Page 51 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
I typed out my reply.
One word.
Nash: Sure.
Then, I wired the allowance I sent Reed each month—apparently, he couldn’t take my calls, but he had no problems taking my money—and slammed my laptop shut, discarding it on the pillow next to my head.
Some asshole knocked on my door, but I sunk back into my mattress and closed my eyes. The knocking persisted. I muttered a curse, reached out to the nightstand, blindly fished out the bottle of painkillers, tossed two into my mouth, and swallowed them dry.
Padding barefoot to the door, I yanked it open, knowing I’d throttle whoever it was if they said the wrong thing. I didn’t know why I thought it’d be Emery, but it wasn’t. Disappointment burned my tongue.
A uniformed staff member stood on the other side. He tossed me a loopy grin, his feet shuffling back and forth like he bought a new bong and couldn’t wait to get out of here and try it.
“Mrs. Lowell sent this up for you.” Dudebro held up a folded piece of paper with the Prescott Hotels letterhead sticking out from the flap. “She left this letter for you, too.”
I snatched the letter and let him in. He pushed a cart past me, a smile on his face, too damn chirpy for a Saturday morning. My nudity didn’t faze him. I greeted him in boxer briefs, taking in the food as he unveiled it.
A full breakfast. Eggs, bacon, bagels, coffee, hash browns, and French toast. Beside the silverware, a fruit basket of bananas, strawberries, and Fuji apples had been arranged in a phallic shape, ejaculating into a bowl of Nutella.
The clock in the open-plan kitchen read eight in the morning exactly. This spread hadn’t been to feed me. It’d been to wake me up with an extra side of fuck you.
Delilah Lowell thrived on passive-aggressive bullshit.
Breakfasts screamed wake the fuck up.
Lunches doubled as a reminder not to pile any more lawsuits onto her plate.
Dinners cemented the fact that I’d be flat-out broke and most likely dead if she didn’t exist to put out my fires and occasionally feed me.
I never bothered with dessert. Learned my lesson the first time when she’d brought her rat and asked me to pet sit the monster. (Rosco and I do not and will never get along.)
The alarm on my spare phone set off two horns. I’d set it up last night after carefully sealing the broken phone in a plastic bag in my nightstand. Swiping the screen up, I shut off the noise and noticed the eight missed calls from Delilah.
Pressing the return button, I spared the guy feelings of inadequacy at the sight of my dick and stepped into the en suite bathroom before stripping out of my black Calvin Kleins. The rainfall shower heads shot out water.
I connected the phone to my shower’s Bluetooth speakers.
Delilah answered my call on the second ring with a tsk. Her voice came out in pants like she’d been walking. “Do you ever answer your phone?”
So much tact, this one.
“Eventually.” I dumped shampoo onto my head, wondering if I had any unread messages from Durga. “Is the breakfast from last night’s catering staff?”
The memory of Emery Winthrop against my body drove my line of questioning. Her existence pissed me off. A trust fund princess. A daughter of a thief and (as far as I was concerned) murderer. Someone complicit in his lies. Complicit in Dad’s death.
The worst part wasn’t seeing her last night. It was feeling her against me. I could write our first time off as a mistake, but she was still young. So damn young. She’d been an adult for all of two seconds, and I’d already fucked her.
Remembered it.
Liked it.
My dick hardened. I stroked it twice before telling it to fuck off.
“Nope. I bought it.” Delilah cooed at the naked rat she called a dog. “Did you pee, Rosco? Did you pee? Such a good boy.” Her voice came out louder this time, “From the place down the street. I paid some kid fifty bucks to dress in a uniform and cart breakfast to you. Cute, right?”
And I’d left him alone with a fat wad of cash in my suitcase, designer everything, and my company laptop.
Perfect.
