Page 89 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Maggie squeezed Emery in a tight hug. She had a smile on her face despite the fact that she’d married young, lost her husband to an IED, and lost her home a few months later. Emery handed the coat to Maggie, making a show of popping the hood on and off before she bent down to hug Maggie’s twins.
Harlan dug inside the bag, pulling out smaller, kid-sized coats. Stella jumped on Emery’s back, the teddy bear I’d given her last week dangling from her fingertips. Emery spun Stella in a circle before she checked her phone and grimaced.
They parted with drawn-out hugs, Maggie swaying Emery side to side like she was a sister she hadn’t seen in years. At this point, we were both late for work, and I had no clue why I even bothered to follow her, except my eyes continued to trail Emery even when I told my legs to cut this shit out and return to the hotel.
Work, Nash. Remember that? The thing that keeps a roof over your family’s head?
As Emery walked out of the tent city, Brandon grabbed her upper arm, pulling her into a secluded area of the street. She fought him, clawing at his fingers. I almost intervened until she glanced up at him and stopped fighting.
She knew him.
She knew Brandon Vu.
She knew the damn S.E.C. agent investigating me.
Worse—she took whatever he handed her, glanced around the street, and shoved it deep into her pocket.
I’d seen enough.
I made my way back to the hotel, firing a text at Delilah to have the P.I. look into whatever connection Emery shared with Brandon.
Before I could send it, I deleted the fucking text, because I wasn’t stupid enough to leave an electronic trail. Instead, I pulled up the Eastridge United app, releasing a centimeter of my frustration at the sight of a message from Durga.
Durga: Is poison a discreet way to kill someone? Asking for a friend, who may hate her boss. (FYI—That friend is me, so I expect a useful response.)
Benkinersophobia: Tell your friend she can always work for me. With her mouth. Beneath my desk. The hours are long and hard. Consider yourself warned.
What I really wanted to do was to ask Durga if she’d fucked the douche nozzle yet, which if you thought about it, was hypocritical of me considering I’d spent the past few nights jerking off to the memory of Emery’s tits pressed against my shower door and how tight her pussy had been when she’d snuck into Reed’s room…
Damn, you are a special brand of douche.
I released a breath, leaning against the entrance to the hotel. Emery stopped as soon as she saw me blocking the door. It hadn’t been my intention, but I took advantage of the situation, crossing my arms against my chest—the message clear.
Do. Not. Cross. Me.
Too late.
She looked thrown off-balance at the sight of me. Her recovery came quickly, and she tried to move around me, but I shifted with her.
“I have work, Nash. Chantilly will dock my pay if I’m late.”
You’re already late. I wonder why, my Trojan horse.
I didn’t budge. “Considering I’m your boss, I’d say I’m more important.”
“Consider this—Bieber bangs would hide that overinflated head of yours.”
I nodded my chin at her chest. “Speaking of inflated things, are your nipples patriotic, or are they saluting me for no reason?”
Douche.
I shouldn’t have brought up her nipples, but one—did she even own a bra? and two—I hadn’t had sex in ages (unless phone sex with Durga counted), and now it seemed like the only thing I could think of, along with exactly how flexible twenty-two-year-olds were.
Stop it, creep. You finished college and knew the ins and outs of anal while she still thought she pees and fucks from the same hole.
Emery’s arms wrapped across her chest, because no, I hadn’t been lying. Her nipples were hard as fuck, and they pointed right at me like two tiny sorting hats choosing my lips as their Hogwarts House.
(Yes, I’d watched Harry Potter after Durga mentioned it.)
