Chantilly droned on about her overpriced ideas.
Ida Marie leaned into me and whispered, “What’s the Winthrop Scandal?”
“Just another case of an asshole stealing from the little guy,” I replied, thankful none of my coworkers came from the South or had picked up a Financial Times article ever.
Not that I had been the face of the scandal.
Dad had.
Still.
I couldn’t control my heartbeats. They consumed my poor chest, thudding a fierce rhythm worthy of a Carnegie Hall drum solo. It felt like Big Foot had laced up his Nikes and started running a marathon inside me.
Keep your shit together, Emery. Small minds come attached to big mouths. Look at Chantilly’s flapper go. Does someone who spent a chunk of the dwindling budget on cabinet knobs that resemble butt plugs seem like the type of person who could piece together your identity?
“Oh.” Ida Marie doodled on the margins of her notebook as Chantilly wrapped up her bullshit defense of her design. “I hope he went to jail.”
Nope, just living in a beach-side cottage in a small North Carolina town. Dad emailed me postcards once a week. I never replied, but sometimes, when I felt particularly masochistic, I would stare at the pictures and wonder how he fared living somewhere that couldn’t fill a high school gymnasium. Eastridge’s population nearly doubled Blithe Beach, and still, gossip in town moved like a cheetah prowling for prey.
I wondered how far Nash would take terrorizing me. I had figured out his game. Reed hated Nash, but Nash didn’t hate Reed. That had to be the reason I still had this job. I threaded Reed and Nash together, and to cut me would be to cut their already strenuous relationship.
Nash continued, ignoring me, “I expect the 3D renderings to be done by the end of the weekend, so we can begin finalizing purchases and move on to the artwork for the suites. This is not some cookie-dough-latte and chocolate-jalapeño-croissant-serving coffee shop you can smoke a joint behind. Slow and mediocre work will not be tolerated.”
“Chocolate jalapeño croissants. So gross, am I right?” Chantilly stepped beside him, her knee bumping into the back of my head as she scrambled off the couch. Two palms clapped together, rally girl style. “We’ll begin with your penthouse suite first, Mister Prescott, then the presidential suite Mrs. Lowell is currently staying in. Do you have any requests?”
“Keep the same color palette for the penthouse and presidential suites. The presidential suite should stay in line with the aesthetic of the hotel, since it will be booked by guests.” Nash pulled out his phone, his wandering attention further confirmation he gave no fucks about this project.
“I think I have a good idea of your tastes.” Chantilly crept closer to Nash and tried to peek at his phone. “I was on the team that designed your New York City penthouse. Mary-Kate let me lead that project.”
“Right.” The light of the screen lit up his bored features. “My least favorite penthouse. Actually, second. The one in Kuala Lumpur looks like Barney threw up in it, hosted an orgy inside the bedroom, then jizzed all over to reclaim his dignity.”
Accurate.
If I liked Nash, I would have fallen back into the couch, laughter tickling my stomach. The pictures of Kuala Lumpur in the online design archives showed a magenta-themed living room and a bedroom with streaks of cum-like white in the bay oak flooring, milk wall paint, and brocade sheets.
“I didn’t lead that one in Koala Limper.” Chantilly toyed with her hair.
When she smiled, the makeup caked on her face crumbled around the eyes. For a moment, I wanted to draw her in for a hug and tell her she’s unbelievably gorgeous where it matters… but then I remembered she had put me on actual time out yesterday for trying to share the elevator with her while she talked on the phone, and the best condolence I could offer her was that she’s pretty on the outside.
(For the record, eavesdropping on Chantilly gossiping sat on my to-do list somewhere between skydiving with a broken parachute and swallowing a brain-eating amoeba.)
“Kuala Lumpur,” Nash enunciated, lashing us all with his irritation. “It’s a city, not some cane-wielding marsupial, Chartreuse. For what I pay you, I expect competence.”
So this was what blue balls did to you. Turned you into an insufferable bastard. Nash wore impatience like a second skin sheathed around him. He hadn’t glanced at Chantilly once, but she jumped back at the scorch of his wrath.
Maybe after this, she would finally stop whining to Hannah about how much she wanted to be the next Mrs. Prescott. Her dreams included marrying Nash, having his babies, and swapping her design job for a life spent in spas and country clubs.
“Right.” Chantilly nodded once and mouthed the city name. “I’ll get it next time. Second time’s the charm.”
“Romanticizing failure.” He slid his eyes my way. “The hallmark of the participation trophy generation.”
Anyone else, and I would have stood up for her. Even Hannah and her general disdain for poor people would earn my defense. I bit my tongue. Chantilly glanced between us and Nash, her lips downturned. She read the room and swallowed her retort.
Nash pocketed his phone. “If we’re done with today’s attention-seeking antics, I’m continuing with the aesthetic. The penthouse will not be rented out, so there’s more leeway there. I want earth tones in the living room and suite, minimalist furnishings, and a sculpture against the North-facing wall.”
Chantilly fidgeted with the hem of her dress and pulled it away from her body. The sequins caught the lighting, reflecting a kaleidoscope of reds across Nash’s face, yet he didn’t look at her as she asked, “Of?”
“Sisyphus.”
“Sisyphus?” It escaped my lips as less of a question and more of a gasp.
Nash’s head snapped to mine. He studied me, a dip in between his brows as if he had tried and failed to figure me out. “Yes, Sisyphus. The thief.”
“The king,” I corrected, feeling defensive for Ben, who for some reason saw a part of himself in Sisyphus.
“No.” His face didn’t budge. He stood there, an immovable boulder, much like the one Sisyphus had been forced to carry for eternity. I wanted to be the one that chipped at its edges until it cracked and crumbled to dust. “The liar. The grifter. The con.”
My dad was a liar.
A grifter.
A con.
He had hurt people. Most importantly, he hurt Nash’s dad, and I would always suffer the guilt. Was that what Nash wanted me to know? He saw me the same way as he saw my dad? Was my punishment to search for a sculpture that had somehow become a slur against me?
Worse—the knowledge that Nash considered me a liar, too, chipped away at my sanity.
I raised my chin and didn’t waver as I argued, “Sisyphus is a king. A human who rules the winds. Cunning. Intelligent. Brave. A savior, who captured Death and freed humans from his clutches. All things you are not. I can understand why you’d want him as the focal piece of your penthouse, seeing as he is a reminder of the areas in which you are lacking.”
I’d gone too far. Broaching the subject of death reached a level of taboo that exceeded the idea of screwing him at eighteen while he’d been nearly thirty. It even surpassed the wrongness of showering in front of my boss and skipping work to fuck him.
“Sisyphus is a symbol of punishment,” Nash said easily, fixing his collar. Always adjusting his collar around me. I wondered if he smelled me on his fingertips or if he had washed me away the first chance he had gotten. “Of penance. Some people would do well to remember that, especially before stabbing others in the back.”
The dig hit harder than perhaps he had even intended. I had learned long ago that there was no such thing as a truly selfless act. People are hardwired to believe charity is selfless. In reality, charity is giving to yourself by giving to others. That’s not selfless. That’s penance.
I could make coats for the homeless, spend my free time volunteering, and give every inch of myself until I had nothing left, but there would
always be a motive.
To feel better about myself.
To not hurt so much.
To right my wrongs.
To ease the guilt.
I wasn’t a good person, and I had fooled myself for too long, trying so desperately to be something my father and mother weren’t.
Nash waited for me to answer.
When I didn’t, he added, “Sisyphus will be your task. Find me the sculpture and have it placed against my wall. I want Sisyphus carrying the boulder on his back, pushing it up the wall, his expression anguished and the task Sisyphean.”
I didn’t know what he was trying to tell me, but his eyes showed me all I needed to know.
You are beneath me, they screamed.
And for once, I didn’t argue.
Not because I agreed, but because I saw beyond the scathing veneer. Nash was so broken, it was almost beautiful how he had erected walls of thorns and poison ivy around himself.
A haunted castle armed with insults as cannons; two staggering, hate-filled eyes as guards; and a lonely king who never abandoned his throne for fear it would collapse.
And me? I was the fallen princess destined to never step inside his fortress.
For some stupid, foolish, self-destructive reason, I ached at the thought.
A motor had gone off in my stomach.
At least, it sounded like it.
A symphony of growls rumbled again, detonating a chain reaction of head turns on the public bus. I wanted to care, but another long day of scouring an art gallery for a Sisyphus statue left me too drained.
I found two statues today at the same gallery. Both possessed the anguish Nash required and the boulder on top of Sisyphus’ shoulders, but whereas one depicted defeat, the other depicted success.
My legs had carried my way to an empty corridor as soon as I’d seen the last one, aware I should have reserved the defeated Sisyphus after the hell Nash had unleashed upon me, but knowing I wouldn’t.
I hid in the shadows until I collected myself, surprised by how much the statue had affected me. Autopilot led me to the curator. I requested a five-week hold on the statue. Waterboarding couldn’t get me to remember my walk to the bus stop, climbing the steps, or taking a seat. Even now, I remained affected by the sheer art.
The bus careened to another stop. I let my body sway with the movement. The four-year-old in the lavender tee peppered with yellow hearts barreled into my body like a bumper car. She readjusted herself into the bright blue plastic chair beside me, dredged a granola bar from her yellow Snow White backpack, and offered it to me.
“Your stomach is loud.” She wagged the bar in front of my face with pudgy fingers. It resembled a dog’s tail whipping back and forth. “It’s my favorite kind.”
This is what your life has become, Emery. Twenty-two years of fine etiquette, prep schools, and higher education has led you to the pity and charity of a four-year-old wearing her shirt backward.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Lexi.”
“Thanks, Lexi.” I accepted the granola bar but slid it back into her backpack along with one of the plaid teddy bears I had stitched for Stella.
Relief inched its way across my body. I leaned back, finally free from Nash’s Sisyphus task. The past two weeks had been spent traveling from art gallery to art gallery, searching for a statue that fit Nash’s description.
This trip placed me too close to Blithe Beach, where Dad lived. Visiting him tempted me, but I didn’t cave.
I would never.
Still, I yearned like I shouldn’t and pretended I didn’t, because above all else, I was a talented liar. The email from Virginia idled in my inbox, unread for the past six hours. The alert taunted me each time I checked my phone for messages from Ben.
Hunger pains continued their relentless assault. I watched the girl share the granola bar with her mother. I pretended I was back in elementary school. Reed once tattled to Nash that Virginia never gave me lunch money or packed me food.
Lunches give pretty girls spare tires until they’re no longer pretty, she’d say. Don’t you want to be pretty, Emery?
Nash stopped by our table every day with the brown lunch sacks Betty packed him. He never said anything as he gave up his lunch for me, but he always scratched out the I-love-you notes Betty left him, scrawled something ridiculous on the back, and tucked them back inside the bags.
If multi-player dreaming existed, whose dreams would you play in? Yours or Reed’s?
Nash
Ma bought an eighteen-pack of socks yesterday. Dad said he didn’t know why anyone needed eighteen pairs of identical socks. I told him they reincarnated into Tupperware lids every time Ma lost one.
(Then, I asked myself why we have more lids than containers. I know you stole them to paint stories on. Give me one to gift Ma for Mother’s Day, and we’ll call it even.)
Nash
Do you ever get more excited about being uninvited somewhere than invited? Like, if Virginia ever asked you to go to a charity gala with a hundred of her closest enemies then uninvited you, wouldn’t you be celebrating that shit with a fuck ton of alcohol juice pouches?
Nash
People get surgery to change the body they were born into, but what if we could change our personalities? If some surgeon walked up to you and said, “I can operate on your brain. Recovery time is about the same as a tonsillectomy, and it’s totally safe,” would you?
No offense, dude, but I’d give Virginia a personality transplant—along with new batteries for her heart. Think she’ll let Ma take a break after her tonsil removal? Yeah, me neither.
Nash
I saw a cat and his owner playing with a laser yesterday. Think about that shit. Lasers used to be this huge fucking scientific breakthrough, and now some dumbass cat lover in a designer knit beanie is using one to drive his cat nuts. If I invented the Tide Pod and had to watch someone swallow it, I’d probably haunt them from the grave.
Nash
Saw some douche jackass turd berate a worker at McDonald’s the other day. Could you imagine if Virginia had to work a year at McDonald’s? She’d either be more insane or more tolerable. Now that’s a thought.
Nash
I never answered Nash’s questions. He never asked me to. But I kept the notes, tucked inside my box in my nightstand at the Winthrop Estate. I hoped whoever bought the house hadn’t tossed my things.
The idea of my memories lying in a dumpster frayed my heart. I hadn’t realized it back then, but small moments matter most. Millions of raindrops dance together to form a storm, but a single drop is just a tear.
Lonely.
Tiny.
Insignificant.
I couldn’t watch Lexi eat her granola without wanting to snatch it and swallow it whole, so I opened Virginia’s email as a distraction.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: 4th of July Brunch
Emery,
Allow me to prelude this email by informing you your response is unwanted. I am writing to remind you of the details for the Fourth of July brunch. We’ll be celebrating at the country club at ten in the morning. Be on time.
Able Cartwright is dining with us. Remember him? He is lovely, that boy. Last week, he started up at his father’s law firm while he continues with his Juris Doctorate. The talent in that family is remarkable. I am sure you would agree if only you’d consider a date with sweet Able.
I will be at brunch, accompanied by your Uncle Balthazar. Unfortunately, Eric Cartwright has left for the South of France with his wife, but every other important Eastridge family is attending. Please, do not embarrass me with your dramatics.
I strongly urge you not to wear that horrible dress with the dead flowers. If you would like, I can have a wonderful Oscar De La Renta dress shipped to your dorm room by sunrise. My team of stylists are mobile and can get your hair back to the shiny blonde halo in under an hour.
Allow me to remind you I control whether or not your trust fund is dispensed to you in a timely manner—or dispensed at all. That said, I expect you to be on your best behavior. Don’t be late for tee time.
Sincerely,
Virginia, Chairwoman
Eastridge Junior Society
My head fell against the window with a thud. Virginia still didn’t know I had graduated, and she thought I lived in the overpriced dorms. That alone made me want to wear the dress she hated, not to mention the trust fund threat.
With Dad off the grid, Virginia controlled my trust fund payments. Meaning, unless I obeyed every single demand of hers, I wouldn’t see a dime of it. I wouldn’t blow through the trust fund money if I had access, but at the very least, I would donate most of it, pay off Wilton University and my Clifton University student loans, and spend just enough to keep myself fed and sheltered.
Each time I visited the soup kitchen, I felt like I had taken a meal away from someone who needed it more. But the scholarship fund hung over my head. A parrot who haunted me with the same line.
Squawk! It’s the right thing to do.
Squawk! It’s the right thing to do.
Squawk! It’s the right thing to do.
It would be over soon. One more year, and Demi graduated. I would survive another year of this.
Lola waved at me when I heaved the Jana Sport over my shoulder and bounded down the bus stairs at the next stop. It let off in front of the soup kitchen, a little earlier than I had planned. I tried to avoid peak hours because hungry families came in crowds and caused food shortages.
The crowd lived up to the rumors, filling every table in the cafeteria-style hall. I spotted a familiar flash of color and took a spot in line near Maggie and her kids. She allowed the couple in front of me to cut in line.
Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel Page 23
