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

by Parker S. Huntington

  “No way.” I backed up a step, ignoring the rain. It lashed at my face, punishing me for my mistakes. I could guess where this was going, and I hated it with a capital H. “Dad, that’s child torture.”

  “You two are going to get on these bikes and take yourselves home. When your calves are burning and your lungs are struggling for air, I want you to think about the consequences of your actions. By the time y’all get to your rooms, I expect you to be sober with your heads on straight. Y’all got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reed agreed.

  Not me.

  I went down swinging.

  Always.

  I flung my arms out, splashing rainwater in Reed’s face. “That’s insane! Dad, it’s freezing. The rain—”

  “You mean the rain you drove drunk in?”

  I shut up. I mean, what could I say to that?

  He leaned down, placed a hand on my shoulder, and forced me to look him in the eyes. “I can bring you bikes and bail you out of trouble all day, but I won’t always be around, sweetheart. Storms will always rage. Don’t run from them. Face them. Some things in life can only be learned in a storm.”

  Dad pressed a kiss to my forehead and sped off before I could complain. The downpour cloaked my sight as we biked back. All I could feel was icy water splattering my face until my vision blurred and my teeth chattered.

  I wasn’t sure what lesson Dad was trying to teach me on that bike, but I learned that storms could be relentless.

  They were supposed to come and go.

  But when you needed it to most, the storm never receded.

  Working at Prescott Hotels, I felt trapped in the middle of one daily, like every conversation was a battle I had to fight unless I wanted to be drenched.

  Shivering.

  Defeated.

  My throat burned from arguing all day. Chantilly had overspent on flooring we didn’t need, which meant our already dwindling budget had been blown on statuario marble with silver and gold veins nearly identical to the Winthrop Estate’s.

  The Winthrop Estate reminded me of a boomerang. Every time I gained some distance, it always came hurtling back at me. I couldn’t escape it. I saw pieces of it in the Greek statues at the park down the street; in the floor-to-ceiling curtains at the soup kitchen; and now, in the floor I was expected to walk over every day of my internship.

  Hannah suggested reducing the design to the absolute basics, creating a minimalist effect like Kim Kardashian and Kanye West’s sixty-million-dollar home in Hidden Hills, California. The one that possessed the personality of a peanut—all beige and not much to look at.

  (For the record, the property tax on that home is over seven-hundred and five grand a year. I Google’d it. A UNICEF donation in that amount could vaccinate nearly four million toddlers. Google’d that, also. Virginia spent triple that each year on chartered private jets alone. Didn’t have to Google that. She bragged about it to anyone who would listen.)

  The five of us had all reluctantly agreed to the minimalist aesthetic. What choices did we have? The budget had been nearly wiped out. Anything else wasn’t possible. I argued we could cut corners in some design aspects, like using remnant materials and spending the money that saved on a centerpiece that would make the hotel design less boring.

  Today, Chantilly took that idea and twisted it, so the extra money went to custom cabinet handles that I swore resembled butt plugs. By the end of the day, I’d checked my project calendar five times, ticking down the days until my internship ended.

  After I clocked out around five, I sprinted to the soup kitchen, shoveled as much food into my mouth as I could while listening to two kids—Harlan and Stella—talk about their new friend at the soup kitchen, a volunteer who brought them presents every time he came.

  Sounded nice. Wish I knew Santa, too.

  I kissed them both on their cheeks, hugged their mom Maggie goodbye, and checked my email from the office of donations at Wilton University, an insanely expensive Ivy League university based in New York City.

  To: emery@winthroptextiles.com

  From: donations@wiltonuniversity.edu

  Subject: Atgaila Scholarship Fund

  Dear Ms. Winthrop,

  We are emailing you in regards to your anonymous scholarship fund. With our recent tuition hike, the sole recipient, Demi Wilson, will need to pay the difference in a total of $500 per month for her enrolled semesters.

  You may choose to continue to pay the $2000 per month scholarship or increase the scholarship coverage to $2,500.

  As always, we appreciate your patronage and assure you our discretion.

  Lexi Wheelander

  Office of Donations

  Five hundred extra a month. I could barely make the two grand a month work. Prescott Hotels paid well, but after taxes and the donation, I was left with too little to care for myself. I squeezed my eyes shut and muttered the prettiest words I knew.

  When that didn’t work, I imagined baltering in the rain with a thousand happy puppies.

  Breathe, Emery. It’ll be okay. You have no choice. It’s the right thing to do.

  I shot an email agreeing to the extra five-hundred, then ran as fast as I could to the Mom-and-Pop gym near the hotel. My shower caddy and towel bumped around in a black knock-off Jan Sport backpack held together by duct tape and amateur stitches (I’d been a novice at the time. Bite me).

  I paid twenty bucks a month for a gym pass. Instead of working out, I stopped by every morning for a shower. Ben had kept me up all night with dirty texts messages, which meant I’d overslept this morning and hadn’t been able to stop by for a shower.

  Careening to a stop in front, I took in the sign on the door.

  Dear Valued Customer,

  There was a leak from the last storm. We are closing down for the next few days to repair it. The three days will be comped from your next billing cycle. We are so sorry for the inconvenience. Stay happy. Stay fit!

  Haling Cove Fitness Staff

  “Ugh.” I groaned out, kicking a rock on the sidewalk, which undid the quick patch job on my Converse.

  Ripping the shoe off so it didn’t get worse as I walked, I made my way back to the hotel, ignoring the people who stared at my single bare foot with upturned noses. On the bright side, I must have looked like a mess because everyone I passed gifted me a wide berth.

  Pulling out my phone, I shot a message to Ben.

  Durga: I am having an awful day. Make it better.

  Benkinersophobia: Roses are Red. Violets are Blue. You give good phone sex, and I guess you’re okay, too.

  I snorted an obnoxious laugh, the shoe in my hand flinging at the movement. A toddler pointed at me before his mom hurried him away.

  At least I was smiling.

  Always smiling when it came to Ben.

  Durga: You’re a poet. I’m filing that under the employment column. Mystery solved.

  Benkinersophobia: If you think that’s impressive, you should see my side hustle for cash.

  Durga: Does it include something soft and small?

  Benkinersophobia: And here I thought we were friends…

  Benkinersophobia: Hey, Durga?

  Durga: Hey, Ben.

  Benkinersophobia: Did I make you smile?

  Durga: Always.

  At the hotel entrance, I swiped my employee card. Panic bit its way up my throat when it wouldn’t work the first time.

  No, no, no.

  Dipping my head back, I glared at the sky. Angry, dark clouds covered the expanse, no stars in sight.

  I have no secrets for you, starless night. I swiped hair out of my eyes, the movement jerky as I glared at the abyss above me, daring it to do its worst. Actually, here’s a secret for you. I’m tired. So fucking tired. Are you happy? Is that what you want?

  Pressing my forehead against the glass door, I suppressed a scream. The first mist hit my hair, cheek, neck. It would downpour soon. If I didn’t get inside, I’d be fighting a cold by the morning.

  I wiped
the magnetic strip of the card against the inside of my hoodie until it was completely dry.

  Swipe.

  “Oenomel. Phosphenes. Kilig,” I muttered magic words, hoped they’d grant me good luck, and waited for the red dot to turn green.

  It made me wait a solid two seconds before it did. I exhaled, shakier than I wanted to admit. I was okay for one more night.

  When I walked into the lobby shoeless and misted with rain, the night guard drew his phone away from his ear and winced at the sight. “Long day?”

  “You have no idea,” I managed to mutter.

  Joe knew I squatted. He never judged me. Never tattled. Especially since he’d been in this situation himself once before. In another life, I liked to think I would have fallen for someone like him.

  The nice guy with the tanned skin, evergreen eyes, and megawatt smile. The hot guy with a rough past who never let it faze him. I’d beg him to kiss me, and he’d give it to me without taunting me for wanting him.

  Someone like Reed, I reminded myself, dumbfounded when I realized my childhood crush might have existed because he felt like a safety net.

  Four years later, I didn’t want safe. I wanted someone who made my heart pound like getting stuck out in the rain, drifting at sea without a home. Someone who gave me the same thrill as being reckless and taking risks.

  Dipping my toes past the rules, seeing how far I could fly before I crossed a line.

  With Ben.

  With Nash.

  The unattainables.

  “You’re the last one left.” Joe walked me to the elevator, hand on the taser of his belt. A habit of his that almost made my love for quirks smile. “Mr. Prescott left for dinner with Mrs. Lowell and her husband a few minutes ago. They were dressed nice. The three of them probably won’t be back for a while.”

  He winked at me, and I wanted to want him, but I didn’t. Relief hit me fast, two scraggly shoulders sloped forward as I jabbed at the elevator button. Scraping my nails against my palms, I considered hugging Joe for the good news but settled for a wave.

  He patted my shoulder and left, lips tilted up as if to say, it won’t always be like this.

  Compassion.

  Such a beautiful, foreign sentiment.

  I hoped he wasn’t lying, because I couldn’t take much more before I succumbed to the fact that I wasn’t made of fortitude.

  Maybe I was a kitten who hid behind a plucky front, mistaking herself for a tiger.

  Swallowing the wave of self-pity, I dipped inside the elevator and considered my options. If everyone had left the hotel, I could sneak into the office and rifle through the master keys for a key to one of the rooms we’d finished for the masquerade party guests.

  My pointer finger pressed “5” before I could talk myself out of it. At Cayden’s desk, I ransacked the drawers, making my way through stacks and stacks of paint and fabric samples until I found a lone key. The word Penthouse had been written in cursive with a Bic pen on a sticky note and pressed onto the keycard.

  I juggled it between two fingertips, considering.

  Could I take it?

  Cayden wouldn’t notice. After the long week we had, his normally tidy desk resembled an avalanche, mountains of paper that slid outward each time he piled another sheet of paper on top.

  If he did notice it, he wouldn’t say anything for fear of Nash’s wrath. Everyone thought Nash was ruthless for the way he’d treated me. They feared him like hypochondriacs feared Ebola. Paranoid. Irrational. Yet, somehow rational at the same time.

  Truthfully, the Nash I used to know only lashed out at people who had wronged others. Virginia for her treatment of his parents; Basil for bullying me; me for, well, I didn’t know how it had begun, but he must have had a reason. He didn’t do things without a reason.

  If I had to venture a guess, it’d be for what happened to Hank or siding with Reed in their feud, which was ridiculous, considering I would always side with Reed.

  At the reminder of his cruelty, I pocketed the key. If he was gonna treat me like dirt, the least he could do was offer me a shower to wash it off. I pressed the penthouse button in the elevator, my heart pounding with each floor I passed.

  By the time the elevator doors opened, I’d assured myself a million different ways that Nash was out to dinner and wouldn’t be back soon. I could sneak in and out in under fifteen minutes. Ten if I didn’t bother to hide the evidence that I’d been there.

  I swiped the key to Nash’s penthouse suite, flicking on the light as soon as I entered. It smelled like him. A new scent mixed with old. Intoxicating in a way I hated him for.

  The first week at college, I’d stood in front of rows of body soap at Walmart, overwhelmed by the choices.

  Some guy shoved past me, nearly knocking me over, but he’d smelled good. Familiar. Something that reminded me of home. So, when he grabbed the bottle of Tiger’s Bane, I’d snatched up the same kind.

  Tigers were predators.

  Loyal.

  Tough.

  Resilient.

  I wanted to be a tiger.

  It wasn’t until Reed mentioned that Nash used the same body wash that I realized why I recognized the scent. But it was too late. I was hooked, even drizzling it into my laundry detergent, so my sheets smelled the same way.

  I felt like a thief, stealing his scent as if it were my own. Perhaps I was one, since I squatted in his hotel and stood in the threshold of his penthouse without his permission. I took it in, feeling like a voyeur.

  An interloper.

  A stranger.

  A kitchen bare of cabinet doors and countertops sat at my left. Gray low-pile carpet made up the living room, along with two desks. One sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall panoramic windows. The other rested two feet from the perpendicular wall.

  The window lured me in. I pressed a palm against it as if I could touch the storm outside. The life of luxury formed most of my life, but I would never get used to this feeling. Being on top of the world, staring a storm in the eye and feeling like I could win.

  Think about winning later, lunatic. It’s time to haul ass.

  Doors lined the left and right sides of the penthouse. I took a guess, venturing left, immediately knowing Nash slept in this room when I entered. An Alaskan King-size bed rested against the wall, the one piece of furniture.

  My fingers twitched with the need to toss the room for my wallet. I held back. Barely. I dipped into the en suite bathroom, my nipples instantly puckering after I stripped off my clothes. Something about being naked in the place Nash slept felt dangerous. Exposing. Intimate.

  Pulling my shower caddy out of the backpack, I plopped it into the standing shower and slung my towel onto the spare towel hook near the door. The shower was made completely of glass on all sides, sitting in the center of the large bathroom.

  I felt like a statue in a museum display as I padded barefoot into the shower and stood directly under the built-in rainfall shower head. Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from the Prescott Hotels skincare line sat in a row on the built-in shelf. His new scent, I realized, after I popped a cap and sniffed.

  I flicked on the water switch, groaning the instant the hot liquid lashed my back, pounding onto my head like I was standing beneath a North Carolina thunderstorm.

  It was almost—almost—enough to forgive Nash.

  I’d managed to avoid him all week, feeling zero-percent guilty about serving him scalding-hot coffee. He’d robbed me of my wallet and the money in it when I needed every dime I owned. Was this how all the Winthrop victims felt? Desperate and penniless, fingers ready to dig under couch cushions for every spare cent?

  I twisted another switch, and the water spread across the entire shower ceiling, a torrent of hot rain I could barely breathe through. The onslaught eased my sore muscles, and I relaxed under the spray, my limbs loose and body begging for more.

  I stayed longer than I should have. Unlike the studio I’d lived in near Clifton University, the water didn�
��t turn cold after seven minutes and twenty-three seconds, telling me it was time to leave.

  It remained blissfully hot. A luxury sauna. I rubbed at my neck, cursing when I felt how pruned my fingers were since I hadn’t even begun to wash. My body swayed under the pouring water, eyes closed. I hummed the melody of Jeremy Zucker’s “you were good to me.”

  My eyes popped open. I reached for my shampoo, but my eyes met Nash’s.

  I froze.

  Couldn’t think.

  Couldn’t speak.

  Couldn’t move.

  Nash wore a suit that hugged his body, his hair the same mess and his eyes the same shade of irritation. For a fleeting second, I wondered what he looked like out of the suit. I’d seen him naked once, but I’d been too preoccupied by the fact that I’d slept with the wrong brother to pay attention.

  The woven fabric of his suit taunted me, hiding something I’d probably never see again.

  You don’t want to see him naked, Emery.

  Lie.

  I did, but in the way you’d stare at a car wreck as you drive by—with morbid fascination at witnessing something destructive.

  Dangerous.

  Deadly.

  The dark scowl on Nash’s face never left. He pressed his phone to his ear—a new phone, I noted with some satisfaction.

  If I could break you, too, I would.

  His lips moved at a rapid pace I couldn’t keep up with. I heard nothing beyond my heartbeat and the water. My palm darted to the switch. I turned it so only the middle strip of the shower head remained on. I could hear him better that way.

  He knew, because he narrowed his eyes on me, never once dipping below my face to my body. If our situations were reversed, I never would have had the willpower. Or maybe I really disgusted him, and he didn’t need willpower to resist looking at me. He simply didn’t want to.