point where I’d gotten a few whispers. For the most part, the people of Eastridge fawned over me in a way they usually didn’t with new money wealth.

  The press painted me as a Saint, and to Eastridgers, good P.R. was a coveted gift bag at an exclusive event. They clamored over it, brown-nosed their way into its proximity, and begged for the scraps.

  Virginia clutched onto Balthazar’s arm like a hanger hooked on a rod. The wire, dry-cleaner ones no one wanted. Able Small Dick Cartwright inched to the absolute edge of the cart, his undersized checkered-magenta golf shorts pressed as tight as possible against the railing.

  “Of course,” he continued, darting wide eyes at me every few seconds as if he thought I would give him another scar to match the one on his forehead, “I told him I could get him off.”

  “Is that what you do during your day job?” Emery offered Able Small Dick Cartwright a serene smile. “Take people into your office and get them off?”

  “Yes.” His enthusiastic nod begged to double as a punching bag. “I’m very good at my job.”

  “I’m impressed. I hear the market for prostitution is tough these days.”

  “I didn’t mean—I’m n
ot…” He looked to Virginia for help, but she was busy ordering the caddy to disinfect her golf club. “I’m a lawyer.”

  Emery’s eyes said, sure you are. She hopped off the cart, retrieved her club, and headed to the tee.

  I clamped my hand around Able Small Dick Cartwright’s neck, disguising the move as a back pat. “I’m about as interested in hearing your prepubescent voice as I am in watching a 24-hour filibuster on C-Span, Small Dick. Take your pink Polo-wearing, Brooks Brothers-drooling ass to the artificial turf rake and kindly scratch your face off. Keep your eyes and hands to yourself today, and you’ll live to get off another client tomorrow.”

  My long strides outpaced the caddy to the tee. Emery stuck her ass out, two hands gripping the handle with proper form. The tiny dress rose up her long legs. Virginia about ruptured a vein in her forehead every time Emery leaned over.

  Small Dick had stayed in the cart.

  Good.

  I stood between Emery and Balthazar. My body angled to cover his line of sight. Dude was a fucking creep. He stared at her every five seconds like he wasn't already banging her mom.

  I didn’t know if Emery was swinging wide on purpose or if she sucked at golf, but she spent the last eight holes swinging away. Perfect form, yet she’d missed every shot and took pleasure in shouting, “Fore” as loud as she could.

  She’d turn to the caddy, insist on recovering the ball herself, and force us to wait in the sun as she took her sweet time doing so. The cycle continued.

  Swing.

  Miss.

  Swing.

  The ball landed in a thick covering of trees on the perimeter of the course.

  Emery's cheeks flushed from the sun. Our eyes met and held, hers challenging mine. I didn't know if defying Virginia turned her on or if staring at me did, but I was So. Here. For. It.

  “I don’t need a new ball. I’ll get it,” she said to the caddy. “I need the exercise. Right, Virginia?”

  I selected the thinnest putter from my new set of clubs and followed Emery past the trees. She bent over at the waist, hands dipping to retrieve her golf ball.

  “I said I… Oh.” She straightened, tiny white ball cribbed in her palm. “Did they send you after me?”

  I trailed the putter up the inside of her calves, sliding past her knee, and between her thighs. “Let’s play a game.”

  “We already are.” Her eyes fluttered closed. “Golf.”

  I ignored her, “Slide your panties off, hand them to me, and position the putter between your pussy lips.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re mine, Tiger,” I declared, soaking in her lust-heavy gaze. “Your lips are mine. Your tits are mine. Your ass is mine. Your soaking wet pussy is mine.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “Am I?” I slid the golf putter from her, brought it to my lips, and ran my tongue along the narrow metal edge. She tasted like ambrosia, sweet and crisp. “You taste fucking wet to me, Tiger, and I know you didn’t get wet for yourself.”

  “If I listen to you, you have to make me come.”

  “Deal,” I said, for the second time in as many days.

  Always bartering, this one.

  Emery turned around and slid her panties down her thighs, bending slightly as she wiggled her ass to shake them off. I caught glimpses of her bare lips from behind, wanting to run my tongue from one hole to the other.

  She pivoted and tossed her panties at me. I caught and pocketed them. Her fingers latched on to the slender, L-shaped end of the putter. She positioned it between her legs. I slid part of the tip inside.

  Arousal flushed her cheeks red. She lifted her dress at the edge, showing me the way her pussy lips sandwiched the club.

  So naughty.

  So sweet.

  So mine.

  “Drop to your knees and take me into your mouth.”

  She could never refuse a dare. Whatever embers she had, they kindled it.

  “Anyone can walk past the trees and see us.”

  “Kiss the tip,” I negotiated, and I never fucking negotiated. “With your tongue.”

  She wanted to. Her tongue slipped past her plump lips, begging to lick my cock. I ran a hand through her hair and gripped it near the base of her head. Instead of leading her mouth to my cock, I tilted her head up and slammed my lips onto hers.

  Shit.

  Motherfucker.

  Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.

  What the hell was I doing?

  The caddy yelled our names in the distance. We broke apart. I swallowed each of Emery's pants.

  Her wide eyes met mine. “You promised to make me come.”

  Without a word, I kneeled, fully aware she was the one who was supposed to kneel and take me in her mouth. I lifted her dress, spread her pussy lips, and licked the entire slit. She cried out, clutching onto my hair.

  I slid my tongue inside her, savoring her taste. As the caddy's footsteps came closer, I pushed two fingers inside her and sucked on her clit. She came hard, nearly pulling my hair out of my head with her fingers.

  When the caddy called Emery’s name again, I yelled out, “She’s coming!”

  Her body shook with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She clutched my shoulders and steadied her breathing. “My panties—”

  I cut her off. “—are mine.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue. In fact, she had that glint in her eyes that told me she loved this.

  I walked back with Emery's panties in my pocket, grass stains on my knees, the taste of her on my lips, and an erection the size of a skyscraper.

  This was the type of shit that spiraled, and next thing I knew, it’d be plastered all over tabloids that I fucked the twenty-two-year-old daughter of the face of embezzlement.

  This was definitely not okay.

  But it fucking felt great.

  The general IQ of the fine people of Eastridge, North Carolina sat somewhere between Americans who can’t locate America on a map and people who believe the Earth is flat. At least, it felt like that as I overheard four different conversations about the necessity of muslin washcloths.

  Between the mundane chatter, gossip of me ran rampant, occasionally brushing over the pending black eye I sported.

  “He’s so damaged. Ugh, and he always looks so tortured. Why does that make him hotter?”

  I don’t know, Stepford #1. Perhaps you should seek therapy for that. (For the record, I am tortured by this brunch, which isn’t even a word.)

  “My neighbor told me he gave her the best sex she’s ever had at last week’s gender reveal party.”

  My blue balls can attest that I haven’t fucked your neighbor, and I’d sooner show up to a swingers’ night at a retirement community than a fucking gender reveal party.

  “I told my wife he's a thug. Look at his eye. Once a poor kid, always a poor kid.”

  Cool story, bro. It’d mean more if you hadn’t passed me your business card as soon as I entered the restaurant.

  Our group sat at a table in the center, which Virginia informed us was the best seat in the house.

  “I’m looking into becoming a Sir.” Balthazar lifted his chin as if what he said should have impressed us. “You’ll all have to call me Sir once it happens.”

  It could have been a joke, but he seemed like the type to expect it.

  “A Sir,” Emery repeated, drawing the word out like she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the concept. She sat directly beside me, our bodies so close they stuck together.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Virginia squeezed Sir Balty’s hand.

  I swear if he leered at Emery one more time, I’d ruin his life, then rearrange his face for sport. Douche was gonna be her step-father, and he stared at her like she was a piece of meat he wanted to dig in to.

  “Congratulations, Sir Balthazar,” Small Dick said, grabbing a menu off the table. This tool looked like every Disney villain rolled into one idiotic, blue-blooded asshole.

  I didn't touch
a menu as everyone sifted through the options. Virginia darted her eyes away from me. She'd spent the morning caught somewhere between the sneer she used to give me and the brown-nosed chatter because I was suddenly the most powerful man in the room.

  One of the white-suited waiters approached.

  “Order anything, Nash.” Virginia glanced at him before saying, “It’s on our country club tab.”

  “Perfect,” Emery cut in, flipped the menu open, then preceded to order two of everything that didn’t suck.

  “Two of everything?” The waiter gnashed his lips together. Poor guy wanted to flee.

  “Of everything.” She offered the closed menu to him. “Treat yourself to a two-hundred percent tip, too.”

  Virginia’s fingers turned white around the stem of her mimosa glass. She pursed her lips until the waiter left. “The temper tantrum isn’t cute.”

  “Perhaps not.” A sly smile brightened Emery’s face. “You know what is cute? A spare tire, so I can’t wait to dig into the food.”

  “This. This behavior is exactly why I didn’t make you maid of honor.”

  “You’re getting married?” Emery finished off her second cocktail of the afternoon.

  “Yes. Soon. I invited you here today to announce it.”

  “You didn't invite me, Virginia. You demanded it, which happens when your own daughter cannot stand the sight of you.”

  Virginia ignored her. “We have put it off long enough, waiting for you to find your senses and return to Eastridge. No use in waiting now. I’ll be a Van Doren soon, and Cordelia will be my maid of honor. You remember Cordelia, right? Able’s sister. Lovely girl.” She stared at Small Dick like he was her pride and joy. “Balthazar has agreed to make Able his best man. You’ll be my bridesmaid and accompany Able as his date.”

  “The hell she will,” I gritted out. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It would explain the misshaped head, obsession with injecting chemicals into your face, and overall deranged behavior.”

  For the record, I had no issue with plastic surgery. Virginia consistently prioritizing it above Emery, on the other hand, rubbed me the wrong way.