Page 33 of Dirty Little Secrets
He scowls at me. “No, Emery, I donotfeel better.”
“Do you want me to say something else then?” I ask, checking the time. Crap, I’m going to be super fucking late now. “Tom?”
He shakes his head, looking at me with veiled disgust but it’s so blatant. So clear. In this moment, he hates me. I’m ruininghisplan.Histimeline.Hisvision forhisfuture. And I couldn’t care less. His hatred is justified. Deserved. I’m the villain in his story. In his fantasy. This is why I hate fiction. Someone’s always got to be the villain. A hero can’t exist without the villain.
“Do you love me?” Tom asks. I remain neutral. No reaction. The word means nothing to me. It triggers nothinginme. “Emery… Do you love me?”
“Do you want me to love you?” I ask, unsure of how to answer a question I don’t completely understand. “Is that what you want?”
“Jesus…” Tom grabs his saddle bag from in between his legs and aggressively opens the car door. “Have fun in Manhattan.Don’tcall me.”
Did he just…
Hell fucking yea?—
I’m late.
Heavy rain smashes against my windshield as I speed to Lux. I’ll call him tomorrow. Invite him for dinner. It’ll be fine. He’s just overreacting. People tend to overreact sometimes. It’s normal. Or so I’ve heard. He needs time to cool off. I can give him time.Or…No, he needs time. Time heals everything. I can’t think about this now. I don’t want to think about this now. I want to feel free. Feel light. I want the entire world to disappear for five minutes. That’s all I want.
“I know. I’m late!” I exclaim, bursting through the backdoor of Lux. “Sorry!” I stop, breathing heavily as I look around the empty backroom. “Crystal? Ginger?”
“Oh good, you’re here!” Georgina appears from her office, grinning. “I was worried you weren’t coming.” She checks her watch. “Better change, hun. You’re up in five.”
I frown at the lack of bodies and music. “What’s going on? Where is everyone?”
“They got the night off,” Georgina says. “It’s only you.”
My frown deepens. “What?”
“Private party,” she explains. “They requested only one dancer. You.”
My gaze hardens. Are you fucking kidding me? “Who?”
Georgina presses her lips into a thin line, refusing to answer. I don’t need an answer. There’s only one person rich enough to buy out an entire fucking stripclub on a Friday night. Dropping my bags on the floor, I march down the hall toward the stage and whip open the velour black curtains.
“You said you wanted to dance, Miss Jones.” The spotlight shines on Damon. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A sly smirk clips his villainous lips as he whispers, “So dance.”
THE CHESSBOARD
DAMON
I do not enjoy surprises.I pride myself on anticipating reactions. Moves. Like a chessboard. Think three steps ahead. I knew Emery wouldn’t be pleased that I shut down Lux. I knew that my request for a private dance would be ignored. But I didn’t know that the emotion dancing across her pale face would stab me in the chest with such guilt. I thought she’d be angry. I don’t mind making her angry. Anger vibrates on a similar frequency as the emotion I’ll eventually conjure within her. But she’s not angry.
Her beautiful green eyes gloss over with a sea of sadness, the glistening effect making them shine bright like a halo on an angel. But there’s nothing ethereal about the way she stands before me, lifeless and weak. Like a ghost who has no one to haunt. Like a phantomwith no purpose. Like a spirit with no soul. Her eyes briefly turn a familiar shade of blue, and my heart races with agonizing regret as she runs off the stage.
“Emery!” I bolt out of my seat, cursing myself for such a foolish move. I refuse to have her look at me like that. I’ve seen that look before. I’ve suffered the consequences of that look. Not again. Never again. “Emery, wait! Stop!”
“Such a bastard,” she mumbles, voice trembling with emotion. She scoops up her bags off the floor, dashing to the back exit.
“Emery, please, stop.” The last time I sounded this desperate, I learned that begging was useless. She swings open the door and I chase after her, like some sick fuck who isn’t capable of learning from the past. Like some masochist who enjoys reliving devastating history. “Emery!”
“What?!” She spins around, teeth gritted as tears spill down her cheek. “You?—”
Suddenly, she gasps, holding her hand to her chest as her knees buckle and she drops to the ground. I lurch forward, trepidation seizing my organs, panic spreading through my veins.
“Emery!” I kneel down beside her as she expels rapid short breaths. With a gentle hand on her back, I ask, afraid to hear the answer, “Are you okay?”
With both arms crossed across her chest, her head hung low, she breathes out, like a prayer, “My bag. I need my bag.” Unable to allow myself to be out of her reach, I stretch across the parking lot, looping the handle of her purse around my finger and tugging ittoward me. “Blue,” she whispers, breaths ragged and weak. “Blue ones.”
