Page 17 of Dirty Deal

“You know your mother can’t cook,” my father says.

Holy hell. A headache flares behind my right eye, and I rub at my temple. “You should buy something cheaper, then. Get Taco Bell. Get instant ramen and learn to boil water.”

My mother gasps like I just drop-kicked a kitten.

“We still have standards, Lena.” My father is angry now, his volume climbing. “The Merritt name brings certain expectations. We have an image to uphold, and that image means quality restaurants. Good wine, tailored clothes, our townhouse. All non-negotiables.”

The townhouse? My headache throbs even worse, and I shake my head.

“Tell me you didn’t send that realtor away.”

My mother scoffs and mutters something under her breath, while my father says, “She was useless. That woman had no idea what this place is worth, whatweare worth.”

“You are ‘worth’ a negative amount! That’s what debt means!”

My father’s palm slams down on the kitchen island, rattling the wine glasses. My mother shrieks, her stool scraping against the tiles.

“That’s enough,” he spits, his eyes narrowed and his face flushed. Thinking back, I’ve seen my father throw plenty of these tantrums in his life—usually toward innocent servers in restaurants or hotel staff, or often with his old employees at the Merritt. Weston must have weathered most of all.

They’ve never been directed at me before. Some tiny part of me dies in the face of it—the part of me that was still a little girl who loved her dad.

“Don’t swan in here,” my father grits out, forcing each word between his teeth, “acting like Miss Morally Superior, when you’ve been rolling around Weston James’s bed for cash.”

I suck in a sharp breath. The room swims.

“That is not our deal—”

“No daughter of mine would whore herself out to a man like that.” My father sniffs and picks up his wine, dismissing me from his universe. When he speaks again, it’s to my mother. “I don’t know where we went wrong with her. All the right schools, the vacations, the piano lessons and French tutors. And this is how she repays us?”

My mother strokes his arm and soothes him with hushed words, while I turn on my heel and walk woodenly from the kitchen. Our conversation plays over and over in my head, every awful word, and as I brush my teeth and slide between my sheets, the horror doesn’t fade at all. It only gets worse and worse, climbing up my throat until it chokes me. I flop onto my front, my face wet with tears.

I’ve giveneverythingto save my parents. But I can’t save them from themselves—and I can’t force them to love me like parents should.

When dawn peeks around the edges of the curtains and sleep finally comes, it’s a blessed relief.

Eight

Weston

“You look like shit,” Ariq says, dropping a stack of mail on my desk. The sky is navy blue outside, speckled with stars, and we’re holed away in my office, high above the sidewalk.

I groan and scrub a hand down my face. “Thanks for noticing.”

No point denying it. It’s been a rough night and an even rougher day, my sanity fraying more and more as the clock ticks on. For all my declarations that I never want to see Lena Merritt again after our five nights are up, I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind with her gone.

It’ll be okay once she’s here. Once she’s snarking at me, and poking her tongue out, and softening my hard edges with her sly humor. Once I can stare shamelessly at her long legs and glossy black hair, and fantasize about peeling that black trench coat open.

Will she touch me again?

Will she let me touch her?

“You know,” Ariq says, poking idly at a stack of files on my desk, “if this whole brooding villain vibe isn’t working for you, there are other options available.”

I gust out a sigh. “I’m not trying to be a villain. Not generally, anyway.”

“Just to Lena Merritt.”

“Right.”

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