Page 48 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Emery needed money like I needed a bigger dick. Any more would be excessive.
Silence spread until her legs twitched, tapping on the floor again.
“Claustrophobic?” I could have hidden the amusement in my voice. I didn’t.
“Not really. Just bad in confined spaces.”
“That is literally claustrophobia.”
She also hadn’t had it when I’d known her. I took pleasure in her baggage, tangible evidence justice existed after all. Not in the court systems. Guilt and evidence lived separate lives, rarely meeting one another.
Hence, her baggage delighted me.
An appetizer for the main course to come.
“I know what claustrophobia is,” she snapped. “I don’t have it.” She sat in her corner, legs straight out. They brushed against my shoes until she jerked them back to her chest like she’d been stung.
I allowed silence to settle between us. Sitting, I palmed my broken phone and felt around the edges. Definitely smashed, tiny little pieces of shattered glass digging across my palms.
Hopefully, it only required a new screen.
An hour later, Emery caved, shaking her head, probably to stop herself from falling asleep. “What’s your name?”
“We’re not doing this.” My clipped tone spoke of finality, unyielding to her pathetic probe.
“Doing what? Introducing ourselves?”
“Talking.”
“You are such a piece of work.” She pulled at her dress, adjusting the top around her, and I imagined she’d at least become somewhat used to the darkness by now, but it
was still too dim to capture my face. “No wonder you hired an escort as your date.”
“What I do with my money and whom I do with my time are none of your business, Emery.” I enunciated each syllable of her name, taunting her.
I know who you are. Do you know who I am?
She edged forward, closer to me, her voice sounding like she was a hundred percent awake now. “You people are all alike.” The words came in pants. She seethed at me, and I realized my first assessment had been right—she needed cardio.
“You people?” I humored, because there was nothing better to do while stuck in a box than watching Emery Winthrop lose her shit.
“Rich people.” She drew it out, like it disgusted her. “People like Nash Prescott. People like you.”
I almost snorted at the irony.
Instead, I scoffed, like the idea was laughable. And it was. Had she ever looked in a mirror?
“Tread carefully,” I taunted. “You don’t know me.”
“Or what?”
Or you’ll look like a fool.
Too late.
“You’re reckless,” I observed, ignoring her question.
She’d inched closer since picking this new fight with me. Always picking fights, this one. “Reckless is hiring an escort, then getting an S.T.D.”
