“Whose lies?”
“Lies in general.” She massaged her temples, probably to fight off all those cocktails she’d downed. “People hold back, say what they don’t mean, and hide everything inside.”
I didn’t answer her, merely inclined my head and let her make of it what she wanted. My car careened down the concrete. The first splash of rain hit Emery’s side of the windshield. She reached up and stroked it, the movement reverent.
When she pulled her fingers back, she'd left marks on the glass. “I hate lies. You know what I realized, Nash?”
“Enlighten me. I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“You don’t hate me.” She flung her arms wide as if she'd just made the most profound statement in the world. “You hide behind this rough exterior, because I’ve found my way beneath your skin, and it scares you. You don’t like how I make you feel, because I actually make you feel.”
I swallowed, contemplating an answer to whatever the fuck that was. “You’re plastered.”
“Not really.”
The devious smile forced my fingers to adjust on the steering wheel. She pulled out her phone, gave me her back, and began typing.
I cut a glance at her. “What are you doing?”
She slid the phone back into her pocket and shifted. Her leg jostled the box of my notes she’d taken from the Winthrop Estate. “Just Googled something.”
Stretching her arms above her head, she rested her hands on her neck. We drove for a few more miles before her hand slithered behind my headrest.
“What are you doing?” I repeated. Second time in ten minutes. I was a parrot at this point.
The rain splashed across the windshield harder now. I turned on the wipers, placing the speed to its highest setting.
Her hand retreated at the same time she said, “Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull over.”
She leaned over me in a flash, moving quickly for how much she had drunk. A second later, the roof of the convertible flung off, flying behind us with the speed I drove at. I flicked my eyes down to my lap. Her hand still clasped the lever that released the roof.
Emery looked half a second from snorting with laughter.
Glee brimmed her cheeks while I cataloged the past hour.
She’d asked me my car’s make and model, Google’d something, reached behind both our headrests where two of the roof levers were, and leaned over my lap to pull the final one.
Fucking hell.
Water splattered both our cheeks. Rain came down harder as if it knew what she’d done and wanted to taunt me.
“Jesus, Emery. You need a blanket, psych eval, and a drunk tank. Stat.”
“I’m not drunk,” she insisted. She shot up from her seat, stretched her arms Titanic-style, and screamed to the empty road, “I want to balter!”
I tried to recall how many cocktails she’d had.
At least six.
Probably more.
I slowed the car. This chick was out of her goddamned mind, begging to fall out of the moving vehicle.
She slanted her eyes to me, her body swaying to no music. “Is it the heavy rain? Would you balter if it were mizzling?”
“Balter isn’t a word.” I pulled onto the side of the road, remembering that she’d written it on her Polaroid of the night sky. “Mizzling is most definitely not a word.”
“Yes, it is. It’s a portmanteau. It’s mist and drizzling together, like smog is smoke and fog and motel is motor and hotel.” Her brow arched, and she looked at me as if I were the crazy one. “Are you sure we graduated from the same high school? Could’ve sworn Eastridge Prep had higher standards.”
I ignored her words, watching her swing her arms with the rhythm of a one-footed kangaroo. “The fuck are you doing?”
“I’m baltering. I don’t have a dad who loves me. I have a high-society mom that dangles my future over my head every chance she gets. I have an angry boss, staring at me like he wants to fuck me.” She nearly toppled over the passenger seat. “I’d rather not deal with any of that at the moment, so I’m going to balter.”
“What the fuck is balter?”
Her white shirt clung to her skin. Two nipples pointed out. The Easy, Tiger taunted me. My own words, used against me. Her hips rolled, chasing something I refused to address with so much alcohol in her body.
“To dance.” She peered up at the sky. “Artlessly, with no grace, no skill, but always with enjoyment. Dad used to say, all you have to do is ask. I will always be here to balter with you. What a lie. Is everyone I know a liar?”
“You literally just lied to me when you said you’re not drunk,” I pointed out, mostly because I had a long list of lies under my belt, too.
“You have to stop assuming I'm drunk. The integral of one over x is the natural log of x, plus the constant C. The twenty-fourth U.S. president is Grover Cleveland. And that Area 51 party is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” She sat down—finally—and leaned closer to me. “I’m telling you, Nash. I'm not drunk. I'm chasing happiness. I want to balter.”
“It’s raining.”
In fact, water soaked the entire interior of my fucking car, and even if I did drive back, I had no chance of finding my roof in working condition.
“Wow, you have a career as a weatherman if this hotelier gig doesn’t work out for you. It might not,” she taunted, “considering we’re building a lobby around a sculpture we’ve never seen…” Her fingertips traced my cheek, jumping from one subject to another like leapfrog, because that was clearly sober behavior. “I wish you were happy, Nash Prescott.”
My jaw ticked, teeth grinding against each other. “How do you know I’m not happy?”
“You have too much going on in here”—she tapped her temple—“to allow yourself to let loose and be happy.” Her sigh suggested she pitied me. “I’m doing something. Don’t look.” She gave me approximately half a second to turn away before she stripped out of the oversized sweats and said, “I can't dance in these.”
“Fucking hell,” I muttered.
Dad used to shout, “Heavens to Betsy!” when he found something to be insane. I'd never found a more applicable situation than this one.
Emery stole her panties from my pocket, slid them on before I could process what I’d gotten myself into, and darted out of the car. Twirling in circles, she managed to look petite despite her height.
She was small and fierce, and if she was to be believed, a collector of tears, sweat, and blood. Her Chucks—the only pair I ever saw her wear—trampled over the mud. Was this what mental breakdowns looked like?
Because this wasn’t normal behavior.
It wasn’t even normal drunk behavior.
But it was a little pathetic and more endearing than I'd like to admit, almost enough to make me get off my ass and “balter” with her.
I didn’t.
I stared, waiting for her to sober up.
She spun in circles. Water dripping down her white shirt. Without a bra, all I saw were hard nipples. I could have sucked one of those nipples into my mouth, right over the G in Tiger. But she was drunk, and I was more of a tear-you-to-shreds type of asshole than a take-advantage-of-you one.