by Ashley Gee
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
One phone call, and his daddy’s precious medical practice will never get off the ground, at least not in Deception. The family will probably have to go right back to whatever basic bitch place they came from.
It’s tempting to do it anyway, whether he happens to be smart enough to leave or not.
But I play fair, even when it seems like I don’t. It’s not my fault that I’m the only one who knows the rules of this particular game.
“What’s it going to be?” I ask, voice a low murmur. “Daddy’s dreams go up in smoke in five…four…three…two….”
“I’ll be right outside waiting for you.” Jake says it to Zaya, but he doesn’t look at her as he slips through the door after Amelia and lets it slam shut behind him.
I turn the lock with a decisive click before crossing my arms over my chest and turning to face the girl that I’m strongly considering throwing through a plate glass window. The fact that I’m even here, about to beg her to help me keep what already belongs to me, is frankly infuriating.
My imagination is already running wild thinking of all the different ways I could make her suffer.
Zaya isn’t cowed when I turn my glare back on her. The annoyed look on her face says more than words. Happy now?
This is a first, even for us. Me showing up in the Gulch and in broad daylight. I wouldn’t normally leave my kitchen garbage in this part of town, much less my Maserati. But desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.
This close to her, her work apron looks even more ridiculous. The thing is at least four sizes two big and makes her look like she’s wrapped in a bright orange tarp. On anybody else the get-up would look like a bright orange sack, but her slim form gives it an almost endearing quality, like a kid playing dress-up in their mother’s closet.
It’s too bad that her mother skipped town years ago and that slim form is a result of skipping every other meal. Nothing against ten-year-old boys, but she shouldn’t have a body like one.
I don’t realize how long I’ve been staring until Zaya drums her fingers on the dirty countertop and makes a hurrying motion with her hand.
It takes all my self-control not to take that hand and shove it down the waistband of my jeans.
“I have a business proposition for you,” I tell her, meeting her watchful gaze with a penetrating one of my own. It only makes sense to offer the carrot before I use the stick. “I’m willing to call a moratorium on the forced mutism and all the other shit. Do one thing for me, and you’ll never have a problem with me, or anyone else, ever again.”
Her interest is obviously piqued even as she tries to hide the subtle reaction of her body, catching herself when she shifts forward slightly across the counter. Stepping back, Zaya leans against the shelf of charger cords and vape pens behind her as she continues to stare at me.
The girl isn’t going to give an inch.
And if her recalcitrance were standing in anyone else’s way, I might feel a little proud of her, but this is my life about to be screwed six ways to Sunday.
“You aren’t going to ask me what the favor is?”
She taps her mouth with the tip of one finger and raises an eyebrow. Stubborn brat is going to act like answering me is a violation, when she usually has no problem telling me what’s on her mind if we’re alone, even when she knows it’s not anything I want to hear.
“Speak, damnit.”
Her stony-faced expression gives nothing away as she glares at me from behind the counter. But she twists her fingers at the corner of her lips and then flicks her hand as if locking them and throwing away the key.
Little bitch.
“I’m also offering you fifty thousand dollars, free and clear, when the thing is done.”
Her gaze bores into mine, but the wariness hasn’t left her eyes. If anything, Zaya seems even more alert to danger than she was when I walked in. Her need for money won’t ever trump her ability to recognize a devil’s bargain when she hears one.
Unlike everyone else in this town, Zaya isn’t for sale.
She takes the barest second to consider it. Then she just shakes her head and gestures toward the door, obviously a request for me to leave.
But I’m not going anywhere until I have what I need.
“Let’s make it one hundred thousand then,” I tell her, voice casual as if I’m throwing out numbers that are barely more than pocket change. They will be, as long as I get to keep my inheritance. “And I’ll make sure your grandfather and that delinquent brother of yours are taken care of for as long as they live in Deception. That old rickety house won’t ever fall down around their ears if you agree to help me.”
It’s mentioning her family that makes Zaya hesitate. Her loyalty to them has always been absolute, even when they didn’t deserve it. But I can’t think about that right now, because then the old familiar anger will get the best of me.
And I need her to say yes.
Her mouth opens and closes, as if she has to practice forming the words when she has gotten so used to other methods of communicating.
“What would I have to do?”
The sound of her voice sends a shock of awareness over my skin.
Relief shoots through me when I realize I’ve finally convinced her to speak. Forcing her to be silent had started as an angry pronouncement that then morphed into a way of life. I pushed a boulder downhill and then got surprised when it flew off without me.
Sometimes what’s done can’t be undone.
Her voice is like liquid sugar: thick, sweet, and addictive. I hadn’t taken it away just as a punishment but because it was something I didn’t want shared with the rest of the world when it was being withheld from me.
Surprise, I’m a selfish asshole.
Nice to meet you, and what rock have you been hiding under until now?
The look she casts me is expectant as she waits for an answer, an explanation for why I decided to drive all the way out here and confront her at work. Not that she has insisted on an explanation for anything I’ve done.
Maybe part of her realizes she deserves it.
“I need you to marry me.” My voice is airy, like I’m asking her to help me move or pick up groceries. “And soon, next week maybe.”
She has the nerve to laugh in my face. The sound is unexpected but lyrical, like church bells ringing on a clear morning.
And then she realizes I’m serious.
The response is visceral. Zaya looks like she’s going to be sick or pass out. The thought of being married to me obviously so disgusts her that she can’t stop herself from visibly recoiling.
I’d be more insulted if I didn’t know how easy it is for me to make her wet, but the response still stings.
She stares at me like I have a second head growing out of my neck. “Are you serious?”
“As the grave.”
“You’re insane.”
I let the smallest hint of truth shine through. “Not insane, just desperate. It only has to be for a year, not even a day more. Thank Christ.”
“Why?”
I give her the barest detail, hopefully enough to convince her the offer is legit without giving everything away. She can’t know the kind of power she potentially holds over me. “It’s a requirement if I ever want access to my sizable inheritance.”
Her dark eyes flare with heat, sucking me in with the gravity of twin black holes. “Why me?”
“Because I know you’ll agree to a prenup without complaint and be just as interested in signing the divorce papers as I will be. Day 365 on the dot. When it’s done, we never have to see each other again.”
For a moment, I have myself convinced that she’s considering it. I see her doing mental calculations in her head, tabulating just how far the money I’m offering would take her. Or maybe she’s thinking about the prospect of never needing to be in the same room with me again when it’s all over.
I’m taking a calculated risk not telling her a
bout the requirement for a baby, although I like to think it’s only a lie by omission.
She would never agree to this otherwise.
Baby steps. I’ll get what I need eventually.
“No,” she says, finally. “I won’t do it.”
My hands ball into fists, but I do my level best to respond calmly. “You drive a hard bargain. What if I throw in college tuition at the over-hyped and overpriced private school of your choice?”
“This isn’t a negotiation. It’s not about the money. Even a million dollars wouldn’t be worth it.” She shakes her head violently enough that hanks of hair fly into her face, and she bats them away in annoyance. “I would rather never speak again.”
I tell myself I don’t care about the clear rejection, — I’m mostly just annoyed at not getting my way. Who does this girl think she is? After everything that’s happened, the things she’s done, that she won’t even do me the courtesy of considering my offer is infuriating.
“That might also be an option.” I stride toward the counter and lean across it, forcing my face into her personal space. The aisle is narrow enough behind the counter that there isn’t any room for her to lean away. “The things I’ve done to you are nothing compared to what I can think of if I’m feeling creative.”
“Then do it,” she says boldly, despite the flash of unease in the dark depths of her eyes. Those eyes are always a touch too wide, like something you’d see on a porcelain doll or a cartoon character. It should make her face ridiculous, but the effect is precisely the opposite. “I don’t care anymore, Vin. Do your worst.”
I want to tell her that she has never seen my worst. She has no idea what happens when I decide to make it my life’s mission to tear apart someone’s psyche brick-by-motherfucking-brick. Up to this point, I’ve been riding her ass with training wheels on. “This is the only time I’m going to ask nicely. Next time, the deal won’t be anywhere near as good.”
Zaya squares her shoulders like a prize fighter readying for another round. “My answer isn’t going to change.”
So I let every bit of darkness into my smile and watch with satisfaction as the bravado slowly dies from her expression and fear takes its place.
I smile when a shiver works its way down her spin.
“Game on.”
I slam the sliding glass door shut hard enough that the pane rattles dangerously in its frame. Part of me is disappointed when the thing doesn’t fall and shatter into a million fucking pieces.
Just like the rest of my life.
“I assume things went as well as you hoped they would?” Iain asks from his lounging position on the floor in front of my flat screen, barely sparing a glance from Call of Duty. “Although I don’t see a ring on your finger, so maybe we’ll wait to alert the papers.”
Iain is the only person I let in my space when I’m not around, mostly because I know how much he hates being in his own house. The Hewitts have a sparkly mansion on the Bluffs just like the rest of us, but it’s as dead on the inside as it is pretty on the outside.
Sometimes the prettiest places hide the dirtiest secrets.
But I don’t ask him about shit like that, and he doesn’t volunteer any information. Mutually assured silence is part of why we’ve always gotten along so well.
He is also the only other person, aside from my father and uncle, who knows the full truth about that prenuptial agreement tying up my inheritance. Partly because I need to talk to somebody about it who isn’t going to lecture me, but mostly because I know his moral compass points as true north as mine.
That little needle is just spinning around in circles at this point.
“I just wasted two hours I can’t ever get back.”
Thankfully, my Maserati was still intact when I stomped out of the Gas and Sip. At least it was until I kicked a dent in the front bumper out of sheer frustration, compounded by the fact that I’m nearly positive Jake was still hanging around and saw the whole thing.
If anybody is on the top of my shitlist, it’s that fuck.
Iain pushes to his feet and watches me make a beeline for the bar. “So she said no?”
“In about a dozen different ways.” I reach for a bottle of Jameson’s and pull out the cork with my teeth before filling two tumblers. Sobriety and this conversation do not go hand in hand. “Pretty much any inducement short of pain of death won’t do the trick.”
“Are you planning a kidnapping?” Iain picks up one of the nearly full glasses and takes a swig from it, blowing out a breath of air that smells like pine needles and hard liquor. “Say the word, and I’ll clear out my basement. The parental figures never go down there.”
The fact that I’m not entirely sure whether he is serious stops me from ready agreement. I might be a total asshole, but sometimes I wonder if Iain is diagnosable.
“I’ll let you know. For now, I’m planning a campaign of terror that will turn her into a quivering mess. I can marry whatever pieces are left.”
He shrugs and sets the empty glass back down on the bar. “If you’re sure that’s the best idea.”
His tone is enough to make the words a lie.
“You have a better idea?”
“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. The greatest victory is that which requires no battle.” He slumps back down on the couch and picks of the controller, smiling when something to his left explodes and angry yells come from the headset lying on the floor by his feet. “Fuck, I love the graphics on this game. Every headshot is a blood geyser.
This motherfucker is really going to sit here and quote the Art of War. “Did you get into my weed, because that sounds like something a person who is high as hell would say?”
“Or kill her with kindness, if you prefer. Zaya has gotten used to fighting with you, that’s all the two of you have done for years. Giving her something else might provide the advantage you need.”
Encouraging me to be kind is like gently recommending a fish avoid water. It’s just not going to work, no matter how hard you try. “I sincerely doubt a bouquet of flowers and a mariachi band are going to cut it.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something suitably insidious and deceptive.” Iain smashes some buttons, a feral smile on his face. I don’t need to look at the screen to know someone just got sniped. “Find out what she really needs, or wants, and then show her you’re the only who can provide it.”
“That’s manipulative as hell.” I drain my glass and pour myself another. “I like it.”
“Happy to be of service.”
My phone is already in my hand, and I’m scrolling through all my contacts at Cortland Construction until I find the name of one of the foreman. This is the kind of thing that money was designed to do, buy things that can’t be procured in any other way. And for the time being, I still have funds to throw around.
Zaya Milbourne wants to believe she can’t be bought. We’re going to test that little theory right fucking now.
Fourteen
The asshole wants me to marry him.
It would be funny if it weren’t so completely insane. I’d say it has to be some sort of joke he’s playing on me, but Vin Cortland doesn’t have a sense of humor. At least not one I’ve ever seen. The only thing that brings a smile to his face is watching someone else suffer.
The more I think on the ridiculous offer, the harder it is to decide if I should be flattered or enraged. What was it he said?
I know you’ll agree to a prenup without complaint and just as interested in signing the divorce papers as I will be.
He chose me for this crazy plan because he thinks he can control me, just like he has always tried to control me. And that fact alone wants me to tell him exactly where he can shove his half-assed proposal.
I’m not the kind of girl who spent her entire childhood imagining a perfect wedding. I don’t have a hope chest or a Pinterest Board full of expensive dresses and over the top wedding venues.
I still didn’t expect th
e lamest proposal in the universe when the time finally came.
Hey, here’s enough blood money to make you forget your conscience. Now just say I do.
I wouldn’t marry Vin if he had the last working dick on planet Earth. I’d rather shackle myself to a particularly curvy piece of driftwood for all of eternity.
All of that would be well and good if I wasn’t excruciatingly aware of the fact that it’s been almost an entire day since I last laid eyes on Vin. I hate to admit to myself that I’ve been waiting for him, anticipating whatever awful thing he might do next. I half expect him to meet me on the steps of the school ready to deliver some new form of torture.
It worries me more that he has been missing in action.
As far as I can tell, he didn’t even show up for school today. I wonder if he’s embarrassed. When Jake came back into the Gas and Sip after Vin finally unlocked the door and shoved out past him, he told me that he definitely saw Vin kicking the shit out of his car like it had personally wronged him.
As if it actually mattered to him that I had said no.
I find myself searching the crowd in the nearly full hallways, looking for the face that rises above the rest by several inches and always has a scowl plastered across it. Each time that I don’t see him, I have to remind myself that his absence is a reprieve and not something to be worried about.
But I am worried, because Vin is dangerous when everything is going his way.
If he gets pissed off enough, all hell might break lose.
He can marry someone else, I remind myself. Someone like Sophia who would lap up all the shit he dishes out like it’s bacon-flavored. She has the ability to ignore her emotional pain in a way that makes her way more immune to Vin’s cruelty than I ever will be.
Pride cometh before the fall, and all that.
A sense of foreboding permeates my entire day, to the point that it’s impossible for me to focus during any of my classes. At one point, when I happen to meet the cold gaze of Iain Hewitt, I considered breaking my cone of silence. If just to see whether or not Vin then descends on me like some angry and vengeful god.