The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(30)

And I have no idea why I’m taking it all so hard. Ben was never what I wanted. He was a shameful mistake I made, but I’ve bounced back from shameful mistakes before. My mom can tell something’s wrong, but I’m not sure how to explain it to her when I can’t even explain it to myself, so I simply go out of my way to avoid that conversation.

“So what are you watching?” I ask when I call her.

“He’s a neurosurgeon and so is she,” my mother replies. “But they won’t admit they like each other.”

“And they both hate their jobs,” I continue, “but he actually has inherited an old farm the two of them are going to refurbish after she realizes she no longer wants the big-city life?”

My mom laughs. “No, actually, she really likes her job. So does he.”

I frown. “Well, I don’t see how that could possibly work out well. That doesn’t even sound like a Hallmark movie.”

“It’s Grey’s Anatomy. I’m on the fifth episode.”

“I tried to get you to watch that for years and you refused!”

It takes her a moment too long to answer. “I used to only want to watch things about happy people,” she says quietly. “Now I’m wondering if I did you a disservice.”

My scalp prickles. “What do you mean?”

“You were so angry at your father over the divorce. You seemed so broken by how far he took things. I thought I needed to give you examples of these perfect romances, and I liked them, but I worry now…that I’ve set you up to want something that might not exist.”

The words “might not exist” kill me. And it’s less for me than it is for her. I know how badly she has wanted someone to come along, someone so wonderful that everything she suffered at my father’s hands would finally make sense. She wants to be able to say, “I went through hell, but I wound up in a better place” and I want it for her just as much.

“Mom,” I say, “sure it exists. You’re going to find someone.”

She has to find someone. I have to believe the world is a decent enough place that she won’t end up empty-handed after everything she’s been through.

“I don’t know about that, Gemma,” she says softly. “But the thing is, I have other pleasures in life. I have you, and I have all my memories of your childhood. I just wish I’d done a better job. I wish you were happier.”

“I’m really happy, Mom,” I tell her, but then I ruin it when my voice breaks.

I’ve been telling her I’m happy for years now. I’ve been telling myself that too. But this is the first time I’ve realized that neither of us believe it.





20





Fields catches me just as I step off the elevator. He tells me the judge on a case I just won said I was singularly vicious.

It’s not an insult, at least not in Fields’ eyes.

“I did what I had to,” I tell him.

A better person might argue that Chip Reardon, my client’s ex, made mistakes, but also clearly loved his kids. A better person would argue that even our heroes, even Martin Luther King and Gandhi, would look a bit flawed under a microscope and that messing up and being a jerk to your wife doesn’t necessarily make you an unfit parent. But why should I have to be a better person when no one else is? Why should I be a better person when Reardon’s piece-of-shit lawyer wouldn’t have been?

“I’d like you to represent me at a gala we’re co-sponsoring on Thursday,” he says.

I blink. Fields doesn’t do much legal work these days but he sure likes to hit all the parties and take all the credit. Asking an associate to represent him is a huge honor.

“Of course,” I reply. “I’d be happy to.”

“The company car will be here to take you at seven. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. Might be a good chance for you both to drum up some business.”

“Both?” I repeat.

“Tate’s going too,” he says.

A party with Ben, at night. Him in a tux.

My breath leaves me in an audible rush, and Gemma Charles, good girl, quakes in fear. The devil on my shoulder, though? His crowing, in this moment, nearly deafens me.





“My God, Gemma,” Keeley says, entering my apartment. “It looks like you just moved in. Are you never going to decorate?”

She says this every time she comes here, which is, admittedly, not often. Even when she lived next door, we always hung out at her place, and now that she has a lusciously equipped two-bedroom fully stocked with junk food and alcohol, it’s a given.

“I have a couch and a TV,” I tell her. “What more do I need?”

“Some sign that you’re human, or female?” She places a garment bag over the back of a chair, then looks around at my bare walls, as if it’s her first time seeing them. “I’ve stayed in executive hotel rooms that are homier than this.”

I wave a hand at her. “I’m too busy. I’ll worry about it once I’ve made partner.”

“Yeah, then you’ll be on easy street,” she scoffs. “Partners do no work at all, right?”

I open a bottle of wine. “I’ll worry about your very valid point once I’ve made partner. What did you bring me?”