Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 11: The Sick Obsession

EMERY

My hands shake with fierce rage as I storm out of CJ Piers. That mother fucking son of a bitch. This is what I get for playing with fire. I kindled it. Fanned the smoking ember until it erupted into unstoppable flames. Fire's hot, can you blame us? Not now. Damon Cavanaugh is a goddamn manipulative snake. He says he doesn't play games, and now I know why. He doesn't play games because he makes them. He's the puppeteer and I'm just a fucking marionette doll dangling and dancing at the hand of his conniving little strings. At least no one will call you Emily anymore. Shut up. At least you'll have a position you rightfully deserve. That's not the point. No? But CFO pays sooo much more than missionary. Not now. Now's not the time for a glass half full. Yeah, of Cristal. I'm pissed. Despite the little ember of relief flickering inside me, I'm fucking livid.

"How'd it go?" Damon asks, leaning against his Rolls-Royce. With lightning speed, I wind my hand back and slap him hard across the face, the snapping sound scaring off a murder of nearby crows. He places a palm on his left cheek, rotating his jaw as he blinks. "I suppose I deserved that."

"Maybe one's not good enough—" I lift my arm to swing again, but Damon catches it, gaze hardened.

"Let's try to use our words, Miss Jones," he says, tightening his grip around my wrist as he lowers my arm. "Violence seldom solves our problems."

"Really?" I ask, yanking my hand away. "I personally feel a lot better now."

"I'm glad," he says, checking his watch. "Now get in the car."

"No."

"Get in the fucking car, Miss Jones."

I cross my arms. "Make me."

Damon sighs. "You're being rather difficult right now, Miss Jones. Just get in the car."

"I wonder why I'm being so difficult," I muse sardonically. "Perhaps, it's because you're essentially attempting to kidnap me. Which—" I shrug. "Fits the MO of a complete and total lunatic!"

Damon ignores me, opening the passenger's side door. "Get in. You can continue your meltdown on the drive to Manhattan." He looks back at me, grinning. "That's two hours of uninterrupted yelling. How exciting, right?"

I glower at him. "I'll take my own car. It's in the—" I freeze, the scent of copper filling my senses. Really? Again? I wipe the underside of my nose, blood coating my index finger. "God damn it!"

"Jesus, Emery... Stay there," Damon hisses, running around the car. He opens the back doors and pulls out a tissue box before coming back. "Here." He motions inside the passenger seat. "Sit down and tilt your head back."

"No," I whine, tears welling in my eyes. "Don't tell me what to do." I sniffle, defeat washing over me. "Just let me bleed out and die." Damon stifles a muted chuckle and I whip my head at him. "Are you laughing at me right now?"

"I wouldn't dare laugh." Damon offers me a small amused smile as he gently places his fingers under my chin and raises my head up. Annoyed, but slightly light-headed, I sit down sideways, my legs hanging out the side of the car. "There we go," he says, rolling up two tissue papers and sticking them up my nose. "Perfect. Just hold your head up like that for a few minutes, okay?"

I shoot him an unimpressed side eye as he buckles himself in and starts the car. "I hate you, you know that?"

"I'm aware," he says. "If it makes you feel any better, I hate you right now too." He glances at the edge of his cream-colored leather seats. "I hope you don't stain my seats."