Page 34 of Dirty Little Secrets
I frown, opening her purse. A jumbled rainbow of prescription bottles fills up half her bag. My mind races with questions. I force myself to ignore them. Fumbling around, I find a bottle with a blue sticker on it, refusing to read the name of the medication as I twist open the cap and pull out a pill.
“Do you need water?”
Emery pops the pills into her mouth, swallowing them as if they're air. Her stiff shoulders gradually loosen as I carefully watch her start to relax, her breathing returning to normal. Her hand remains on her chest as she lifts her head up, her glossy gaze meeting mine.
“Thank you.” She reigns in a shameful cringe, but I see it. “You can leave now.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, afraid to move, to touch her, like she’ll break upon impact. “Are you okay?”
“You’ve seen the contents of my bag, Damon,” she says listlessly, swallowing as she shakes her head. “Does that look okay to you?” Hesitantly, she attempts to stand up. My arm is around her waist before she can protest. She doesn’t. She allows me to help her to her feet. And I'm grateful. “I’m fine now. You can let go.”
But I don't want to let go. The moment you let go of someone, even for a split second, you risk never holding them again. But this time is different. This time, I don’t have the disapproving voices of my entire family dictating my actions. For a fleeting moment,that brings me solace. Brings me hope. But shortly after, that solace pangs my conscience, and it’s reverted, once again, to bitter remorse. I shake it off. Now is not the time to linger in the past.
“You look a bit pale, Miss Jones,” I note. Was that a panic attack? Did I cause it? Am I the catalyst once again? “Maybe you should sit down.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says with a pointed edge as she pulls away from me. I frown. “Don’t look at me like that.I’m fine.”
“Most people who are fine don’t carry around seven different medications,” I observe, uncouth in my prying. I swallow, mouth dry as I ask, “Are you sick?”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “We’re all sick, Mr. Cavanaugh. In one way or another.”
My hands ball into fists. Cruelty knows no bounds. “Is that a yes?”
“If I said yes, would you take pity on me?” She tilts her head. “Would that make me less desirable in your eyes? Would the idea offuckinga sick girl make you recoil in disgust?” Her combative gaze slices through me. “If so, then yes, I am.”
Her projective words pain me. Is that how she views herself? “Your blood could be poison, Miss Jones, and I’d still want nothing more than to feel you wither beneath me.” I take a step forward, tenderly cupping her cheek. “Are you sick, Emery? Tell me. Please.”
“Some things are private, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she whispers, battling the urge to lean into my hand. She fights it, stepping away from me. “Like I said, I’m fine.”
“Iwillfind out, Miss Jones,” I state, teetering the linebetween soft and firm. The former is foreign to me, but the latter could decimate my desire for the truth. “Either you tell me, or I will harass every physician in the tri-state area.”
“I’d say something about doctor/patient confidentiality, but I somehow doubt that rule applies to you.” She sighs, begrudgingly knocking down her king. “I’m not sick, Mr. Cavanaugh. Not anymore, at least.”
“Explain.”
She scoffs. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Mr. Cavanaugh. My health is none of your business.”
“When you collapse before my eyes, Miss Jones,” I say, “you make it my business.”
A spark of defiance flickers across her face. “If you want to know details, Mr. Cavanaugh, then you better start calling doctors. I’d start in New York if you want a chronological account of medical history.” She glowers at me. “I’m sure you’ll find at least one physician with compromised morals who wouldn’t mind taking your money.”
My jaw tightens. “I’d prefer to hear it from you, Miss Jones.”
“Yeah?” She looks over my shoulder at Lux. “Well, I’d prefer to be on stage right now, but it appears we don’t always get what we want. I asked you for one thing, Mr. Cavanaugh, and you couldn’t even let me have that.”
“What do you mean? The stage is all yours, Miss Jones,” I note, motioning to the club. “You’re free to dance all night if you wish.”
She glares at me. “For you? And only you? I don’t think so.”
“So, it’s not the dancing you enjoy,” I muse, cocking my head to the side. “It’s the attention. Is that it, Miss Jones? Well, I promise you, you have my undivided attention.”
“Unbelievable.” Emery lets out a low, frustrated scoff. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? What Damon wants, Damon gets. It must be nice, you know, to have such control over your life.” Her hard gaze snaps at me. “This stage, Mr. Cavanaugh, is the only place that I have even aniotaof control overmylife. So, no, it’s not the attention I crave, it’s the power that comes with that attention.”
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s the most powerful creature I’ve ever encountered. She occupies my thoughts, both past and present. Her energy, it’s not something I can ignore. I can forget. Her power over me is unyielding, so much so that my thoughts often float to the possibility of a future. But what that future holds solely depends on how she wishes to use her power.
“Control isn't power, Miss Jones. Power comes from receiving, not giving.” I lick my lips, weighing whether she’s ready to walk on the dark side of the moon. “If you want to see what real power looks like, Miss Jones, I can take you to a place that’ll make you feel like a goddamn queen.”
She frowns. “What are you talking about?”
