The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (The Devils #2)(6)
It’s the hour when I admit that I’m a fake, that this person who appears in magazines and performs for thousands isn’t me at all. She doesn’t have my name, she barely looks like me anymore, and she isn’t even someone I like…yet the only way I can succeed in life, the only way I can get what I want, is to pretend to be her even harder than I already have.
After thirty minutes of lying in bed, wondering if things will ever get better, I rise and dress to go for a run. I don’t love running, but there are a lot of buffets here and Davis will kill me if I gain weight.
I take the elevator down and wander the paths out to the street. It’s silent now but for the babble of the fountains, the occasional murmur of someone at the front desk. There’s something inherently reassuring about it. About the whole city, and perhaps the whole island: the weather is mild, the trees bear fruit. You could lose everything and somehow survive. I have more money than I could ever spend, but the idea still appeals to me.
“Please tell me you aren’t planning to run before five in the morning in a strange city,” says a low voice I’d know anywhere, mostly because only one person is that contemptuous of me, twenty-four hours a day.
I turn to find Josh there, looking at me in a beam of moonlight. His eyes are like a summer storm; that furrow between his brows deep as a trench. I feel the oddest tug in my stomach at the sight of him…and ignore it.
And I’m not letting Josh add himself to the long list of people who feel free to correct and criticize me. How the hell is it any of his concern what I’m doing, anyway? Is he worried I’m out prowling, getting ready to steal silver from someone’s one-bedroom condo?
“Fine,” I reply with my sweetest smile. “I’m not planning to run.”
And then I turn and start to run.
I head down toward the main drag, popping my headphones in as I go. I pass a long, long row of ridiculously expensive stores, the kind of places I could now afford to shop if I didn’t hate shopping.
My soundtrack is this fairly mellow band from Sacramento. Mostly acoustic guitar, but I love the way they go from subtle to big, from comfortable to goosebumps-on-my arms.
It’s the kind of music I used to write, back before I got my first record deal and discovered I was never going to be performing my own stuff. I don’t even play guitar in concert now. You’re too hot to stand there just playing an instrument, my manager explained at first. People want a show.
Maybe I should have insisted on doing things my way, but I was twenty and broke and scared if I kept holding out for more, I’d wind up empty-handed. I doubt many people would say it was a mistake, given where I am now.
The shops come to an abrupt end, replaced by a little beachfront park where a massive, twisty tree looms just off the sidewalk. I jerk to a stop and stare at it. Under the glow of the full moon, it looks magical, like something created by Disney.
“It’s a banyan,” says a voice behind me. I gasp in surprise and round on Joshua.
“Did you follow me?”
His tongue prods his cheek. “I certainly wouldn’t run this slowly by choice.”
“Why?” I bark. My foot begins to tap. This was supposed to be my time to myself. Or at least my time away from people who accuse me of class A misdemeanors. “There’s no one even out here.”
“Right. I forgot how much safer it is outside when it’s dark and there are no witnesses.” He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You do realize that most attacks on female joggers occur in the morning?”
I lean against a lamppost and start to stretch. I’m already getting stiff. “Sounds like someone’s been researching the best way to attack female joggers. And we just passed Tiffany and Jimmy Choo. The brokest, most dangerous guy out here right now is probably you.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “And on the off chance you’re wrong, Drew, how exactly would you defend yourself? You’re about three feet tall.”
“I’m five-six,” I growl. “And I’m in amazing shape. I could fight off ten guys your size.”
This is perhaps a slight exaggeration. But I definitely kicked Max Greenbaum’s ass, mano-a-mano. Possibly less impressive if we weren’t nine when it happened, and if he hadn’t been really small for his age.
His brow lifts. “Ten guys?”
“At least ten. All at the same time. Tarantino movies are a pale imitation of my fighting skills.”
He steps into the sand. “Then show me,” he says. His shoulders are relaxed. “Let me see you defend yourself.”
The crickets chirp, the breeze blows, and moonlight glances over his smugly perfect face.
“My hands are registered lethal weapons. And you’re underestimating how bad I want to kick you in the balls,” I reply. “I wouldn’t push this.”
He tips his chin and his mouth almost curves into something less severe. “Yeah? Because you’re acting like someone who isn’t sure.”
Now that he’s called my bluff, I have to go through with it, though to my surprise I don’t actually want to hurt him quite as much as I thought. I mean, yeah, I still want to hurt him. Just…less. Also, he’s a foot taller than me. It will be a lot like trying to beat up a redwood.
“The last guy I fought wet his pants. Is that really something you want to risk?”