Page 30 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“What’s with you two? You used to be close.”
I’d broken the unspoken rule. Asked the question I’d known I instinctively shouldn’t have asked.
“Nothing.”
Flat.
Emotionless.
Not Reed, yet somehow Reed.
Some rustling on his end filled my ears, and instinct told me he was done with this phone call.
“Look, I have to go. I’ll talk to Delilah. This is the right decision,” Reed assured me before he hung up.
I knew he was right. There wasn’t a market for inexperienced twenty-two-year-olds with degrees in design in Clifton, Alabama, and there was nothing for me back in Eastridge, North Carolina. An internship at Prescott Hotels would afford me a head start I would be stupid to give up.
But the idea of seeing Nash again, of working for him…
I buried my face in my pillow and screamed before glaring at myself in the mirror. Desperation clashed with my pitch-black hair.
My phone pinged. Ben. The one person I could talk to about the Nash Prescott fiasco, but it felt weird to use Nash’s app to discuss accidentally having sex with Nash.
Benkinersophobia: I didn’t change it, because it reminds me of a girl I used to know.
My fingers twitched with the urge to ask him more, but I held back. I was better off not knowing.
Durga: If you had to change your username, what would you change it to?
I waited an hour for him to respond, and as soon as he did, the green active dot beside his name turned red.
Benkinersophobia: Sisyphus.
Sisyphus.
A fallen king.
A liar.
A cheat.
I could relate.
The one-word name should have been the first indicator I couldn’t trust Fika.
His name reminded me of Emery Winthrop and her penchant for obscure words, which should have been the second indicator.
Fika is Swedish for a moment to slow down a
nd appreciate the good things in life, and that should have been the third sign.
For starters, there were no good things in life.
And Fika wasn’t even Swedish.
He was a Wonder Bread white, North Carolinian, Keith Mars wannabe, a disgraced Eastridge sheriff ousted almost two decades ago, around the time I’d touched my first boob.
“I think you should stop this crusade of yours.” A curtain of bangs swept hair over one eye until he brushed them to the side. He resembled the Jonas Brothers before they’d realized straightening hair was for pussies. The leather chair squished under his weight as he leaned forward and placed two elbows on my office desk, close enough I could see my reflection in his eyes. “It’s destroying you. There’s no light in your eyes. I didn’t think it’s possible, but each time I see you, it’s worse, Nash.”
