Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,34
putting makeup on a lie doesn’t make it the truth.
Does that mean I don’t believe the future of BTN is on the line? Quite the opposite. What we’re doing carries too high of a risk for money not to be his driving force. But I’d be a fool to think there wasn’t an underlying motive as well.
Dominic straddles the lounge chair. As if wrestling with what to say, he shifts forward, the bottle clenched between his palms as his forearms rest on his thighs. “You did all right out there.”
“Just all right?”
The thin olive branch snaps along with his mood. “What the fuck do you want?” he grumbles, slamming the bottle on the table. “A medal? You let that asshole get to you and broke character. Whatever else you said won’t matter. That’s the stuff they’ll print.”
I resist the urge to smack him. “What the hell did you expect? I did the best I could. It’s not like you gave me any warning.” Then something ugly whispers in my ear. Something unfamiliar but dangerously sharp. “Is that what you and your girlfriend were doing in that fishbowl you call an office? Making bets on how long it would take for the paparazzi to tear me apart?”
They’re baseless accusations. I have no idea if that woman is his girlfriend, and it’s none of my business. He can do whatever the hell he wants. But I saw how close they looked.
Dominic turns, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Are you jealous?”
“What?” I spin around, almost knocking the bottle off the table. “Don’t be stupid. I don’t care who you do”—his smirk widens as I catch myself—“I mean what you do. I’m here for the money.” Gritting my teeth, I jerk the bottle off the table, ignoring the trail of fire it leaves in my throat.
Dominic quirks an eyebrow. “I thought slugging whiskey out of a bottle wasn’t your style?”
“Yeah, well neither is hijacking someone else’s identity.” I scowl, shoving it back toward his chest. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“Are you seriously pulling the moral card on me right now? You just lied to the entire world.” Grabbing the bottle, he slouches back in his chair, pointing the mouth in my direction. “Don’t pretend we don’t walk the same crooked line.”
His assessment hits home. For as much as I condemn him for what he’s done, I’m the one stealing another woman’s identity. This is getting my card punched straight to hell kind of shit.
I wrap my arms around my chest. “You’re right.”
I expect him to gloat, but his voice takes on a brittle edge. “Nobody likes having a mirror shoved in their face. That’s why it’s called the ugly truth. What we’ve done, where we’ve been, what we’ve seen—none of it’s a pretty reflection. No matter how hard a person sweeps their past under a rug, it always finds a way out.”
Swiping the bottle, I swallow another mouthful of liquid fire. “And if it doesn’t, you’ll happily dig it out yourself.”
“Cheap shot, rook,” he chuckles. “Clean, but cheap.”
“Forget it.” Setting the bottle by his feet, I wave a dismissive hand and stand. “I’ll leave you to your booze and bullshit.”
I don’t know why I’m so mad. That’s a lie. I’m mad because I’m desperate to hold on to the blame I feel slipping through my fingers. I’m mad because I’m the one standing in the middle of a glass house holding a handful of sharp rocks. Mostly, I’m mad because I don’t know if I’ve acquired a conscience or a weakness.
After all, guilt and gaslighting are only separated by a fraction of a degree.
“Wait.” Dominic’s hand clamps around my arm, and my gaze falls to where his fingers encircle my wrist. “Look, I know I’m not your favorite person, but we’re stuck together for the foreseeable future in a whole funhouse full of mirrors.”
I glance up. “Meaning?”
“Meaning pasts are like assholes; everybody has one. Some are uglier than others, but they’re all full of shit.” Pausing, he pins me with a heated stare. “But I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
Chapter Fifteen
Angel
It’s a loaded offer. Tempting but also dangerous.
“It’s not a happy story,” I admit, pulling away from his hold.
Dominic lets me go without protest, and flops back in his chair, leaving one leg dangling over the side. “I’m not a happy guy.”
His rough voice scrapes over my skin like sandpaper, but instead of turning away, I find myself arching toward it. I’m like Icarus flying toward the sun—knowing