Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(79)

“Someone say something, please,” Beau barks out after a moment of tense silence.

How on earth could we possible explain our way out of this? There is no innocent way to talk our way out of me wearing a remote-control vibrator. And it’s at that exact moment when Beau’s eyes shift from the remote in his dad’s hand to the spot between my legs, where I’m squeezing my thighs together and clutching my dress in my fist.

“I knew it,” he mutters in anger, suddenly realizing his suspicions were right all along.

“It’s nothing,” Emerson stutters with those enchanting green eyes on me. I swear I’m watching this play out in slow motion, the moment when he tries to actually deny what’s obvious. When he tries to deny me, or rather, us. My jaw drops as I glare back at him.

“Nothing?” Beau snaps, his gaze bouncing between the two of us.

“Yeah, nothing,” I mumble to myself before spinning on my heels and marching out of the room. The walls might as well be collapsing around me. Right now, it feels as if they are. And maybe I shouldn’t be so mad. I mean, it’s his son. I shouldn’t expect him to admit this so easily, but as I march through the office, I see everything that’s happened in the last two months play out—except this time in a different filter.

I see me, naive and hopeful, being everything Emerson Grant wanted me to be. I see myself changing for him. Kneeling for him. Lying and sacrificing myself…for him. I hear the slightest praise from his lips and how easily I caved and salivated for it, giving up everything I believed in just to hear it again and again. As if my entire worth hung on those two beguiling words: good girl.

The conversation between them grows heated, but it’s behind me in a muffled chatter I can’t translate. I’m too lost in my own haze of rage and desolation. I grab my phone from my desk, trying to focus on my surroundings through my blurred, teary vision. When I spin around and march toward the door for my purse, a warm, calloused hand clamps around my arm.

I look up to see Beau’s face stretched in anger. “Tell me the truth. Did he touch you?” he yells, and I can’t answer. I don’t even register the question. Shaking him off, I continue my march toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Emerson asks, blocking my path. As I bend down to retrieve my bag, a tear shatters on the shiny black surface of my high-heeled shoes. And I stare at them for a second. Who even am I? I lost my identity the minute I walked through that door. I gave it to a man who doesn’t even care about me.

It’s nothing, he said. About me. About us. Every single hopeful, lovesick, enamored thought in my head suddenly seems foolish.

God, I’m so fucking stupid.

When I tear open the door, he blocks me again. “Don’t go,” he says, and I hear the tone in which he says it, expecting me to follow it with an obedient, Yes, Sir. I keep my gaze away from his face as I obstinately mutter, “No.”

No, to your commands. No, to your promises. No, to your praise.

There’s another scuffle between them, and I’m able to work my way around Emerson. All my mind registers is the need to leave. So the minute the door is open, I disappear through it, and I don’t dare look back. The next second, I’m in my car and a moment later, I’m cruising down the highway toward my house. I manage to make it all the way to my bed before I sob hysterically into my pillow.





RULE #32: DURING A HARD BREAKUP, REFER TO RULE #4—TACOS AND MARGARITAS ARE ALWAYS THE ANSWER.





Charlie





“Get up,” Sophie says, slamming the room to my door as she marches in. It’s been eight days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes since I walked out of Emerson Grant’s house for the last time. And I haven’t done much but create a Charlie-sized indent on my bed, binge an entire Netflix true crime series, and eat my weight in Swedish Fish.

And cry. A lot.

When I look back at the last two months, I feel a sting of grief and shame. I can’t help but miss the way things were and the way I felt when I was with him, but it was all an illusion. I literally played a part, and I played it well. The things I did for him just to win his attention—it’s humiliating.

But then I remember the feel of his arms around me when I wake up, and the look in his eyes when he gazes down at me. That shattering night on Saturday when he confessed how much he cared about me…it’s hard not to feel like I’m throwing that love away. But he loved Charlotte, not Charlie.

“It’s Taco Tuesday. Let’s go fill up on chips and salsa and eat until we can barely walk.”

I grumble into my pillow.

“Are you paying? I don’t have a job, remember?”

“If you sneak me a sip of margarita, I will.”

I force out a laugh. As much as I want to roll over and ignore her invitation, I can’t do that to Sophie. It’s not her fault I’m a loser who falls for all the wrong guys.

“Fine…let me shower.” My voice sounds like gravel and my head is pounding from the bottle of white wine I destroyed last night. Maybe a margarita will help me feel better.

An hour later, Sophie and I are scarfing down carne asada and queso. I mean, it doesn’t exactly solve all of my love life woes, but it sure does help. You can’t be unhappy in a Mexican restaurant.

About halfway through dinner, I notice the booth across from us. It’s a family with two teenage boys, and I instantly notice the way they’re staring at Sophie. When I hear them muttering to each other, followed by laughter, I grip my margarita glass so hard, I’m afraid it’ll shatter.