Page 175 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
The moment I learned she was guilty and, worse, wanted her anyway.
She glanced at the hickory clock on her nightstand. “We’re going to be late.”
“I don't care.”
“I have to be on time.”
“Still don't care.”
“Virginia is holding my trust fund over my head…”
Shit. Cocksucker. Dickface.
I folded my arms across my chest. “We’re talking about this later.”
“Sure,” she said, but I didn’t believe her. She didn’t comment on the frozen peas I'd left on the nightstand, tossing the bag to me. “I said to keep this on your eye. It’s already swelling and turning dark.”
“I can handle a black eye, Tiger. I’ve had plenty.”
“Suit yourself.” She tipped a shoulder up, glimpsed at the full-length mirror again, and fingered a dead flower on the dress. As if she couldn't help herself, she spun. The dress moved with her, drooping petals suddenly alive.
It was such a fucking Emery Winthrop thing to do, my nails pierced the bag to stop my hands from pinning her to the mirror and tearing that dress off her body.
“I like that you’re watching me, mostly because I know you hate that you’re doing it,” she called over her shoulder.
With her spinning in a dress of dead roses, frozen peas pressed to my eye, I succumbed to the fact that I wanted Emery Winthrop.
This was happening.
I’m going to hell.
Gossip followed us—me—as the caddy drove our group to the next hole.
My eye had darkened and swelled to the point where I’d gotten a few whispers. For the most part, the people of Eastridge fawned over me in a way they usually didn’t with new money wealth.
The press painted me as a Saint, and to Eastridgers, good P.R. was a coveted gift bag at an exclusive event. They clamored over it, brown-nosed their way into its proximity, and begged for the scraps.
Virginia clutched onto Balthazar’s arm like a hanger hooked on a rod. The wire, dry-cleaner ones no one wanted. Able Small Dick Cartwright inched to the absolute edge of the cart, his undersized checkered-magenta golf shorts pressed as tight as possible against the railing.
“Of course,” he continued, darting wide eyes at me every few seconds as if he thought I would give him another scar to match the one on his forehead, “I told him I could get him off.”
“Is that what you do during your day job?” Emery offered Able Small Dick Cartwright a serene smile. “Take people into your office and get them off?”
“Yes.” His enthusiastic nod begged to double as a punching bag. “I’m very good at my job.”
“I’m impressed. I hear the market for prostitution is tough these days.”
“I didn’t mean—I’m n
ot…” He looked to Virginia for help, but she was busy ordering the caddy to disinfect her golf club. “I’m a lawyer.”
Emery’s eyes said, sure you are. She hopped off the cart, retrieved her club, and headed to the tee.
I clamped my hand around Able Small Dick Cartwright’s neck, disguising the move as a back pat. “I’m about as interested in hearing your prepubescent voice as I am in watching a 24-hour filibuster on C-Span, Small Dick. Take your pink Polo-wearing, Brooks Brothers-drooling ass to the artificial turf rake and kindly scratch your face off. Keep your eyes and hands to yourself today, and you’ll live to get off another client tomorrow.”
My long strides outpaced the caddy to the tee. Emery stuck her ass out, two hands gripping the handle with proper form. The tiny dress rose up her long legs. Virginia about ruptured a vein in her forehead every time Emery leaned over.
Small Dick had stayed in the cart.
