Page 100 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Wishful thinking.
He could bluff, but he’d never break.
The contract had been ridiculously long, and it would have taken me a month to go through it in detail. I skimmed it as best as I could, but it had been lawyer-speak, and Reed assured me it was a standard form every employee had to sign.
Fuck. Me.
We didn’t have printers in this temp office. Where did he expect me to go? Did Kinko’s still exist?
Nash continued, “There’s a coffee shop next to the printing center on third street.” Fishing out his all-black credit card from my wallet with fingers that had just been inside me, he tossed it onto the stack of papers. “I’ll make it easy for you this time, seeing as your level of competency sits somewhere between a lobotomized pigeon and the dip-shits who wrote Disaster Movie. Dark roast. Black. Largest size.”
Picturing his torture, I collected the papers from the floor and the company credit card, taking my sweet time. I used his company card to buy everyone at the tent city Chipotle, myself new jeans to replace the pair I’d left in his room, his damn paper copies, and the coffee (decaf because he didn’t deserve to be caffeinated).
I shot a text to Ben on my way back.
Durga: Does North Carolina have the death penalty for murder?
Benkinersophobia: Yes, but you can take out your aggression through angry phone sex tonight. My balls are bluer than a whale’s.
Durga: Whales have pink balls, and they weigh, like, one ton. At the very least, I hope you’re proportional.
Benkinersophobia: Durga?
Durga: Yes?
Benkinersophobia: Shut up and fuck me tonight.
Durga: [GIF of Chris Pratt thrusting]
Nash was still in the office when I returned after changing into the new jeans and dropping my sweats off in my closet. Except this time, he had begun a meeting without me.
I snuck in and sat next to Ida Marie, resisting the temptation to crawl my way there on the zero-point-zero-zero-zero-one-percent chance he wouldn’t see me.
No such luck.
Nash glanced at his watch before ignoring me. I set his copies and coffee down on the table, took my seat, and whispered—in my defense, discreetly—to Ida Marie, “What is he doing here? I thought he wasn’t supposed to show up until we had the 3D renderings done and ready for his approval.”
That should have given me at least a week without seeing him.
Ida Marie scribbled across her notepad in indecipherable strokes. “Chantilly just announced that he’ll be helping with the workload.”
“Couldn’t he hire someone local for this project?”
My notebook sat at the bottom of my Jana Sport. Rather than fetch it, I leaned back and studied Nash. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. Fifteen years of knowing him, and that was the single habit I ever noticed.
Ida Marie dipped her shoulders and fidgeted with the notes she’d been taking. “Maybe he’s one of those involved C.E.O.s?” Even she didn’t sound convinced, and a felon dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit could swindle her out of her wallet. “I’m sure there’s a good reason. You don’t think we’re in trouble or anything, right?”
“No.”
But there had to be a reason. I remained on high alert. Nash plowed through request after request, ordering us around like a drill sergeant. He held up the fabric swatches and sorted through them before settling on the one I liked the least.
I mean, I disliked all of them. I thought this make-the-hotel-as-bland-as-possible thing was a huge mistake, but what did I know? I only had a major in fashion design and a minor in interior.
“This color contrasts with the flooring.” He seemed hollow as he spoke, almost detached in a way that made me question why he had chosen the hotel business in the first place. “We had a similar color scheme in our Beijing location, which was featured in an hour-long Hotels Digest film. It’s also a AAA Five Diamond Award recipient.”
Somewhere in the past four years, the passion had seeped out of him, a leaky faucet of enthusiasm. This wasn’t the Nash Prescott who walked around with bruised knuckles and a look in his eye that suggested he knew something I didn’t.
Working at Prescott Hotels bored him. A daily chore. I never thought Nash Prescott would be the type to sell out.
