The Devil Series Books 1-4 (Devil #1-4), page 42
His shake of the head is so small it’s barely noticeable. He holds my gaze as if he knows I’m upset, knows why I’m upset. “I have to give a talk at Stanford tomorrow. I’m flying straight to San Francisco.”
“Oh.” I feel frozen, trying to ward off the wave of grief as it hits.
The speaker overhead announces the final boarding call.
He steps closer. Close enough that I can feel his breath against my face. “Tell me something real,” he says.
I try to smile but it’s twisted by sadness. I wish I could give him the entire world. I wish there was anything he wanted that my money could buy. But all he wants is a tiny bit of the truth from me, maybe because he knows it’s the hardest thing for me to give.
“When I was eleven, my dad got drunk and threw a bottle at my face,” I tell him. My dad was the only person who seemed to like me back then, but even he didn’t like me quite enough. “He lost visitation and that was the last time I saw him. That’s how I got the scar.”
What a sad, awkward little gift to give him. My way of saying I trust you, Josh, and I don’t trust anyone else. I turn to walk away so he won’t see me cry, and have taken exactly one step when he says my name and reaches for me.
And that’s all it takes: he closes the distance, pulling me against him, and his hands are cradling my jaw and his mouth is on mine as if it’s always wanted to be there. For one long, breathless moment, nothing exists but him and the way he is kissing me.
“I would give anything for things to have been different,” he says. And then he walks away, disappearing into the crowd of people boarding their flight.
I want to reach up to feel my lips, to assure myself the kiss really happened.
I want to run after him.
Instead, I return to the lounge on unsteady legs, feeling like something inside me just died.
Beth, Jim and Six all sit there, scrolling through their phones. We’ve traveled together for two weeks straight but Josh was the part that made me happy. Josh was the part that felt like home.
When our flight boards, Six grabs his blanket and spreads it over the two of us. Beneath it, he reaches for my hand. I suspect I’ve got about thirty seconds before he tries to move it to his dick. And I can’t do this, not for another moment.
“Hey,” he says. “I know we still need to talk.”
I pull my hand away and reach for the headphones. “No, we don’t. Whatever this was, it is definitely over.”
I honestly can’t believe I ever dated him in the first place.
PART V
HOME
“It’s almost too broad a topic for just one book.”
From Mainland US: Adequate Medical Care and Lots to See
32
DREW
I wake to sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cottage I’m renting at the Chateau Marmont. I have fifteen missed calls from Davis. Not a single one from Josh.
I shuffle out of bed only to draw the drapes closed, and then I return, flopping face down on the mattress.
I’m not sure how to go back to my regular life. I’m not sure what made my feet move before. I thought I knew. I thought I wanted to be vindicated, that I wanted to make more money than my stepfather, have more fame and clout than the whole family put together, and possibly use it to ruin my stepfather’s firm. But now it just seems…petty. Now it just seems like I’ve been fueling myself with rage because I had nothing else to drag me out of bed in the morning.
I get up long enough to order an Hermès scarf for Beth. I have it hand delivered along with a note thanking her for the trip and telling her how much I enjoyed spending time with her. I apologize, too, for the way things worked out with Six. It must have been pretty clear it was over on the way home, but there is a small part of me that wants to make sure she knows, that wants to make sure Josh knows, though it will change absolutely nothing. How could it? I can’t jump from one brother to the next, and Josh cares too much about his mom to throw that kind of grenade into the middle of the family, even if he was staying here—which he is not.
Eventually, I accept the calls from Davis, as it’s only a matter of time before he shows up at my door—he knows this is the only place I stay in LA—and the next morning I find myself walking into my publicist’s conference room for a strategy meeting I don’t want to be at.
I hate my publicist’s big, soulless office complex, all gray cement block and glass. The first-floor room looks as if it could survive a bomb blast, though I wouldn’t want it to. Same goes for the expressionless people sitting around the table.
“What the hell did you do to your hair?” Davis demands, as if the room isn’t full of officious strangers in suits, listening avidly.
Two weeks ago, I’d have felt like I needed to apologize, as if it was someone else’s hair I cut without permission. Now I’m just irritated. “It’s called a haircut, Davis. Are you unfamiliar with the term? Have one of your suited minions look it up for you.”
Stephanie, the publicist, frowns at me and puts a hand on his shoulder. She often winds up playing peacemaker, but he’s the one she will defer to in the end. “Settle down. Maybe this is good. We’re showing the new, more serious side of her. It can be like she’s turned over a new leaf.”
Davis slumps in his chair. “No one will want to fuck the more serious side of her, however.”
I imagine Josh hearing this—I suspect he’d be out of his chair. What did he say to that surf instructor? Come repeat that on shore, asshole. I’d love to hear him say that to Davis.
“I looked like this when you met me,” I remind him, taking a seat at the far end of the table. They both blink as if they’d forgotten I had a voice at all. “You thought I was pretty enough then.”
“But were you famous then?” he asks. “No, you were not.”
“I still think we should say she went to rehab,” Stephanie tells him. “No one is going to believe there weren’t illegal substances involved.”
Davis shakes his head. “There are too many photos of her in Hawaii. Let’s just stipulate that it isn’t discussed in interviews and release a statement implying she was at rehab without stating it outright. Just refer to some much-needed time away. Everyone will assume it’s rehab, she apologizes, people move on.”
I sit back, listening to them discuss me as if I’m not in the room. As if I’m an entity rather than a person. How long has it been like this and why did I allow it? I suppose because when it started, I just felt lucky and I didn’t want to jinx it. And what’s different today is that I no longer feel lucky. I don’t care quite so much if I jinx it.
“I’m not apologizing,” I say flatly. “And I’m not letting anyone imply I’m on drugs.”
They look at me again, surprised, irritated. The sex doll speaks and thinks she has a right to make demands, their faces say.
“Please let us do our jobs,” Stephanie says. “We’re trying to get you out of a mess you’ve created.”
I stand up and they both look surprised. Again.
“What are you doing?” asks Davis.
“It’s called walking out,” I reply. “And if this press tour doesn’t go the way I like, prepare to see a lot more of it.”
The room is utterly silent as I make my way to the door. I want to feel empowered, but instead the world just feels very large, too full and too empty all at once. The problem with burning bridges is that you need to have someplace else to go.
It’s Tali I call in desperation.
She meets me at a sunny patio café in Huntington Beach, halfway between Laguna and LA. The sight of her temporarily makes me forget all my woes.
“Holy shit,” I say, staring at her stomach. She didn’t look so pregnant the last time I saw her, but now… “You can’t possibly have two more months left.”
She laughs and sinks into the chair across from me like a pregnant woman would, hand on her stomach as if she’s not sure the baby knows to come with her. “It’s bizarre, I know.”
“What if this kid is Hayes’s size?” I ask. “Your vagina will be permanently ruined.”
She raises a brow. “It’s as if you consulted a list of the worst possible things to say to a pregnant woman and are running through them as fast as possible.”
“Sorry,” I say meekly. “No filter.”
She laughs. “You and Hayes both. He asked my doctor if we could just go ahead and schedule this as a C-section ‘to ensure everything remains the appropriate size’. So enough about me and my vagina…which Bailey brother are you with today?”
I roll my eyes. I texted her about the Kalalau Trail, but she doesn’t know everything that came afterward, and there’s really no reason to tell her. Nothing will come of it. “Neither of them.”
“Well,” she says with a sigh. “I guess it could be worse.”
“Josh kissed me,” I blurt. So much for keeping it to myself. “At the airport.”
She is wide-eyed with delight. “That’s so—”
“Don’t say it.”
She says it anyway. “Romantic.”
I lean back in my seat and pull my hair out of its messy bun. “You think everything is romantic.”
“Believe me, there was never a single thing you told me about Six that I’d have claimed was romantic. And I mean—” She pulls out her phone. I have no idea how she has pictures of Josh at the ready, but she does. “Look at this guy.”
He isn’t smiling in the picture. He isn’t even posing in the picture. He’s standing there in scrubs talking to someone, looking distracted and pissy and perfect and I just…miss him. That’s all there is to it. I miss him so much that it makes everything else pale by contrast. I’ve avoided looking Josh up online for this very reason—because I knew it would hurt, and because I knew there’d be this swirl of longing in my chest and I’d have nowhere to go with it.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.
“Does he know you’re not with his brother?” she asks. “That might help.”
I nod. “I told Beth and I’m sure she’s told Josh,” I reply. “He’s the person she seems to lean on the most.”
I want Tali to give me an excuse for why I haven’t heard from him, but there’s nothing. All I see in her eyes is sympathy right now, as if this is a story that’s already come to a close.
When I get back to the hotel, I climb into bed and stay there. I don’t run. I don’t worry about what I’m eating. My hygiene is questionable at best, but I figure it’s my last hurrah: once the tour begins, it’ll be upkeep and starvation 24/7. It always is.
I’m still in bed on Sunday, the day before I leave, when my cell rings. The moment I see Beth’s name the fog hanging over me vanishes. I sit up, yanking my eye mask off the top of my head. I can't stop the small thrill in my chest, though she’s probably just calling about the scarf or to discuss the breakup.
"Drew!" she cries, "I'm so happy I caught you. You weren’t asleep, were you?”
I force a laugh. “Of course not,” I reply. “It’s…” I look at the clock. “After one.”
“We’re having lunch at the Chateau and I just heard someone say you’re staying here in the hotel. Are you around? Can you pop by to say hello?"
I want to ask who's coming as I agree, but I don’t.
Instead, I literally run into the shower, yelping at the cold water as I start to scrub, already scolding myself. “Josh won’t be there,” I announce to the shower walls. “And you’re an idiot getting your hopes up about nothing.”
What would I even say if he was there? It's not as if I can tell him in front of his parents that nothing but him has mattered to me since that moment in the airport, and probably long before that. I won’t be able to say anything at all. And if it mattered to him that I wasn’t with his brother he’d have said something by now.
I scrape my wet hair back from my face and pull it up into a bun, dab on a bit of lip gloss and mascara and pull a silk tank and skirt out of my closet, the kind of thing a publicist might wear but Drew Wilson would not.
I approve of the girl I see in the mirror. She looks exotic, French. Audrey Hepburn with lighter hair and a decent tan. I want Josh to be there so badly I can taste it. I want him to be there so badly I'm not sure I'll be able to stand my disappointment if he isn't.
I walk from my room to the restaurant’s patio which sits under the graceful arch of palms, diluting the sun overhead. Planters divide the space but I notice heads turning as I approach. My new hair is still a miracle, however…people suspect I’m someone, but until they can put a name with my face, I get to remain anonymous. And I want anonymity more than anything right now, because in a moment I will either appear thrilled or devastated and there is no middle ground.
I’m about to approach the hostess when I see him.
Josh.
In khakis and a button-down, sleeves rolled up, looking impossibly beautiful. I remember ridiculing him for wearing that exact outfit when I arrived in Honolulu. Now I'm thinking I’ve never seen anything hotter in my life. It’s as if he is suddenly the prototype upon which my tastes are created—if he decided to start wearing tank tops and Speedos, as unlikely as that is, I’d probably decide that also was my favorite outfit.
His eyes lock on mine, and there’s a hard stab of want in my abdomen at the sight of him.
"I see them," I tell the hostess, my voice admirably calm and adult.
I make my way toward the table with the strangest mix of euphoria and fear swimming in my stomach, like nothing I’ve ever felt, even walking on stage. I worry it’s all written on my face.
The Baileys rise as I approach. I hug Beth, and even Jim, and then I turn to face Josh. How did I forget how tall he is? Even in my small heels he looks like a giant above me.
He steps forward. I wouldn’t say he looks happy to see me. It’s more as if I’m something he unwillingly can’t look away from. His arms wrap around me all too briefly.
"How have you been?" he asks. His voice is cool with disinterest.
I feel like I’ve been punched and I’m mad at myself for expecting anything from him in the first place.
"Good," I lie. My throat sounds like it’s full of gravel. "Really good. I leave for New York tomorrow."
He nods and pulls out a chair for me beside him. Only remnants of their lunch remain. I wish I’d skipped the shower so I had more time with him. I also wish I hadn’t come at all.
Beth starts telling me all about how he’s testifying to Congress later in the week. “You’ll have to watch him on C-SPAN if you get a chance,” she urges, pride shining in her eyes.
Josh groans quietly, running a hand over his face. “Mom, you’ve got to stop telling people to watch C-SPAN. Especially people who are appearing on primetime the same day.”
He knows my schedule. I want it to mean something. God, I want it to mean something, but he’s barely even looking at me.
“I’m just proud of you, honey,” Beth says to him, leaning back so the waitress can clear her plate. “Besides, Drew’s practically family.” She squeezes my hand. “Thank you so much for the scarf and the sweet note. I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Joel, but you’re both young still. Anything can happen.”
Josh’s gaze jerks to mine. That wariness in his eyes is now shock and—something else.
He didn’t know. I have no idea if that changes anything, but based on the way he’s looking at me now, it might.
Jim pays the bill while Beth asks about my plans and then suddenly we are all standing and my chance to change something between us is pretty much gone.
“Josh, honey, I want to go to the gift shop,” she says. “Can you get the car? We’ll meet you in front.”
He nods, never taking his eyes off me.
I hug his parents goodbye and then it’s just the two of us.
"So," I say nervously. The moment is too much. I stare at his shirt, focus on the texture of it. It would feel like fine grit sandpaper under my fingers, his chest hard beneath it.
"Let's walk," he says with the sort of decisiveness that makes my knees weak. I let myself be led from the restaurant. "Where's your room?"
I point toward the cottages weakly and we move, his hand on the small of my back as if we are a couple. I fumble with the key. The cottages at the Chateau are weirdly old-fashioned and still look like the sort of place where some 1950s starlet might drink herself to death in a satin robe. I wish now I’d stayed someplace modern, someplace for the well-adjusted.
When the door opens, he follows me inside and doesn’t look at the room at all. He’s only looking at me. I want to memorize his skin, his lovely mouth, his deep-set eyes. I search his face, wondering why he’s here, looking for an answer so I won’t have to ask.
He takes a step forward. I take one too. It feels as if we are magnetized, as if I can’t stop moving his way until we are pressed together, skin to skin.
“Why didn’t you tell me you broke up with Joel?” he asks.
“Would it have mattered?”
He pushes his hands into my hair, gripping my face in a way that shocks me, leaves me breathless. “That cannot be a serious question.”
And then he kisses me. Not the way he kissed me in the airport. This time, he kisses me as if we’ve been kept apart by war and deserts and decades and he kept praying, the entire time, we’d somehow find each other.
He lifts me onto the small table behind me. His hands are on my bare thighs and our mouths are frantic. I groan and he pulls back.
“Drew,” he whispers, his eyes closed. He’s about to say goodbye and I won’t allow it.
“Stay,” I command.
His mouth lingers over mine, his palms stretch over my skin—my thighs, my ass, and higher—as if he’s trying to touch as much of me as he can. “I have to take my parents home. My dad doesn’t drive in the city.”
And, of course, he can’t tell them why he’d like to remain.
