Devious Lies
Copyright © 2019 by Parker S. Huntington
Published by PSH Publishing.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead; events; or locations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Beta, Editing, & Proofing: Heidi, Heather, Janice, Gemma, Ava, Leigh, Brittany, Luis
Cover, Photo, & Model: Parker, Jose, Ryan
This book may contain triggers.
From USA Today bestselling author Parker S. Huntington comes an enemies-to-lovers, slow-burn romance full of revenge and a dash of fate.
“She could enjoy her pretty, perfect world a little longer. Soon enough, everything she owned would be mine.”
I had a plan to escape the friend zone.
Step one: sneak into Reed’s room.
Step two: sleep with him.
But when the lights turned on, it wasn’t familiar blue eyes I saw.
These were dark, angry, and full of demons.
And they belonged to Reed’s much older brother.
Four years later, Nash Prescott is no longer the help’s angry son.
I’m no longer the town’s prized princess.
At twenty-two, I’m broke, in need of a job.
At thirty-two, he’s a billionaire, in need of revenge.
Who cares if my family ruined his?
Who cares if he looks at me with pure loathing?
Who cares if every task he assigns me is designed to torture?
I need the money.
Simple as that.
I’ll suffer his cruelty in silence, knowing there’s one thing he wants more than revenge…
Me.
First Man - Camilla Cabello
Lifeline - We Three
Sober - Demi Lovato
Not About Angels - Birdy
All My Friends - Dermot Kennedy
A Drop in the Ocean - Ron Pope
when the party’s over - Billie Eilish
Skinny Love - Birdy
you were good to me - Jeremy Zucker
lovely - Billie Eilish (w/ Khalid)
Somebody to Love - OneRepublic
Outnumbered - Dermot Kennedy
Beside You - 5 Seconds of Summer
All I Want - A Day to Remember
Out of the Woods - Taylor Swift
Darkest Days - MADI
Boston - Dermot Kennedy
I Feel Like I’m Drowning - Two Feet
Somewhere With You - Kenny Chesney
Lover - Taylor Swift
Hot girl bummer - blackbear
Ocean Eyes (Remix) - Billie Eilish & blackbear
THAT BITCH - Bea Miller
Rome - Dermot Kennedy
Before the Storm - Miley Cyrus & Jonas Brothers
Listen on Spotify here.
Off Spotify:
Through the Trees - Low Shoulder
Lover (Cover) - Dermot Kennedy
Asher Black
Niccolaio Andretti
Ranieri Andretti
Bastiano Romano
Renata Vitali
Damiano De Luca
Marco Camerino
Rafaello Rossi
Lucy Black
Hey, readers!
This book started as a continuation of the Spring Fling novella… until I scrapped the entire thing and started from scratch. This was, perhaps, one of my crazier decisions of the year.
The deadline loomed ahead. I had no clue how I would start let alone finish this novel… and then it happened. Something clicked. The words didn’t flow out of me. They poured. I couldn’t stop them if I’d tried.
One-hundred and forty-five thousand words. I wrote them faster than I’d ever written anything in my life. At one point, I was funneling them to my arsenal of betas and editors and proofers so fast, none of us could keep up. LOL.
That’s how much Nash and Emery spoke to me.
Usually, I go into a novel knowing exactly the message I want to impart upon my readers. With this one, the idea started vague and spiraled into something else entirely.
Fate.
I have heard the word so often, understand the definition, and recognize it when I see it. Still, what do I really know?
It was daunting to write about two people whose lives come together in so many ways, because I wanted it to be authentic. So, I found myself seeking a different meaning from the word fate—finding it in smaller things than the grand displays people often tout.
And each time I asked myself, “Is this fate?”, I would also think, there’s a lesson here somewhere. By the time I wrote The End, I realized it doesn’t matter.
In the words of Lemony Snicket:
Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like.
Life throws so much at you, but you still control your decisions.
Nash and Emery taught me to choose what makes me happy. I hope they show you, too.
People will always judge. You can’t control that. Move on to the things you can control.
At the end of the day, the only people who matter are the ones who care about you and yourself. Fate doesn’t determine how you treat them and whether you put them first, too. That’s on you.
Lastly, I hope you enjoy the book. These two hold a special place in my heart for being my first non-mafia characters.
With so, so, so much love,
Parker
In a kingdom far away, two princesses shared a castle. Princess Lily wore white gowns peppered with tulips, spent her time volunteering, and read novels every opportunity she had. Princess Celia dressed in all-black, isolated herself from the kingdom, and blasted screamo music until all her guards refused to protect her.
After a yearlong drought, a witch promised to cure the kingdom if the most evil of the two princesses surrendered herself.
The subjects demanded Princess Celia give herself up to the witch. When she refused, they bound her and delivered her to the witch’s doorsteps.
Yet, the drought remained.
Appalled, the king said, “We have followed your demands, now you will follow ours.”
The witch replied, “You have not delivered the most evil of the princesses.”
You see, Princess Lily harbored a dark secret. The books she read were pirated…
The king delivered Princess Lily to the witch, who cured the kingdom of its drought. And everyone except Princess Lily lived happily ever after.
Moral of the story: Don’t be a Princess Lily.
Note: This eBook is exclusively sold and distributed on Amazon.
For Chlo, Bau, Rose, and L.
My querencia.
For wicked princesses who feed themselves with knives instead of silver spoons.
For my tribe of dragon-slaying warriors: Ava Harrison, Heidi Jones, Heather Pollock, Leigh Shen, Harloe Rae, Brittany Webber, Desireé Ketchum, and Gemma Woolley.
Thank you for being appalled when I told you my deadline, then getting your asses in gear and helping me succeed. This book wo
uldn’t exist without you.
(noun) the development of events beyond a person’s control, sometimes considered to be determined by a supernatural power
Fate whispers to the warrior, “You cannot withstand the storm,” and the warrior whispers back, “I am the storm.”
Unknown
/ta-‘chen-da/
Things that are not to be spoken about or made public
Things that are best left unsaid
Tacenda originates from the Latin participle taceo for ‘I am silent’. Taceo is also the verb for ‘I am still or at rest’.
Taceo reminds us silence isn’t a sign of weakness. It is a sign of rest, of certainty, of contentment.
Silence is the best response to people who don’t deserve your words.
I had a habit of touching things that didn’t belong to me.
The Stepford wives of Eastridge, North Carolina begged to sample the bad boy from the wrong side of town. If I had a dollar for every time a twenty-something trophy wife ran to me after her sixty-something husband went away “on business,” I wouldn’t be in this situation.
Sometimes, when I felt irritated with the gluttony of designer this and that, the ten hours a day I worked to repay grad school loans, and the way Ma owned one pair of worn-down, knock-off New Balances yet still spared a few bucks for the church bucket, I would indulge some Stepfords.
(Hate-fuck was the proper term, but no one had ever accused me of being proper.)
Their step-daughters, practically the same ages as them, came to me wet and willing, looking for something to brag about with their friends.
I indulged them, too, though I enjoyed them less. They sought entertainment, whereas their step-mothers sought escape. One was calculated; the other, wild.
And despite how much I loathed this town and the Midas veneer Eastridgers wore like minx on winter coats, I had never crossed the line of keeping something I’d touched. Until tonight with the ledger I just stole from my parents’ boss, Gideon Winthrop.
Gideon Winthrop: billionaire entrepreneur, the man who pretty much ran Eastridge, and a piece of shit.
Mounted on the silver-flecked marble of Gideon’s mansion, a silver statue of Dionysus rode a tiger sculpted from electrum and gold. The artist had etched the god’s cult of followers into the tiger’s legs, bearing a remarkable resemblance to Eastridge’s cult of wealth.
I had hidden behind the four-legged beast, my hands shoved into my tattered black jeans as I eavesdropped on Gideon Winthrop’s conversation with his business partner, Balthazar Van Doren.
Though they lounged in the mansion’s office, smoking overpriced cigars, Gideon’s voice boomed beyond the open door into the foyer where I leaned against the tiger’s ass. Hiding, because secrets were currency in Eastridge.
I hadn’t planned on spying during my weekly visit to my parents, but Gideon’s wife had the tendency to threaten Ma and Dad with unemployment. It would be nice to have the upper hand for once.
“Too much money is gone.” Gideon sipped his drink. “Winthrop Textiles will collapse. It may not be tomorrow or the next day, but it will happen.”
“Gideon.”
He interrupted Balthazar. “With the company folded, everyone we employ—the whole damn town—will lose their jobs. The savings they invested with us. Everything.”
Translation: my parents will be jobless, homeless, and broke.
“As long as there’s no evidence of embezzling,” Balthazar began, but I didn’t stick around to hear the rest.
Scum.
Ma and Dad devoted their entire savings to Winthrop Textiles stock. If the company collapsed, so did their futures.
I withdrew from the foyer as quietly as I had come, dipping past the kitchen and into the Winthrop’s laundry room, where Ma had left the old suit Gideon had gifted me for tonight’s cotillion.
I slipped into it, stopped by the storage room, and tucked the joint I’d confiscated last week from my brother Reed’s selfie-obsessed high school sweetheart into the outer pocket of the suitcase Gideon took on business trips. A little gift for the T.S.A. And people say I’m uncharitable.
After Gideon had finally left for his daughter’s cotillion, I didn’t think twice as I snuck into his office to search it. Eight years ago, when my family had moved into the cottage on the edge of the Winthrop estate, I had made it a point to possess every key, every password, every secret this mansion held.
Ma managed the household, while Dad maintained the grounds. Making copies of their keys had required no effort. Extracting the password to the office safe, however, meant creating a make-believe game for Reed and his best friend, Gideon’s daughter Emery, to play.
I entered the code into the safe and sifted through it. Passports, birth certificates, and social security cards. Yawn. The desk drawers held nothing interesting outside of employee files. I yanked the top one completely off of its track and felt around the hole it left.
Just as I had finished up my search, my fingers brushed against buttery leather.
After pulling off the tape, I latched onto the leather and plucked it from the cavern. Held up to the light, the journal boasted dust on its cover and nothing else. No name. No brand. No logo.
I flipped it open, taking in the rows of letters and numbers. Someone had kept meticulous records.
A ledger.
Leverage.
Proof.
Destruction.
I felt no guilt as I stole what wasn’t mine. Not when its owner wielded the power of destruction, and my parents stood in his line of fire. Dressed in Gideon’s suit, I looked like an Eastridger as I strolled out of his mansion with his ledger tucked into the inner pocket.
When Ma called, I told her nothing as she begged, “Please, Nash. Please, don’t cause a scene tonight. You’re there to drive Reed home if things get out of hand. You know how those Eastridge Prep kids are. You don’t want your brother catchin’ no trouble.”
Translation: Rich kids get wasted, find trouble, and the kid with the secondhand uniforms and academic scholarship takes the blame. Tale as old as time.
I could have admitted it then, told Ma about Gideon’s misdeeds.
I didn’t.
I was Sisyphus.
Crafty.
Deceitful.
A thief.
Instead of cheating death, I’d stolen from a Winthrop. The latter proved more dangerous than the former. Unlike Sisyphus, I had no intention of suffering eternal punishment for my sins.
The ledger couldn’t be heavier than a skinny mass-market paperback, but it weighed down the hidden pocket of my suit as I weaved a path through the tables in the Eastridge Junior Society’s ballroom, considering what to do with what I’d learned.
I could turn it over to the proper authorities and bring down the Winthrops, warn my parents to find new jobs and sell their Winthrop Textiles stocks, or keep the knowledge to myself.
For now, I would keep it to myself until I formed a plan.
A sea of suit-clad businessmen and manicured women—born, bred, and raised in Eastridge, North Carolina to be nothing more than trophy wives—blurred together in front of me. Not one of them piqued my interest.
Still, I ran a palm across a Stepford wife’s exposed back to distract myself from the fact that I’d taken something from the most powerful man in North Carolina—one of the most powerful men in America.
Katrina’s lips parted at my touch, and she let out a shaky exhale that had Virginia Winthrop cutting her frosty glare in my direction. From a table over, Katrina’s step-daughter Basil took a vicious stab at her white-truffle Kobe strip steak, her eyes trained on where my fingertips rubbed at Katrina’s bare back.
The steak reminded me of my little brother—glistening on the outside, full of blood, and ready to burst at the slightest cut. His on-again-off-again girlfriend, however, wouldn’t be the girl to cut him.
As soon as Reed got his head out of his ass and realized she was in love with him, Emery Winthrop would own his hea
rt.
Girls like Basil Berkshire were pit stops. They fueled your tank and helped you along the road, but they weren’t the destination.
Girls like Emery Winthrop were the finish line, the goal you worked for, the place you strived to reach, the smile you saw when you closed your eyes and wondered why you even bothered.
Reed was fifteen. He had time to learn.
“There’s a seat at the kids’ table,” Virginia offered, a chute of Krug Brut Vintage cradled between two fingers.
She resembled the Hera statue she’d had Dad place at the center of the Winthrop’s backyard tree maze. Pale beauty frozen in a towering, too-slender frame. Virginia wore her blonde hair straightened until it mirrored frayed bamboo skewers kissing the tops of her shoulders.
The glossy strands swung as she nodded at the table her daughter sat at. The daughter she’d molded into the spitting image of her. But Emery possessed quirks that slipped past the cracks, like sunlight filtering into a prison cell through a single pinhole.
An expressive face.
Too big eyes.
A singular gray iris only noticeable up close, but I’d once overheard Virginia demand her daughter to cover it with a colored contact that matched her blue eye.
Sitting eye-level with Katrina, Virginia managed to look down her nose at her as she threw at me, “You may sit at the children’s table.”
My finger twitched, tempted to finger fuck Katrina at the “adults’ table” to provoke her because I had no doubt Virginia took part in her husband’s embezzlement. If Gideon Winthrop was the head of Winthrop Textiles, Virginia Winthrop was the neck, moving the head whichever direction she pleased.
Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel Page 1
