Page 107 of Hide and Keep

My eyes fly back up to his. “You would?”

“I’m already paid to face one demon. What’s a few more?”

“Are you saying I’m a demon?”

He doesn’t even blink when he replies, “I’m saying the devil wept the day you were born.”

Letting the insult slide, I consider that scenario for a moment. Only for a moment because it’s so far-fetched, it’s nearly impossible to imagine, even more so than Crue being mine in all the ways I want.

Twisting away from him, I say, “No. He didn’t.”

He huffs out a sound of disbelief as he catches up to me. “So you admit it? You know the devil personally?”

Not caring if he hears me or not, I mutter, “Yeah, I know him.” And I know he was too busy tossing back whiskey and smoking cigars with his golf buddies to shed a tear over my birth.

The talk with the dean doesn’t take long, and when I leave his office, Crue’s holding two drinks from the café again. After handing me the matcha lemonade—keeping the tea for himself—we go outside to meet up with the clones.

I sit on one of the metal eels, half-listening to them as I watch Crue take sips. Without that hat on, I can see all of his face. Each time he fits his mouth to the strawless lid, his eyes close briefly, savoring the flavor as well as convincing me that the only thing better than having twenty ounces of my own chai latte, would be licking it off Crue’s lips.

“What shade was it again, Ever?”

“Hmm?” I say, making myself stop ogling my bodyguard.

“The dress you had custom made last month for the gala… Was it ivory?”

Crue rotates his head in my direction until his eyes hit mine. He rarely looks directly at me when I’m with the clones. He despises them as much as I do. Except for Paris, who he said “looks good no matter what.”

He told me I was uglier than a glory hole.

“No, diamond white,” I tell Kinnedy.

Crue looks at Topher, then away, giving us his right side again.

I glance at Topher, too, finding him staring at my bodyguard like he’s a bug he wants to squash with his loafer.

“Topher?” I say, gaining the attention of the second guy in the group. He wishes he was first but Bradford Hoffman being in the equation means he can never be. “Did you bleed when you got Botox in your asshole?”

It sounds like Crue chokes on his drink, but with my eyes glued to Topher, I can’t be sure.

Topher’s face turns beet red. “What the fuck, Ever? Why would you ask me that right now?”

“I was thinking of getting some before the gala but didn’t want to risk bleeding on my dress.” I shrug and point at Paris. “Paris said she bled when she got Botox in her forehead, so I just thought…”

Paris shrieks while Bradford guffaws.

“Oh my God. I knew your forehead looked more plastic than usual,” Kinnedy tells Paris, initiating a whole conversation about who’s had what done.

Crue now forgotten, I tune the clones back out to search glory holes on my phone.

I didn’t know it’s not technically a paid position, more of a volunteer thing. Huh. Or that the exchanges mostly go down in public restrooms.

I zoom in on the picture of a stall. While the holes themselves are not exactly ugly, the cock poking out—

“Ready, miss?”

“Goddess!” I clutch my phone to my chest and glare up at Crue, my face probably as red as Topher’s just was. “Why aren’t you standing over there?” I gesture with my other hand, hoping he’ll turn his head long enough for me to clear the tab.

He doesn’t. He just scowls at me and drones, “The clock chimed. You’re gonna be late.”

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