Dirty Little Secret (Dirty #1) Page 16

  What did she want me to say to that? I couldn’t think of something appropriate. Good, is what I thought, but it just seemed too mean with the kid sitting right there.

  “Oh,” I said instead.

  “It’s okay to ask who his father is.”

  Something in her words made me not want to ask.

  “He’s four and a bit,” Fiona offered. “You can do the math.”

  Automatically, my brain worked its way backward. Four years, plus a bit, plus nine months. She was fifteen when she got pregnant. My blood went cold, and it was impossible to cover my horror.

  “One of the others?” I spat, stepping away and knocking over my floor lamp.

  Fiona glanced sharply at Lane, but he was still wrapped-up in his game.

  “Yes,” she said to me. “One of them. I don’t know which one. I don’t care. Josh doesn’t care. And you shouldn’t, either.”

  I ran my hand through my hair, and shook my head, biting back everything I wanted to say in favor of what she wanted to hear. After all, she was still my little sister.

  “Okay. I don’t care.”

  Fiona laughed. “You’re still such a terrible liar, Cutter.”

  In spite of myself, I cracked a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

  “I understand why you do care,” she told me. “And it’s my fault.”

  Those words cut like a knife. They were so similar to the ones she used right after the assault.

  “I don’t mean like that,” she amended, reading my expression. “I just mean that it was my responsibility to include you in my life, after. And instead, I kicked you out of it. I testified against you in Josh’s case.”

  I tried to shrug it off. “I get it. You were angry at me for interfering in your life.”

  “And for picking dad over me. And for not catering to my every need. And for being right, all the time. I took it out on myself, hoping it would punish you, too.”

  “I’m sorry for not trying harder.”

  “You tried damned hard. Until I wouldn’t let you. When I found out I was pregnant with Lane, I got sober, fast,” she explained. “I was already three months along, and I had to face things I didn’t want to face. I’d tried to send my own brother to jail, and I was having a baby who I couldn’t even remember conceiving. By the time I’d run down all my own demons…It was right around the time you burned that building. I blamed myself for that, too.”

  “None of what I did was your fault,” I replied. “I fu – err – messed that up all on my own.”

  Fiona shook her head. “I know that, in my head. Josh and my therapist tell me all the time. But I still need you to forgive me.”

  “I can forgive you, Fi, if that’s what you need. I just don’t know if I can ever get past what Josh did to you.”

  I glanced down at Lane, who’d paused the game and was now looking at me with a root beer mustache lining his top lip. My heart tugged a little at his sweet expression, and I ruffled his hair impulsively. He grinned and went back to his game. Suddenly, I wanted that kid in my life. And my sister, too.

  “I can try,” I offered.

  “That’s all I want,” my sister replied, then examined my face. “Are you all right? I mean, other than the obvious?”

  I sighed softly, remembering a time when we would throw a sheet over our mom’s antique kitchen table, and hide underneath it, exchanging secrets like only a brother and sister can. There was too much of a rift between us now to fall easily back into that pattern.

  “Just a girl problem,” I said as lightly as I could manage.

  Fiona looked like she was going to ask for more information, but Lane jumped up suddenly and announced, “I’m done the game. You said when I was done, we could go for hamburgers with Daddy. Can we go see Daddy now?”

  My sister gave me an apologetic look and let her son pull her toward the door. “Sure, Lane. Give your uncle a hug.”

  He jumped forward and crushed me in the four-year-old version of a bear hug before he ran back to his mom and buried his face in her legs. I followed them to the door, where Fiona paused and gave me a hug of her own.

  “There’s still time,” she told me, and pressed a piece of paper into my hand. “That’s our number. You can call me, if you want.”

  I gave her a tight nod and closed the door behind her.

  When she said there was still time, I knew she was talking about her, and Josh, and me, but my mind went to Melissa automatically, and I wondered if there was still time where she was concerned. I glanced at my watch, then down at my ankle monitor. I was on the morning shift. In twelve hours, when I finished work, I would have approximately thirty-five minutes to drive to her house, and to convince her that my sister’s words were true for us, too.

  MELISSA

  After I dropped Danny’s car, I caught a cab to my parents’ house, where I spent the next few days. I’d only meant to give myself a night away from home, to keep from having to face Shelby and her perpetually cheerful disposition. I knew my parents were away, and that gave me some much needed time alone. But after the first night, I couldn’t make myself leave.

  It wasn’t until the fifth day, when I’d finally caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, that I’d decided I’d better make a visit to my apartment. I’d gone through every spare outfit I had at their place, and all I had left was a bikini and a pair of cut-off shorts. They weren’t exactly flattering. Even after a shower and a raid of my mother’s make-up, I still looked like a five dollar hooker. On a bad day.

  So I tossed aside what little pride I had left, and caught a cab home.

  The first thing that struck me as odd as I paid my fare was that Danny hadn’t yet picked up his car. The second strange thing I noted as I came through the door at mine and Shelby’s apartment. It was too dark. And not the kind of dark like no one was home. The kind of dark that begged for candlelit dinner.

  The third thing that gave me pause was the low sound of Danny’s voice, carrying from somewhere inside, down through the hall.

  I assumed he was there for me.

  I assumed he wanted to make amends.

  Or something.

  Anything but what I saw when I got to the living room.

  “What. The. Fuck.”

  At my slow exclamation, two nude bodies jumped up from the couch. Two sets of eyes met mine in horror.

  “Melissa!” Shelby’s voice came out sounding like a yelping Chihuahua.

  Danny just used my roommate’s bra to cover up his rather unimpressive package.

  “Dodged a bullet there, didn’t I?” I asked, then started to laugh.

  Maybe they were expecting me to freak out. Hell, maybe I was freaking out, laughing because my best friend and my ex-fiancé were having sex. I glanced down at the ring on my finger. Oh, yes. It was still there. For as long as it had been on my hand, I’d wanted to take it off and leave it off. Now that I could legitimately give it back…I wanted to cling to it.

  I looked back to Shelby and Danny, and another hysterical giggle burst through my lips.

  “You realize that we’ll never be able to sit on the couch again,” I stated.

  They both stared at me, mouths open, and eyes wide. And damn, I just couldn’t hold it in.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said between giggles. “I’m just going to grab a shirt and go.”

  I laughed all the way to my room, where I grabbed the first t-shirt I could find, and all the way back out the door, where near-hysterical tears poured down my cheeks. I couldn’t even stop when I realized that because I’d taken a cab to my parents place and back, and hadn’t picked up my car, and now…for some unfathomable reason, Danny’s vehicle was now parked behind mine. I was stuck.

  “Well…What the fuck am I going to do now?”

  I almost – really damned close to almost, in fact – went back into the house.

  What would they do if I just flopped down on the couch, put my feet on the table, and flicked on the TV and started watching a movie?


  But at that second, I spotted the still half-full bottle of Southern Comfort on Danny’s backseat. I yanked on the door, found it open, and decided to help myself.

  I cracked the bottle and chugged back a healthy swig. It shot straight through me, warming everything from the inside out. I took a second sip. For the first time in almost a week, I felt relaxed. Not calm, exactly. But something that would pass – if I didn’t analyze it too carefully, that is – for happiness.

  I glanced up toward the window of my apartment, and snorted another laugh, trying to guess how long I should give them before I went in and demanded that Danny move his car.

  Probably not long.

  I grinned, and spontaneously decided to go for a walk.

  Bottle in hand, I wove through the streets, wondering why it hadn’t occurred to me to drink in public before.

  I don’t know if I consciously made my way toward the party house or not, but ten minutes - and a lot of stumbles - later, I found myself standing in front of the notorious building, daring myself to go inside.

  Okay, maybe stood in front of is an exaggeration. I was actually crouched down in the bushes, staring through a window of the well-known home, thinking tipsily about how the few blocks between my place and this place acted as a buffer between worlds.

  On my side, it was all row housing. Three-level, attached homes, which had been converted into apartments. Each house had the same layout. The first floor was comprised of a bachelor suite, a shared laundry room, and a storage area. The second floor – where Shelby and I lived – was the biggest in the house, with a full kitchen, a wide living space, and two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. The top floor had a one-bedroom penthouse. And each one was the same as the last. Understated. Classy.

  “Bor-r-r-r-ing,” I announced my conclusion about my living space into the air.

  All the places in this area were also student housing, but they attracted people who preferred beer to books.

  Far more interesting.

  As was evidenced by what I could see - through the haze of Southern Comfort and a steamy window - of the eclectic group inside.

  Guy with guitar. Check.

  Girl with flower in her hair. Check.

  “What the hell are you doing?!”

  I jumped back at the angry, feminine voice that came through the screen. Oh, and at her shriek holler, I landed solidly on my ass.

  “Silv!” the girl yelled. “There’s a fucking pervert out there, watching us!”

  Part of me cowered, and begged the living-on-the-edge me to run. I ignored her snivelling. In fact, I took that good girl, smacked her face, shoved her down, and stood my ground, waiting for the confrontation.

  It only took a second.

  A redhead with a pierced lip came storming out of the house. She marched over to me and grabbed me by my hair.

  Why couldn’t it have been the one with the flower? I thought, and fought down a giggle.

  As the redhead dragged me from my hiding place, my shorts snagged on a thorn, which tore a gaping hole right below one of my rear pockets. The other girl didn’t care. She just yanked harder, forced me up and through the front door. Once inside, she pushed me to my knees in front of a porn-moustached man.

  “She was in the bushes,” the redhead announced. “Spying on our party.”

  And here comes the very obvious reason why, for a good girl, drinking is a no-no. Especially street-drinking. A wine spritzer with a lemon twist, sipped over the course of a three-hour meal is as far as my former type would usually go. Several shots of straight Southern…not so much.

  I snorted. “This is not a party. I can’t even believe I called the cops on you last week.”

  Porn-stache eyed me up and down. “You called the cops?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look like you have the nerve to call your mother, let alone the cops.”

  I took a swig from my bottle and announced, “I live three blocks over. We could hear you from there. Oh, and I’m not wearing a bra, just a bikini.”

  Stachey-mc-stacherson fixed his gaze on my t-shirt. I stuck my chest out defiantly, pleased when my nipples stood to attention.

  “I told you she was a pervert,” the redhead stated.

  “I’m not the one with the creep-tastic moustache, staring at some girl’s boobs,” I retorted.

  She cuffed me, and I fell to the floor with my hand covering the immediately sore spot just above my cheekbone.

  “What the hell!” I yelled. “That’s going to leave a bruise!”

  “That’s my boyfriend,” she informed me. “His name is Silv. Try insulting him again.”

  From my spot on the floor, I gave her a disgusted look. Because apparently, in addition to my sudden brashness, I was in the mood for making bad choices.

  “Your boyfriend looks like a three-day old douchebag. And I don’t mean the metaphorical kind. I mean a real and true, actual, physical douchebag. I’m sure you’ve seen one.”

  She leaped at me. But even drunk, I was quick. And years of cheerleading made me flexible. I twisted and rolled away, and the girl landed with a hard thump right beside me. The bottle of Southern tipped in my hand, splashing out on the floor.

  “Dammit,” I muttered.

  The girl and I came to our feet at the same second. She lunged for me again, and instinctively, I lashed out.

  My left fist – because the right one was now clutched around the Southern Comfort – flew to her face, striking her awkwardly on the nose.

  My hand hurt. It burned. And I wondered how the hell anyone could fight on a regular basis.

  Still, the sight of the redhead splayed out on the floor, total shock coloring her features, was gratifying. When she tried to stand, slipped on the tile floor, and went down again, it was entertaining enough to make me burst out laughing.

  “Oh, shit. That is funny,” I said, then turned to my nearly empty liquor bottle. “But I spilled my drink.”

  Silv-the-Porn-King grinned, and his squirrel-tail moustache wiggled at he spoke to the girl on the floor. “Don’t bother standing up, Candy. I’m gonna pour a body shot for our new friend here, and you’re gonna be the cup.”

  Seconds later, I was slurping up tequila from the belly button of a girl who wanted to kill me, and negotiating the terms of a round of strip poker.

  CUTTER

  I pulled my truck up Melissa’s street, and forced myself to see past the perfect little yards and the perfect little porches. The neighborhood was yuppie-in-the-making to a fucking tee.

  No one who lived here would wind up behind bars. If they broke any laws, they would be the embezzlement kind, where they’d have tucked away a hundred million dollars in an off-shore account. Their only punishment would be having to use all the money to drink non-brand-name liquor in some beach-filled, non-extraditing country somewhere. Okay, maybe I wasn’t that fucking successful at seeing past it, but I tried. Sort of.

  Melissa’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and I had to beat down a weak-ass urge to spin the truck through the street and head off in the other direction.

  Thirty-five minutes, I reminded myself. Don’t fucking waste them.

  The driveway in front of her place was full of cars that made my lip curl derisively. Shiny. Heated seats. Making a statement about their owners’ places in the world.

  I parked my truck behind a Beemer, blocking it in, and hopped out of my truck.

  She was in apartment B, and that, at least, made me smile. She’d stuck herself in the middle. The top floor would’ve been too obvious, and screamed of ego, while the bottom would’ve been overly self-effacing. The middle was Melissa drawing attention to the fact that she was good, but not too good. She could take second place gracefully.

  Except with me, I thought. I’m going to put her in first place, every fucking day.

  My heart squeezed in my chest, and I took the walkway in wide, eager steps.

  Then stopped.

  Through the white curtains on
the second floor, I saw a man’s silhouette.

  She had company. I hadn’t planned for that contingency. I glanced at my watch. Thirty-two minutes. I’d use two to get rid of him, and thirty to talk her into giving me another chance. For once, I wouldn’t fuck up.

  A moment later, though, another figure crossed the curtains, and I froze.

  Even from where I was, and with the curtains obscuring the view, I could tell she was naked.

  Perfectly fucking naked.

  The swell of hips and tits, the flow of hair, the subtle shift of leg – all of it made me go completely still.

  She wrapped her arms around the man, tipped her head back, and their lips met, looking for all the world like a piece of goddamned art. Something I’d be proud to paint.

  Fuck.

  No. That didn’t even begin to describe the somehow hollow, somehow angry, somehow shattered feeling that drove through me.

  I had no one to blame but myself. I’d sent her straight back to him, and I had to fucking own it. That didn’t make it hurt any less.

  I spun on my heel and hightailed it back to my truck, wishing I hadn’t taken my sister’s words to heart. Wishing I was still as heartless as I’d been before I met Melissa.

  I backed my truck up slowly. I didn’t want to cause a scene, which spoke volumes about my state of mind. I didn’t want to destroy anything. Except maybe myself.

  When my cell phone rang the first time, pulling me from the brink of a pain-filled cavern, I didn’t answer it.

  I continued to drive blindly through the streets with a crushed-in feeling pushing on my chest, and a sea of black in my mind.

  When my cell went off another time, I forced myself to grab the phone from the console.

  Pull your shit together, Cutter, I chastised myself as I answered in a dull tone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Buddy. You know that pretty blonde in your coat and not much else?”

  My boss’s gravelly voice was concerned, and I wondered for a - possibly losing-my-shit-influenced - moment if he was psychic. How else would he know I was on the edge, and how would he know it was about Melissa? Then he spoke again.