Page 194 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Neither of us spoke.
I wore a suit for a teleconference this morning with the landowners in Singapore. Meanwhile, Emery dressed in skinny jeans and an alexithymia shirt, which I’d Google’d as soon as I saw it.
Noun.
The inability to identify and express your feelings.
She was the loudest when she was quiet.
Emery selected the lobby button. “Do you miss your dad during your birthdays?”
I read between the lines, taking in the downcast eyes. Torment created grooves between her brows. I could have spilled the lie and eased her pain, but I didn’t.
She was glass, chipped all over, and I shattered her instead of mending the fractured pieces.
“Are your birthdays hard without your dad there?” she pressed.
I should have answered her, but I didn’t. Of course, I wanted Dad here for my birthdays. I wanted him here every damn day. If only to yell at me for making poor decisions or turning into one of the corporate dickheads we used to make fun of, that’d be okay, too.
My answer didn’t matter. Sure, she wanted to know, but what she’d really asked was whether it was normal for her to miss her dad today.
“You can see Gideon.” I blocked the doors when they slid open. “You know where he is.”
Gideon had deluded himself into believing she’d cave and visit.
She wouldn’t.
It takes strength to want something and deny yourself the craving. And Emery Winthrop possessed a strength so great it broke her and pieced her together. Again and again. A diamond, toughening under pressure.
Something drastic would have to happen to bring her to his doorstep. I held that power—that lie.
Sisyphus, I reminded myself.
A liar and a cheat.
I’d come full-fucking-circle, and I wanted off the damn carousel. It reeked of piss and bad decisions.
“I can’t.” Her palms met my chest and shoved.
I didn’t fight it, listening to her footsteps echo.
The hotel resembled a scene from The Walking Dead. Moments before the zombies come, when everything is still empty. A rarity, given the quick pace of our construction.
The design crew had escaped for the weekend. Rain gushed down in heavy onslaughts, so none of the construction crew remained.
And of course, of fucking course, Emery swung the beach-front exit open with little concern for the tempest and walked straight into the storm. Wind whipped her hair. Her shirt drenched in an instant.
She peered up at the sky, undeterred by the liquid splattering her face. In this moment, I couldn’t see a single difference between her and the storm.
I tried and failed to get a read on her. She muttered a few words, my very own siren. About a minute later, two clouds parted, revealing the starless sky. Almost enough to make me believe in her magic. Not magic words, but her magic.
“I knew you’d show up for my birthday,” she whispered, talking to the sky as if it was her oldest friend. “This storm’s not bad, but you can do better.”
What did it say about me that watching her talk to the sky got my dick hard?
What did it say that, despite the frigid temperature, it stayed as hard as the forecasted hail?
Emery peeled off her jeans and dove into the pool. When she resurfaced, she swam to its brink. Beneath her shirt, two hard nipples greeted me. My jaw ticked.
