Page 6 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“Maybe another liquid fast will get rid of that extra five pounds of baby fat.”
“You’ll take Able Cartwright to the cotillion, won’t you?”
“Be a dear and grab the tiara.”
Perhaps the only reasonable demand I’d gotten lately.
I bit my tongue and did as she pleased, because my plans for college and a career in design required money. As a grantor on my trust fund, Mother possessed the power to bleed me dry.
Silent rebellions, however, were my bread and butter. Wearing a stained dress. Using the pastry fork rather than the fish fork. Tossing out odd words at inopportune times. Anything to make that curly vein on Mother’s temple bulge.
“My name is Emery,” I corrected, cursing Mother’s choice in my friends. “Turn the other way.”
“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. Already, I could smell the liquor wafting from his mouth. “This fucking blows.”
Must. Not. Stab.
I swiped hair out of my face and tried another code.
The code is your birthday, sweetie, my ass.
I should have known Mother had no clue when my birthday was.
“It’s a cotillion, Able.” I typed in Dad’s birthday, but the screen flashed red twice, taunting me. “It’s not supposed to be fun.”
Dad had called it “vital networking,” sympathy in his eyes as he watched the hairstylist tame my hair with what could only be described as the technique you’d use on a wild animal.
Mother hadn’t bothered with half-hearted apologies as she reminded the stylist to touch up my “truly awful” black roots and add more lowlights, so my shade would match her blonde exactly.
“Emery,” Able groaned. I finally entered the correct code—Mother’s birthday—and pulled out the tiara, leaving it in its velvet case. “Let’s ditch this place. My parents will be here, occupied by the rest of Eastridge’s heavy hitters.” He leaned closer, his bourbon breath caressing my cheek and neck. “We’ll have my mansion all to ourselves…”
“You mean your dad’s mansion?” I straightened and took a step back when I realized how close Able stood. “You can go home. I have to stay.”
The image of Basil’s fingers clenched around Reed’s thigh burned my mind. We’d been eating soup. Who mauled someone’s thigh while eating chilled fennel soup? Not the kind of psychopath I should leave alone with my best friend.
“Babe…”
“Emery.” I shook my head. “It’s just Emery. Not Em. Not babe. Not Emery in a whiny voice. Not Emery groaned out. Just. Emery.”
I dodged to the left to brush past him, but his palms slammed against the wall on either side of me, caging me in. “Fine. C’mon, Just Emery.”
A brief burst of fear seized my limbs. I thrust it aside as quickly as it came. “Move.”
He didn’t.
“Move,” I tried again. Firmer this time.
Still nothing.
I rolled my eyes and pushed at his chest, trying to keep calm when two-hundred pounds of Southern linebacker didn’t budge. “I’m sure you think this is hot, but FYI, it’s not. Your breath smells like a brewery, your armpits aren’t too pleasant either, and I would rather be out there at the fucking cotillion than in here.”
When he narrowed his eyes, I rethought my approach and the millions of times my big mouth had gotten me into trouble in the past. I’d known Able my whole life… He wouldn’t hurt me. Right?
“Look,” I began, my eyes darting around the room for anything to help me. Nothing. “I have to get this tiara out there or my mom will flip and send everyone in here for me.”
Lie.
Mom wanted nothing more than for me to marry Able and pop out two-point-five blue-eyed, blond-haired children. Even if that meant her fifteen-year-old daughter fornicating in the Junior Society office.
