Page 3 of Dirty Dillon

Blake leans in, his voice low and smooth. “I think your daughter is quite stunning, Mr. Hamilton. You must be very proud.” His words make my skin crawl, despite sounding innocuous, and I resist the urge to cover myself up or dump my soup into his lap.

I feel my father’s judgment on me as well. I’m supposed to beniceto this man. I inhale deeply. “So, Mr. Masterson, what do you think of our little town?”

“Call me Blake. I insist.” He leers at my cleavage. Doesn’t anyone else at this table think it’s gross? Inappropriate? “Tempest is lovely.”

I want to squirm in my seat but won’t let him see how much he’s affecting me. At this point, playing dumb is my best strategy. It’s certainly what Blake is expecting.

“Indeed it is,” my father says, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

The conversation stops there, and the weight of my dad’s disappointment is crushing. I’m not being nice enough.

“Blake,” I begin, forcing a small smile. “What kind of cases do you usually work on with my father?”

“Ah, well,” he replies smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “A variety of legal matters—land disputes, business deals, and the occasional scandal.” The men laugh like scandals are funny. They aren’t. Ask me how I know.

My chest tightens with anxiety, but I swallow it down, determined not to let my discomfort show. “Must be fascinating work,” I say politely, though the words taste bitter in my mouth.

“It certainly keeps me busy,” Blake answers, his gaze flickering over my face before returning to my breasts. “Your father has done great things for this town,” he continues, and I can’t help but detect a hint of condescension in his tone. “And I’m sure he expects the same from you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, doing my best to maintain a pleasant expression. “Yes, I’m aware of his expectations,” I reply coolly.

“Good,” Blake says, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’s important to know one’s place, after all.”

His hand brushes against mine under the table. I pull mine back quickly and shoot him a warning glare. Blake’s lips curl into a smug smile, revealing a set of perfect teeth. Like fake teeth. At this point, I am not one hundred percent certain Blake is actually human. Maybe he’s some kind of lecherous android.

I take a deep breath and try to focus on anything but him as my fingers fidget with the napkin in my lap. I attempt to keep up appearances by taking small bites of my food, but every morsel tastes like ash in my mouth.

“Try more wine, Cressida,” my father suggests, an edge in his voice that suggests it’s more of a command than a suggestion. “Blake brought it.”

Cool. Now my dad is trying to get me drunk.

The last thing any of us needs is for me to have more wine. I glance at the rich, red liquid in the crystal glass next to my plate and reluctantly take a sip to please the men. The warmth of the wine spreads through me, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to enjoy the sensation, hoping nobody put a roofie in it.

“Delicious,” I murmur, meeting Blake’s eyes as I set the glass back down. Something in his expression makes me want to wipe that self-satisfied look off his face. I find myself reaching for the glass again, this time taking a larger gulp. I know I shouldn’t, but the alcohol dulls the discomfort that has been building inside me since the start of the evening.

As the hour ticks by, I continue to drink the wine, my glass never empty thanks to Plastic Man, each sip making me bolder and more reckless.ThisI know how to do. Making bad decisions fueled by alcohol has been my calling card since I was fifteen.

My father and Blake carry on a conversation about some legal matter, their voices fading into a distant hum as the world around me starts to blur. I can feel the heat spreading from my cheeks down to my chest, and I know I’ve had too much to drink, but I don’t care.

“Did you know,” I interrupt, slurring my words slightly as I struggle to focus on both men, “that Blake reminds me of the dean from my school? My former school I mean.” My remark earns me a sharp glare from my father, but I ignore it, giggling as I lean forward, allowing my cleavage to become more exposed.

“Really, Cressida,” my father hisses through gritted teeth, “this is not appropriate dinner conversation.”

“Neither is parading me around in this dress like some sort of trophy,” I retort, my voice growing louder and more defiant. “But here we are.” I push back from the table, stumbling slightly as I rise to my feet. “I think I’ll retire for the evening.”

Chad snorts.

“Sit down,” my father commands, but I ignore him, my alcohol-fueled bravado urging me onward. I wobble toward the door, leaving behind a trail of embarrassment and tension that will undoubtedly have consequences in the days to come. So much for my plan to behave until Daddy Dearest forgets he’s mad at me.

As I stumble through the hallways of my childhood home, a small, stupid part of me revels in the chaos I’ve caused, the power I’ve seized, if only for a moment.

This is what I do, after all. It’s really all I’m good for.

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