Page 127 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“You just ate!” Hannah joined Cayden and grabbed an apple juice. “Whoa. These are, like, ten dollars a pop at the juice bar. Nash bought this? For us?”
Chantilly and Ida Marie followed suit, riffling through the fridge. Meanwhile, I sat with my hands tucked under my thighs, knowing if I allowed myself to indulge, Nash would probably walk in ten seconds later to witness the moment of weakness given my luck.
I avoided the heavy stares from my coworkers when my stomach conjured a growl that resembled two dogs fighting over a bone. “What? We don’t have time for food.”
By the time Nash stepped into the room, everyone had settled in and begun their afternoon sketches. He eyed the Coke can in Cayden’s hand, the yogurt in Chantilly’s, the string cheese in Ida Marie’s, and the organic juice pouch in Hannah’s.
Then he clocked my empty palms, ran his hand through his hair twice—which implied he thought I was an idiot—and stalked to the refrigerator. Swinging the door open with the grace of a drunk sumo wrestler, he skimmed each row as if to double-check they had been stocked and eyed my empty hands once more.
His fingers hovered over the fridge, almost curled around the handle. My face flushed at the memory of them inside me, then hardened at the reminder he’d left. Civility should have been a foreign concept, but it felt weird to hate him over the way he spoke to me in the soup kitchen.
Not because he didn’t deserve it—he so did—but because I had touted forgiveness and moving on as a lesson to Ben. If I didn’t lead by example, I would be a liar. I could do that to Reed, Virginia, and Nash, but I couldn’t lie to Ben.
The stare-down with Nash lasted nearly a minute. The questions simmering inside Ida Marie and Chantilly lashed at me, but I didn’t dare look away. I would deal with the consequences later.
“Have you eaten?” Nash spoke as if no one else was in the room. His eyes dipped to my stomach like they would give him some answers.
“No.”
I didn’t elaborate.
Didn’t waver.
Didn’t tell him that it had been fourteen hours since food last touched my lips.
Didn’t tell him I used his app to talk to Ben.
Didn’t tell him I couldn’t stand the idea of his dad’s death on my dad’s hands.
Didn’t tell him it gave him no right to be cruel to me.
Instead, we communicated with our eyes.
Mine said, “I’m not built to lose.”
His said, “I’m only built to win.”
Another minute.
Two.
Chantilly approached Nash on the third.
He ignored her, speared one last glare at me, and left.
I released a breath with him gone.
Victory felt as hollow as an aluminum baseball bat.
Cold.
Hard.
Never permanent.
If I had to watch Chantilly wiggle her ass for me one more time, I deserved a monument in the fucking Smithsonian.
She parachuted a tablecloth in front of her, letting it float to the office carpet. It laid flat on the floor, but she took her time bending on her hands and knees. Ass in the air, she smoothed out the wrinkles.
