Page 34 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Reed always hated this side of me, but I could never fight it. I was made to go down swinging, which explained why I wouldn’t be the first to lose the stare-down, except an arm latched onto my hand and jerked me toward the wall.
Countless politicians canvassed the room with their Aubercy shoes and artificially whitened smiles, extracting votes from rich men who expected favors in exchange for money. Businessmen dressed in Dormeuil flipped from conversation to conversation, sealing investment deals and assuring business contacts of past opportunities.
Near the open bar, socialites gossiped about illicit affairs and unsuspecting victims wearing last-season gowns. Over a hundred people shared the room with me, yet Chantilly managed to isolate me in the corner. She harrowed me with problems I had no intention of solving.
My skin continued to prickle, and I fought the temptation to turn and see if the masked man still stared at me. Worse—I dared him to. I’d be the first to admit I’d grown more reckless in the past four years. (And I’d already been reckless to begin with.)
“Where the fuck is the caviar?” Chantilly waved her arms until the strap of her gown slid down her bony shoulders. Shifting with me as I tried to dodge her, she backed me into the wall. “Fuck me! We need the caviar.” Her wild hands gestured to the throngs of guests behind her. “Which one of us is fucked if someone complains that there’s no caviar? Me! I need the fucking caviar, Rhodes.”
She’d managed to use fuck as a noun, verb, and adjective. Her Vancouver accent sharpened with each shrieked syllable. She reminded me of Moaning Myrtle, and I couldn’t escape her on account of her being my boss.
I pictured myself as the storm outside, whipping around the room until dresses flowed with water and conversations halted. Until silence met my ears, and I found peace for the night. Until I wiped the ballroom of its occupants, except for myself and the food.
I spelled the word procellous on the roof of my mouth with the tip of my tongue and focused on my red-faced boss. Hunger pains pinched my sides. I fought them and lost, clenching onto Chantilly’s shoulders a little tighter than necessary. I turned her toward a waitress the modeling agency had sent to us.
Blonde hair rested in a severe bun on the top of her head, paired with dramatic black eye shadow and a suit dress she wore absent of a shirt or bra beneath. She held the tray out to guests, but she walked so slowly in her six-inch heels, she must have been new—to heels and to catering.
“Maybe one of the male models can take her place so she can rest her legs,” I suggested.
We both watched her skinny legs wobble.
They weren’t skinny in the way mine were. Hers spoke of intention, sculpted with lean muscles and a tan that looked natural but I knew from experience wasn’t. My legs resembled two sallow, vegetative twigs that told tales of poverty and malnourishment.
In the past four years, I’d lost weight off my already slender frame. My hip bones jutted out, taunting me with the food I craved but couldn’t afford. That was my mission tonight—binge eat free food. I had no doubt Chantilly would be an obstacle.
“We don’t pay for servers to take breaks.” Her head shook in furious waves. She lifted her hand to scrub at her face but stopped the instant her palms brushed her mascara-coated lashes. “No breaks,” she repeated. “That’s what the complimentary Red Bull and caffeine pills we provide are for.”
For a second, she abandoned her hatred of me and took off after the poor waitress, and I couldn’t bring myself to feel anything but relief. Chantilly had done everything except take out an advertisement announcing her disdain for me.
My first day of employment had begun with a speech on nepotism as the eighth deadly sin and spiraled downward since. I didn’t dare mention that I’d never actually met or talked to Delilah, because knowing Delilah was infinitely better than knowing Reed or Nash. Chantilly’s head would probably explode if she learned I
knew the Prescott brothers.
I popped out my phone, rereading my messages from Ben. My lifeline. My single thread of sanity this past week.
Durga: Tell me not to quit. I need this job, but my boss is borderline abusive. It’s driving me insane.
Benkinersophobia: You—the woman who told me to guzzle a gallon of TheraFlu and suck it up when I thought I was dying from the fucking bird flu—want to quit? There’s a word for this. Irony? No… Oh, wait. Hypocrisy. That’s the word I’m looking for.
Durga: Ha. Ha. You’re so funny. Laugh it up. I’m miserable.
One text, and he’d cured me. I swore, he could bottle himself up, sell it, and become as rich as Nash.
Benkinersophobia: You aren’t miserable. You are the person who sees beauty in every situation. The one I turn to when I’m stressed and need someone to lift me up. Someone so strong, I marvel at your existence. You know what you’re not? You. Are. Not. A. Quitter. You are a warrior, but it’s okay not to feel like one all the time. Even warriors take breaks.
Durga: I almost don’t want to ever meet you. You’re too good to be true.
Benkinersophobia: I’m not. I’m a full-time dick. Just not to you.
Durga: No one else gets the Nice Ben treatment?
Benkinersophobia: My mom.
Durga: Ah. A mama’s boy. There’s the thread that pulls apart the hot man fantasy.
Durga: Thank you.
Benkinersophobia: If it’s any consolation, my night is shit. I’m spending it with uptight dicks whose favorite games include Whose Net Worth is Bigger? and How Punchable Can I Sound Without Actually Getting Punched?
