Shit, I promised Ma I'd stay away while Reed visited. But Ma would tell me to make an exception. The Greyhound to Eastridge was long with too many shady stops along with way.
I stole a card from Emery's deck, watching her gather her things. “Yes, but I need something from you.”
Your dad’s address, please and fucking thank you.
She paused and slanted her head. “Is it illegal?”
“No.”
“Is it sexual?”
Fuck, she looked too enticed by the idea.
“No.”
“If you accompany me to brunch with my mom, too,” she bartered, always set on cinching a victory. “Able will be there, and since Reed is spending the weekend with Basil…”
Get in. Get out, dick.
I would have said no on account of my promise to Ma that I’d stay away from Eastridge, but Able Small Dick Cartwright was the type of rich prick who thought he could get away with murder.
“Deal.”
“Deal,” she agreed, betraying her dad with a smile on her face.
She just didn’t know it yet.
Love exists, and it's crueler than lust.
I knew if I loved someone, I wouldn't lie to them. I also knew the idea of telling Nash I was Durga appealed to me as much as contracting a painful strand of crabs.
“What happened to your old Honda?” I asked, sliding into Nash’s sleek black convertible. It smelled of new car mixed with him. I shoved my bag in my foot area and waited for an answer.
“Retired.”
He didn’t elaborate.
I clutched onto my seat when he sped off, thankful he’d left the hardtop on.
Nash Prescott looked like every mom’s worst nightmare—and mine for different reasons—in his black jeans and olive-colored Henley, sleeves pulled up mid-forearm. My fingers itched to trace his tattoo.
I dug them into the leather. “I need to make two stops before we get to the country club.”
“This isn’t a field trip, Tiger.”
He rapped the steering wheel with a finger, driving with one hand on it and the other wrapped around my headrest. I couldn’t reconcile him with my Ben, but I sometimes saw glimpses of it. Last night, but definitely not today.
Determination inked his body with tight muscles and a set jaw. “You want the stops, I get two more truths.”
“Fine,” I grit out, knowing I’d regret this, but I couldn’t go to Eastridge without visiting Betty.
I also needed to change out of my sonder tee and into the dress Virginia hated, in the unlikely event that my belongings hadn’t been tossed by the new Winthrop Estate owner. The idea of sitting in a car with Ben had my lips loose, begging to confess.
I busied myself with studying Nash's car, running my fingers along the leather, inhaling its scent. I toyed with the latch to the glove compartment.
“Don’t touch that.”
Too late.
It flung open.
The latch bounced against my knees. A bag fell onto my lap. I nearly dropped it, but I caught it last minute. The phone I'd broken sat inside. A crack extended across the screen. Tiny flecks of glass peppered the inside of the baggie.
A joke sat at the tip of my tongue, but at the sight of him, I swallowed it. Genuine concern etched his features. I carefully slid the Ziploc bag back into the glove compartment and closed it with a soft click.
Silence stretched the next ten miles.
I spent it wondering what had him so on edge. The type of energy he used to radiate when he fought often.
Relief swept through me at Nash’s voice. “The phone has the last pictures I took of Dad on it.”
And I had broken it.
Guilt stabbed at my stomach, that no longer felt empty, which only added to the guilt.
“Sorry.” It felt inadequate. I wanted to give him more words, better words. My vocabulary evaded me. Sand slipping through my fingers.
“I bought the new screen, but I showed up at the repair place, and the guy looked as incompetent as fucking Chantilly.”
I traced the leather seat with the tip of my finger. “What’s your beef with Chantilly?”
“The corporate masquerade party last year—”
“Ida Marie told me about it.”
He slid his eyes to me. “Did she also tell you she grabbed my dick through my pants, pretending to be drunk?”
“Why is she still working for you?”
“Her uncle sits on my board, and unlike his niece, he's both competent and a genuinely good guy.” The entire board was. I would not have Prescott Hotels be Winthrop Textiles 2.0. “I buried it. If he found out, he’d probably be mortified and resign, and we’re about to close Singapore. Finding a good replacement takes too long.”
Chantilly had given me a speech on nepotism, yet she was related to a board member. “I knew her salary couldn’t pay for a Birkin.”
“Her family's loaded, but also the type to make her work her way through life.” He merged onto the left lane without signaling, then the shoulder to bypass traffic. “It was probably a Christmas gift.”
The wind rattled the car at this speed. I pushed back in my seat, the car’s shakes turning me into a human vibrator. We whipped past another town in silence, breakneck speeds we should have gotten pulled over for.
“I can fix it,” I offered, voice low. “I’ve broken my screen before, and I didn’t have the money for a new one, so I learned. I even made a few bucks on the side doing it for some college students. I can fix it. Do you trust me?”
He didn’t say anything. We continued to drive until the cars on the road thinned. Each mile tapered my hope.
“You can fix it,” he finally said.
“Okay.”
I spelled meraki on my thigh with my pointer finger, content in his company. Nash drove five miles in silence. We reached a long stretch of highway, empty given the holiday. Another five miles further, he pulled over onto the shoulder.
I peered at the gas level, wondering if being stranded constituted as a valid excuse to miss Virginia’s brunch and golf time. “Are we out of gas?”
“Nope.” He removed the keys from the ignition and leveled me with his full attention. “I’m asking my three questions in the middle of nowhere, so you can’t evade them. If you want to get to Eastridge, you’ll answer them. If you don’t, we can turn back now.”
“But—”
“Question #1—how do you know Brandon Vu?”
What. The. Fuck.
“How do you know Brandon Vu?” I countered, completely blindsided.
Did Brandon and Nash know each other? Was the S.E.C. angling to go after my dad through Nash? Loyalty surged within me, lighting up my veins. Uncontrollable embers flickered.
You’re supposed to hate your Dad, Em.
“Answer the question.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s the deal.”
“He showed up at the masquerade. I had no clue who he was. Then, he showed up at the tent city and gave me his card.” I hesitated, praying Nash wouldn’t draw the wrong conclusions. “I remembered him from the day the F.B.I. and S.E.C. raided my house. We stood in front of the cottage. He asked me who lived in there and made me say your names.”
“And?”