I considered my answer, but Dad thought of her as family, which meant she deserved the truth. “Dad used to play it during his treatments. We’d sit side-by-side, trying to beat levels before the other. It distracted him from the needles pumping shit into his arms.”
“Like chemo?”
“No.” I set the phone down and studied her, content to watch her watch me. “It doesn’t eat away at your health like chemo. In fact, it made him better. Healthier. Sturdy when he worked. Kept the heart running great. But the drugs were delivered intravenously and, judging from the noises in the clinic, painfully.”
Her front teeth pierced her lower lip. A coat of liquid brimmed her eyes. So fierce, yet so gentle. Typical Emery, longest claws and the biggest heart. “I wish Hank had told me and Reed.”
“So you two could suffer, too? Never.” I shook my head, remembering how Ma, Dad, and I barely made it work at times. “Ma held it together by a thread most times. She didn't want Reed to suffer that, and Dad didn't want you two to think of him as weak.”
“I love Hank and Betty, but it was selfish. We deserved to know each moment with him could have been our last. I could have treated him better.”
“You treated him the best, Tiger. He knew that.”
I swallowed down the idea of her taking Reed’s side on this, of possibly being involved in the embezzlement, though I now had my doubts. She had loyalty to Gideon, but she also had loyalty to us.
“Look,” I added, taking in the watery blue and grey eyes, “his illness wasn’t contagious, but it spread from him to Ma to me. His heartbeats could be fucking useless. I felt the drag of my heartbeat each time I took a punch for him. Ma felt it each time she worked double shifts. For all my life, I fucking felt it. We stopped it from infecting you and Reed. You think it wasn't my choice to make, and you’re right. It was Dad’s, because if his heart hadn't killed him, watching two of his favorite people suffer for him would have.”
That’s the thing about getting sick. You don’t suffer alone. You suffer with the people you love, which is too much fucking suffering.
Emery accepted my answer. The silence didn’t bother me, mostly because I knew she liked it.
Always had.
“What’s with the charities?” she asked ten minutes into the second John Wick. “Why do you volunteer at soup kitchens?”
I do it to ease the guilt. I burned that fucking ledger, thought I could use the info to build my company and save my dad, and I ended up too late. Life and regret are my punishments. Giving away every piece of me is my penance.
“Penance,” I offered without elaborating.
Her eyes flicked to my tattoo, visible under my tee. The tip of her tongue peeked past her lips. It darted back inside. “What sins are you atoning for, Nash?”
“Stay in your lane, Tiger.”
“Let’s play a game.” She tucked her legs beneath her ass, leaning closer to me.
“Let’s not.”
“Truth or Dare?”
I shot her a look, knowing which she wanted me to pick and choosing the opposite. “Dare.”
“I dare you to pick Truth.”
“Jesus, do you ever follow the rules?”
“There are no rules. It’s Truth or Dare. Now say, Truth.”
“Truth,” I said for the sole reason of shutting her up, and not because she still had a tear trail on her cheek.
“How are you really feeling about your dad?” At my silence, she added, “You don’t have to answer if you don't want to.”
I toyed with a few words. “I don’t think there's a word for it.”
“Try me.”
“I can’t,” I ground out, “if the words don’t exist.”
“You want to know why I like words?”
I did, but I didn’t tell her that.
She continued, anyway, “I love words, because they're mine. Utterly, completely mine. I can share them with others. I can keep them to myself. I can use them over and over again. No matter what I do, they’ll always be mine. No one can take them from me. Want to know what the best part is?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“The existence of a word proves that someone in the history of humanity felt the same way I did and gave it a name. It means we’re not alone. If there’s a word for what we're feeling, we’re never alone.”
“Tell me how you feel about my dad.”
“Lacuna.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Lacuna is a blank space. A missing part.”
Bullseye.
I eyed the screen, where Keanu Reeves was running through New York City, bleeding out of every orifice.
When I didn’t answer, she asked, “Truth or dare?”
“Neither. You had your turn.”
“You didn’t answer the question.” She inched closer, wanting to know so much about me when no one ever did. “Truth or dare?”
“Just fucking ask the question.” I raked my fingers through my hair. “I know you want to.”
“Why don’t you kiss?”
Everyone has had a piece of me. This is one I don't have to give away.
I could taste her breath. I turned my face, not because I didn’t want to be kissed, but because I did. That itself was a foreign feeling. Most people didn’t have shit I liked to hear, and the mouth was the biggest perpetrator of disappointment.
Kissing disgusted me.
But kissing Emery?
It didn’t.
Batshit, considering I’d stopped long ago. When I started the illegal underground fights, I came home with cuts and bruises I tried to hide under clothes. I’d cover for them by fighting at school, letting everyone assume they came from football tackles and field tussles.
The kiss thing started because my body would get too bruised to be touched. It transformed into a general disdain for people touching me. Why the fuck would I let someone I couldn’t stand touch me?
“I kissed you, didn’t I?” I shot back, keeping it light.
“Yeah, you did.” Her eyes dipped to my lips, holding the heavy gaze. She smiled suddenly and stretched, standing up. “I have to go. The bus leaves soon.”
“This again. It's late and dark. I’m taking you home.”
“I’m going to Eastridge.” She popped a brow. “You’ll take me to Eastridge?”
Shit, I promised Ma I'd stay away while Reed visited. But Ma would tell me to make an exception. The Greyhound to Eastridge was long with too many shady stops along with way.
I stole a card from Emery's deck, watching her gather her things. “Yes, but I need something from you.”
Your dad’s address, please and fucking thank you.
She paused and slanted her head. “Is it illegal?”
“No.”
“Is it sexual?”
Fuck, she looked too enticed by the idea.
“No.”
“If you accompany me to brunch with my mom, too,” she bartered, always set on cinching a victory. “Able will be there, and since Reed is spending the weekend with Basil…”
Get in. Get out, dick.
I would have said no on account of my promise to Ma that I’d stay away from Eastridge, but Able Small Dick Cartwright was the type of rich prick who thought he could get away with murder.
“Deal.”
“Deal,” she agreed, betraying her dad with a smile on her face.
She just didn’t know it yet.
Love exists, and it's crueler than lust.
I knew if I loved someone, I wouldn't lie to them. I also knew the idea of telling Nash I was Durga appealed to me as much as contracting a painful strand of crabs.
“What happened to your old Honda?” I asked, sliding into Nash’s sleek black convertible. It smelled of new car mixed with him. I shoved my bag in my foot area and waited for an answer.
“Retired.”
He didn’t elaborate.
I clutched onto my seat when he sped off, thankful he’d left the hardtop on.
Nash Prescott looke
d like every mom’s worst nightmare—and mine for different reasons—in his black jeans and olive-colored Henley, sleeves pulled up mid-forearm. My fingers itched to trace his tattoo.
I dug them into the leather. “I need to make two stops before we get to the country club.”
“This isn’t a field trip, Tiger.”
He rapped the steering wheel with a finger, driving with one hand on it and the other wrapped around my headrest. I couldn’t reconcile him with my Ben, but I sometimes saw glimpses of it. Last night, but definitely not today.
Determination inked his body with tight muscles and a set jaw. “You want the stops, I get two more truths.”
“Fine,” I grit out, knowing I’d regret this, but I couldn’t go to Eastridge without visiting Betty.
I also needed to change out of my sonder tee and into the dress Virginia hated, in the unlikely event that my belongings hadn’t been tossed by the new Winthrop Estate owner. The idea of sitting in a car with Ben had my lips loose, begging to confess.
I busied myself with studying Nash's car, running my fingers along the leather, inhaling its scent. I toyed with the latch to the glove compartment.
“Don’t touch that.”
Too late.
It flung open.
The latch bounced against my knees. A bag fell onto my lap. I nearly dropped it, but I caught it last minute. The phone I'd broken sat inside. A crack extended across the screen. Tiny flecks of glass peppered the inside of the baggie.
A joke sat at the tip of my tongue, but at the sight of him, I swallowed it. Genuine concern etched his features. I carefully slid the Ziploc bag back into the glove compartment and closed it with a soft click.
Silence stretched the next ten miles.
I spent it wondering what had him so on edge. The type of energy he used to radiate when he fought often.
Relief swept through me at Nash’s voice. “The phone has the last pictures I took of Dad on it.”
And I had broken it.
Guilt stabbed at my stomach, that no longer felt empty, which only added to the guilt.
“Sorry.” It felt inadequate. I wanted to give him more words, better words. My vocabulary evaded me. Sand slipping through my fingers.
“I bought the new screen, but I showed up at the repair place, and the guy looked as incompetent as fucking Chantilly.”
I traced the leather seat with the tip of my finger. “What’s your beef with Chantilly?”
“The corporate masquerade party last year—”
“Ida Marie told me about it.”
He slid his eyes to me. “Did she also tell you she grabbed my dick through my pants, pretending to be drunk?”
“Why is she still working for you?”
“Her uncle sits on my board, and unlike his niece, he's both competent and a genuinely good guy.” The entire board was. I would not have Prescott Hotels be Winthrop Textiles 2.0. “I buried it. If he found out, he’d probably be mortified and resign, and we’re about to close Singapore. Finding a good replacement takes too long.”
Chantilly had given me a speech on nepotism, yet she was related to a board member. “I knew her salary couldn’t pay for a Birkin.”
“Her family's loaded, but also the type to make her work her way through life.” He merged onto the left lane without signaling, then the shoulder to bypass traffic. “It was probably a Christmas gift.”
The wind rattled the car at this speed. I pushed back in my seat, the car’s shakes turning me into a human vibrator. We whipped past another town in silence, breakneck speeds we should have gotten pulled over for.
“I can fix it,” I offered, voice low. “I’ve broken my screen before, and I didn’t have the money for a new one, so I learned. I even made a few bucks on the side doing it for some college students. I can fix it. Do you trust me?”
He didn’t say anything. We continued to drive until the cars on the road thinned. Each mile tapered my hope.
“You can fix it,” he finally said.
“Okay.”
I spelled meraki on my thigh with my pointer finger, content in his company. Nash drove five miles in silence. We reached a long stretch of highway, empty given the holiday. Another five miles further, he pulled over onto the shoulder.
I peered at the gas level, wondering if being stranded constituted as a valid excuse to miss Virginia’s brunch and golf time. “Are we out of gas?”
“Nope.” He removed the keys from the ignition and leveled me with his full attention. “I’m asking my three questions in the middle of nowhere, so you can’t evade them. If you want to get to Eastridge, you’ll answer them. If you don’t, we can turn back now.”
“But—”
“Question #1—how do you know Brandon Vu?”
What. The. Fuck.
“How do you know Brandon Vu?” I countered, completely blindsided.
Did Brandon and Nash know each other? Was the S.E.C. angling to go after my dad through Nash? Loyalty surged within me, lighting up my veins. Uncontrollable embers flickered.
You’re supposed to hate your Dad, Em.
“Answer the question.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s the deal.”
“He showed up at the masquerade. I had no clue who he was. Then, he showed up at the tent city and gave me his card.” I hesitated, praying Nash wouldn’t draw the wrong conclusions. “I remembered him from the day the F.B.I. and S.E.C. raided my house. We stood in front of the cottage. He asked me who lived in there and made me say your names.”
“And?”
I swiped hair out of my face to give my hands something to do. “And I did, but I also told him you guys had nothing to do with my dad’s business. Now, he keeps showing up… I think he wants to use me to get to Dad. I’m not sure.”
“So, he’s stalking you?”
“Is he stalking me?” I tipped a shoulder up. “He’s an agent. Can it be considered stalking if it’s legal?”
“It’s fucking stalking.” His neck corded, lips pulled back, but he moved on. “Question #2—did you know about the embezzlement?”
My head jerked back like whiplash. “No. Absolutely not.” My hand flew to my chest, fingers clutching my shirt. “I don’t know if I would have gone to the authorities if I’d known, but I would have told Betty and Hank. They put everything into the company. I didn’t know.” I chanced a glance at him, taking in his expression. Oh, Nash. “Is that why you've been mad at me this whole time? You thought I betrayed your family?”
That meant he thought I was responsible for Hank’s death.
A river of pity rushed through me. I flushed it from my system, knowing Nash would hate it if he knew it’d ever been there.
“I’m asking the questions. That’s the deal.” His restless tapping filled the car. “Question #3—where is Gideon Winthrop?”
I pinched the skin on my thigh, hoping to wake up from this nightmare. Each question was worse than the last and definitely not worth a trip to Eastridge to see Virginia. Trust fund access or not. “Nash…”
“It’s an easy question, Emery.”
“Not for me.”
I hated my dad, but I also loved him. It was the kind of love you gave fiercely. No stipulations. Pure. Wondrous. Permanent. I was pissed at him—so fucking pissed—but he was still my dad, no matter how much or how little I talked to him.
“Chill. I’m not going to hurt him.”
My eyes widened. “I didn’t even mention anything about hurting him. Were you planning on hurting him?”
I remembered the bruised knuckles he’d come home with. Dad was in his late forties. He wouldn't stand a chance in a fight against Nash.
“Do you trust me?”
“Honestly? Not to keep your hands off Dad, but everything else? Yes.”
He muttered a curse and swiped a palm down his face. “The deal is—”
“I know what the deal is.” I needed to buy time. “Give me today.”
“For?”
“I�
��ll tell you. I promise. Just give me time.”
Maybe I could warn Dad first, which required talking to him. I realized, as my heart sped at the idea, how much I missed my dad.
I sank into my seat, grateful when Nash pulled back onto the road.
“Why didn’t you go to my dad’s funeral?”
“Is this one of your questions?”
“Consider it complimentary for dealing with your ass.”
I owed him as much, especially since I wasn’t sure if I'd ever give up Dad’s location. “Reed asked me not to.”
Nash sliced me with his attention, stopping in the middle of the road this time. “He told you not to go?”
“Yes and no.”
“I know you buried Hank in his hometown, but Reed grew up in Eastridge. He wanted something done there. We obviously couldn’t divide the casket, but he asked me to bury an urn full of Hank’s favorite things in the center of the tree maze. While you guys were burying Hank, I buried the urn. It’s right in front of the Hera statue.”
“What did you bury?”
“His Panthers jersey. The pad of sticky notes he always used to press everywhere.” A smile ghosted my lips. “His favorite sunglasses, the ones he kept ‘losing’ while wearing. The book he’d read to me and Reed when we were younger. The prom king crown you didn’t want, but your dad found hilarious and mounted on the wall.”
“That’s where that went.”
“Are you mad I took it?”
He made me wait a few minutes for his answer. “No.”
Betty’s new house straddled the border between the middle class and filthy rich neighborhoods in Eastridge. I assumed Nash had paid for the home, and it suited her. So much so that every time I looked at it in the pictures Reed sent me, little fissures opened inside my heart at the idea of how happy Betty and Hank would have been there.
We pulled up sometime around eight in the morning, which was the equivalent of noon for Betty Prescott. The scent of breakfast lingered in the driveway. Nash cut the engine, popped open the door, and tilted his nose up.
I swung my door before he could, because as much of an ass as he was, his Southern mother had raised him to open doors for women. “How pissed do you think Virginia would be if I pigged out on Betty’s breakfast instead of the country club brunch?”
Devious Lies: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Cruel Crown Book 1) Page 35
