War brewed within me, fueled by envy.
I blinked at Nash, wondering how he could stand there with a fucking Turkey & Ruffles sandwich held out to me like this was normal. He arched a brow as if to tell me my opinion of myself was built on a lie.
We stared at one another until he brought the sandwich to my lips again.
I let him continue feeding me, accepting another bite. It gave me time to hide my uncertainty. Handling our proximity shook me, but handling his words crippled me.
After I finished the sandwich, he washed and cut strawberries, then set a bowl of them on the counter. Sliding the freezer open, he scooped vanilla bean ice cream into the bowl and finished it off with Torani white chocolate and marshmallow syrups.
Fucking hell, I felt like the Eastridge princess I used to be as I brought a spoonful of bliss to my mouth.
The same ice cream flavor and toppings I would eat when a busted-up Nash broke into the mansion for ice.
His eyes remained on my lips as I chewed. They followed a path down the column of my neck when I swallowed. I was a zoo animal, on display for a feeding show. Or maybe I was the prey getting prepped to be fed to the predator.
“What about the question you owe me?” My voice sounded hoarse. Dry despite the ice cream that coated it.
“This isn’t Twenty Questions.” Disdain dripped from him like the ice cream melting from the side of the bowl. “You overestimate my generosity. You already got a favor and free life advice. I’m neither a Magic 8 ball, nor Oprah.”
Thumbing the falling liquid from the ceramic, I sucked it into my mouth, stopping when I caught his intensity.
“Humor me…” I thrust the bowl out, hoping he wouldn’t take it. “Or I’m suddenly feeling very full and would appreciate it if you could finish this. We wouldn’t want to waste this food, would we?”
“Why does this feel like a fucking mistake?” he muttered, but he stepped closer with each word, his movements pressing the bowl back to my chest. His breath grazed my forehead, tickling my cheek. “What’s the damn question, Little Tiger?”
“Singapore.”
“Surely, that overpriced education did better than this.” Nash toyed with a strand of my hair. I wonder if he realized he was doing it. It might’ve been the first time he’d initiated contact with me. “That’s not a question. Ask an actual question.” His fingers paused. “Last chance.”
“Why Singapore?”
“Why not?”
Slipping my hair from his fingers, I spooned more ice cream into my mouth. “An honest answer or I’m never eating another sandwich from you.”
I hadn’t intended to, despite my stomach’s protests, but the trade-off was worth it.
Nash shelved the syrups and faced me. “I like Singapore.”
I realized my mistake too late. I’d asked the wrong question. Irritation blossomed in my chest, but I tamped it when I realized his redirects meant there was a lie to unravel here, a secret to be fleeced.
I wanted it.
I needed to own all his secrets.
Craved it.
If not for proprietorship, then for the sake of leveling the playing field.
“Why that property?” I pressed, setting the finished bowl onto the counter. My breath tasted like strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, and marshmallows. I wondered what his tasted like.
He rinsed the bowl in the sink and deposited it into an industrial dishwasher. “That’s a second question.”
“It’s an add-on to the original question.”
Nash shook his head and returned to me with a napkin in his hand. “Always breaking the fucking rules.”
When he offered it to me, I ignored it, darted my tongue to the corner of my lips, and swiped off the white chocolate. He tracked the movement, whereas I tracked him.
His throat bobbed. The napkin crumbled in his grip. I imagined he wanted to loosen his collar or run his hand through his hair. Three times, because I made him uncomfortable. I made him want to leave.
“Always trying to make the fucking rules,” I volleyed back and cleared my throat, unsure how to feel about our proximity. The laps my blood raced didn’t feel very healthy. “No one made you king, Nash.”
He spread his arms like an eagle in flight, taking up so much space he consumed me. “You’re standing in my kingdom, Winthrop. I own the air you breathe, the land you walk on, the company you work for. I own North Carolina.”
I didn’t doubt his words for a second. It struck me how much the tables had turned. The fallen Winthrop princess. The unrelenting king who had taken her place. My heart rattled my chest as our fairy tale sunk in.
Not Disney.
Brothers Grimm.
In which a cruel king rules over a stolen kingdom, and a poor servant lives in the tyrant’s line of fire.
Only, I knew how those fairy tales ended.
When the people ended.
“All I’m standing on is a bed of false promises.” I begged my stomach to steady. It churned, full of favorite foods and lies. “You like Singapore, sure. That’s not an answer. Not all of it.”
Nash leaned against the counter, hands shoved into his dress slacks pockets. “It’s the one you’re getting.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” I edged forward until we stood toe-to-toe. I needed him to look at me—really look at me—and understand I was dead serious. “I’m not going to judge you, Nash. We push each other’s buttons. I say you’re cruel. You say my name like it’s a curse and a sin. But have I ever, for a single second, made you feel like I thought of you as anything less than you are?”
“No.” The truth sat between us like an unwelcome visitor, lingering too long as we wondered how it had even gotten there. He rubbed at the back of his neck before returning the palm to his pocket. “The building next door.”
“What about it?”
“I stayed there once. Delilah and I ate at the restaurant on the roof. Outdoors. No ceiling. Shitty fucking food, but I felt high enough in the sky to touch Dad, far enough from Eastridge to breathe, and close enough to the ground to convince myself it was reality. It’s the only time I ever wanted to do this. Run Prescott Hotels, instead of burning it to the ground. I’m buying the building next to it and constructing a skyscraper that’s taller, better, closer to the moon.”
I tipped my head back and eyed the ceiling, wishing we stood outside. “How was the sky?”
“What do you mean?”
Muttering a magic word, I sloped my head back to him. “Were there stars?”
“It’s the city…”
“What does that mean? Yes or no?”
“No, there weren’t stars.”
“A starless night,” I whispered, enchanted, unaware that I’d edged myself against him.
It happened so fast.
Our lips crashed together, our teeth clanging.
It wasn’t a nice kiss, because he didn’t deserve a nice kiss. No matter how much the world thought of him, no matter the savior Eastridge and the press considered him to be, no matter how much everyone at Prescott Hotels or the soup kitchen raved about him, he didn’t deserve nice.
Not from me.
Never from me.
He kissed me like the villain he was. Rough and unrelenting. I pulled at his body, skin, neck. Anything I could get my hands on. Sliding my tongue into his mouth, we warred with each stroke.
His hands met my waist and lifted me easily. I wrapped my legs around his back, groaning when he placed me onto the countertop and ground against me. Whatever skin I could reach, I stole, touching it like it was mine. Pretending it was mine.
And by the end, we were panting, and his shirt had a tear down the side, and mine laid somewhere across the room without him ever actually pulling it off.
“Lagom,” I whispered, resting my forehead to his, chasing my breaths.
He tasted like something permanent. Something that would be etched on my lips long after we parted.
And it felt wrong.
The kiss felt wrong.
Not because he was my boss.
Not because he was cruel.
Not because everyone would hate us for it.
Not because his brother was my best friend.
Not because I used to think I was in love with Reed.
But because nothing—and I mean fucking nothing—should have felt this good.
And anything that did?
Had to be wrong.
Nash breathed against my lips, still parted as he exchanged breaths with me. “What’s lagom?”
My hands fell to his chest, thrilled by his heart’s tempo. It matched mine. “Not too little. Not too much. Just right.”
I didn’t believe in perfect, but I believed in lagom.
It meant right, but not necessarily perfect.
And in a world filled with devious lies, it was a truth I latched onto.
Nash dipped his fingers beneath the hem of my jeans, brushing his thumb against the crease of my thigh and sex. “Why not say perfect?”
I shook my head, appalled by the idea. “Perfection is unattainable. It’s stained by the suffering required to chase it. Perfect is something you think with your head. Lagom is something you feel with your heart.”
His fingers ran a path along my underwear, knuckles brushing so much skin.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked and moved back, but his grip tightened on my waist, shifting me closer for a moment before he released me.
“I thought of a word.” He mouthed it like I do, looking a little ridiculous and endearing for once. “Is that what it’s like?”
“Like a cure?”
Nash’s eyes took in the space between us. “No.”
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t want him to. Not if he’d ruin magic words for me. He wielded the power, and I was too protective of words to risk it.
“What’s the word?” I asked.
Desperation didn’t suit me, but I needed to know.
Nash brushed a thumb across my cheek and slammed his lips against mine. He kissed me like I was nuclear and he needed to destroy me to save himself. His tongue slipped past my lips, stroking mine. I gripped his shirt, and he gripped my hair, running his hands through it in a way that had me begging to pant cafuné.
It ended too soon, before I could even appreciate that it’d begun. Disappointment slithered inside me, expanding at our distance.
“It’s late,” he said, pulling away from me. “Security in the plaza makes their rounds in an hour.”
My shirt had been torn down the middle like a vest, so I wore it backward and used Nash’s suit jacket to cover my exposed spine. He managed to look dangerous with the mussed hair and ripped shirt, whereas I resembled a kid playing dress-up.
We walked to the hotel in silence, stopping at the entrance. I opened my mouth when I realized he’d never told me the word, but I shoved my curiosity down my throat and replaced it with my own magic words.
Nyctophilia.
Basorexia.
Ibrat.
Nash eyed my lips, watching them form and pocket the words.
“I’m driving you home.” He nodded in the direction of the parking garage. That would go horribly when he realized I didn’t have a home. “Before you waste our time arguing, it’s non-negotiable. It’s late, dark, and cold enough that I see your nipples every time we pass a streetlamp. I know you don’t have a death wish, so your stubbornness will only come off as stupidity.”
Ignoring all but his first sentence, I backed away, inch by inch. “I’m good.” My shoulder lifted. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do, Nash,” I taunted, a little pissed that he never told me the word.
“Emery.”
“Stop saying my name like it’s a demand.”
“Emery.”
My eyes dipped to the penance tattoo I wanted to taste. I allowed myself two seconds to study it, turned, and walked away.
I pivoted when I remembered how persistent he could be. Better to let him scheme where I could see him. He already had his phone pulled out when he glanced up at me, like he’d known I would return.
Dick.
He’d already opened the Uber app. “Where do you live?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I do?
I kept my mouth shut and held my hand out. As soon as his phone touched my fingers, I moved the dot on the app to a random residential neighborhood close by. Giving him my back, I leaned against the hotel, tapped my fingers on the glass, and stared at the sky.
I’m starting to think Nash isn’t the villain, Starless Sky. Maybe you are.
Nash held out his palm. “My phone.”
Oh.
I glanced down at it, my eyes pausing on the Eastridge United app before I returned it to him. Of course, he had the app. He owned it. But did he have a pen pal? He didn’t seem like the type.
Then again, if I used it for phone sex, maybe he did, too.
That, I could see him doing.
Jealousy coiled around my throat. I pulled at the collar of my tee, forgetting the huge rip as I flashed Nash with some serious skin.
Ignoring him, I tipped my head at the sky.
Shut up, dude. Even the moon is jealous of the stars. And you, Starless Sky, have no stars. I bet that makes you jealous of everyone.
When I lowered my head, Nash still studied me, so I watched him back, daring him to break the silence. Secretly thrilled at the feeling of his eyes on me.
I had no intention of kissing Nash tonight, but if I had to explain it, I’d chalk it up to the look in his eyes when he told me about the starless night in Singapore.
Nash reminded me of a favorite song. One you play so often you think you can’t stand anymore. But in the silence, when the world is quiet and your brain is pliant, the chords repeat in your mind, and you remember it’s your favorite melody.
I broke first, dipping my eyes until he followed suit, much slower than I had. We stood a foot apart, neither of us talking as we stared at our phones. He was probably playing Candy Crush, but I opened the Eastridge United app to check if Ben was on. I squashed a smile at the sight of the green dot.
Durga: How was your night?
Benkinersophobia: Satisfying. Until it wasn’t. Yours?
Durga: Satisfying. Until it wasn’t.
Flicking a glance at Nash, I angled my screen away from him. I didn’t need the headache of him catching me on his app and accusing me of whatever shitty things he thought I’d done. Cryptic comments my pride didn’t allow me to ask about.
Durga: Tell me something ugly.
Benkinersophobia: My heart.
Durga: That’s not true.
Durga: If your heart is ugly, what is mine? What am I?
Ben didn’t reply for a minute. I slanted a glance at Nash. Brows furrowed, he typed something fast. My head fell again before he could catch me staring.
Benkinersophobia: You are a fantasy, a goddess, a heroine, a dream. Those have happy endings.
Durga: And what are you?
Benkinersophobia: I am Sisyphus, a treacherous sea that will drown you.
A car honked twice. Dragging my attention from the screen, I caught the telltale Uber sticker before approaching. Nash opened the back door for me, which I ignored. I slid into the passenger side.
Gifting me a scowl, Nash tapped the window, indicating I lower it. I didn’t, but the driver listened. The frosty air bit my skin as the car’s heater seeped outside. Nash made a show of pulling out his phone, taking a picture of the driver, then photographing his license.
“Derrick Atterberry, of 8143 Adair Lane, I have your face, your driver’s license, your name, your address, and your license plate number.” Nash’s forearms rested on the open window frame, his hands dangerously close to touching me. “Nod your head if you’re following me.”
Derrick’s throat bobbed. He nodded his head like the Usain Bolt bobblehead on his dash.
Nash held up his phone. “I also have the numbers of every important politician along this coast, including the president; an ability to lie my way into and out of any situation; an ethical code that sits somewhere between Jordan Belfort snorting cocaine off his mistress’ asscheeks and using toddlers as test subjects for torture à la MK-Ultra; and a strong repertoire for vengeance, including but not limited to one-starring your ass on Uber.” He paused. “Did I tell you to stop nodding your head?”
Derrick cleared his throat and swiped the sweat off his forehead. “No.”
“Are you not following?”
“No. I mean, yes.” His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I mean, I’m following.”
“Then nod your fucking head.”
Derrick nodded his head. He didn’t stop, even when Nash continued.
“Get her home safe, wait until her fucking front door closes, and I’ll spare you the receiving end of a wrath you’ve never known and are unequipped to survive.” He reached into my wallet and tossed three hundreds at the driver. “Do whatever she says,” he slid three more hundreds into the inner pocket of his suit jacket I wore, brushing against my hard nipple, “and she’ll give you the rest.”
My heart still hiccupped as we left Nash behind, skipping a beat every few seconds. The side mirrors showed him watching the car until we left his line of sight. I should have assured the poor driver Nash hadn’t meant any of that, but A—I think he did and B—I remembered what Nash once said about not kissing.
I brought my fingers to my lips, grazing them. I couldn’t get my mind off his lips on mine. Worse—not knowing why he’d done it would drive me crazy.
“Can you mark the ride as finished on the app, then take me back to the hotel?” I asked when the driver arrived at the random house address I’d chosen.
“Uhh…”
Furrowed brows hovered over his eyes. They peeped at the three hundred-dollar bills littered across the center console. He hadn’t picked them up. His hands had shaken too much on the drive here. They still plastered to the steering wheel. Positioned ten and two like a Boy Scout, even with the brakes on.
I reached into my jean pockets for the money. My hand brushed against the note Nash had given me at the soup kitchen before I remembered he’d placed the money inside the jacket pocket. I pulled out the note and retrieved the hundreds from the inner pocket.
Waving the bills, I offered the most innocent expression I could muster. “I’ll give you these regardless, but he did say to do whatever I tell you. Please?”
On the drive back, I pressed the car light on and read the note, hunching my shoulders to cradle it with my body.
If you think about it, the concept of a photograph is fucking mind-blowing. A moment in time. Captured. Preserved. Forever. I shouldn’t have torn your Polaroid of Reed.
NASH
Nash’s version of an apology.
I shut the light off, folded the note as carefully as I could, and peered out the window at the sky.
Not bad, Starless Night. Not bad.
