Dirty Little Secret (Dirty #1) Read online

  “I don’t want anything to do with you. Or your cock.” I spat out the last word like it disgusted me rather than thrilled me. “All I want is clean clothes and a new purse.”

  He shot me a lascivious smile. “You know what? I’m having second thoughts. Why don’t you take off your clothes, leave them here, and I’ll wash them for you myself?”

  “You wish.”

  His smile spread into a lazy, sexy grin, and suddenly he was on his feet, just an inch from my body. And I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t like the feel of him there. Want - hot, specific, and right between my legs - made me tremble.

  “Actually. I think you wish.” His voice was low, fucking amazing, and so close to me that could feel it rumble in his chest.

  I stifled a gasp. “You’re not my type.”

  “Here’s the thing, baby-doll. Every girl like you wants a guy like me. At least for the two hours it would take for me to wring you dry. The question is…What would I get out of it? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. You’d take every good thing I have to offer – and believe me, it is good – and then you’d run off.”

  As he spoke, he dragged a rough hand down my bare arm, leaving a flaming trail of desire in its wake.

  “You have no idea what kind of girl I am,” I replied, trying to keep my breathing in check.

  “Oh, but I do. Perfect parents. Perfect boyfriend. Perfect friends. Perfect life. Perfect little princess.”

  My breasts rose and fell with the cadence of his words, and his eyes strayed to my cleavage. I took the tiniest step closer. He brought his hand up to my cheek and grazed it lightly with his knuckles before bringing his arm around me and pulling me in. He spread my legs with his knee while holding the small of my back, and my insides tightened.

  Holy shit, I thought. He’s right. I do wish.

  “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?” he asked softly.

  “Ice cream?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  My favorite had always been Tin Roof Sundae with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. But when I opened my mouth, a lie came out instead.

  “Vanilla.”

  He leaned down, brushed his lips against mine, and whispered, “Perfectly predictable.”

  I had to get out of that over-sexed, over-confident caveman’s house, before I could do something I’d regret later.

  Because when he’d suggested I take my clothes off, I was more than half tempted to do it, just for shock value.

  Because when he’d call me a cock-tease, I’d wanted to prove him wrong.

  And because now that he was pressed against me, I wanted to strip him bare and fuck him and his shitty attitude sideways.

  “I have to leave,” I gasped.

  He smirked and let me go. “Thought so.”

  I banged down the stairs. I was angry at him. I was really angry at myself. And I was really, really at my newfound libido.

  I paused in the parking lot to shoot his obnoxiously parked truck a dirty look. Then I slammed it with a solid kick and turned to give the finger to what I hoped was the right window.

  “Take that, dipshit,” I muttered.

  I got one moment of satisfaction. Then I got soaking wet.

  “What the fuck!” I sputtered from underneath the stream of water pouring down on my head.

  “Sorry,” hollered the king of all assholes from a patio above me. “I was aiming for my truck. Someone told me it was dirty.”

  “Like hell you were!” I yelled back.

  “Just look at it this way…Now you’re clean and cool.”

  I glared up at him, pulled out my cell phone and yelled back, “And now I really am going to call the police!”

  He held a bucket out menacingly. “I’m assuming that means you’ve got a good replacement plan on that fancy phone of yours. Oh, and that you’re hoping our parking lot camera didn’t catch you shit-kicking my truck.”

  Goddamn him. Why did he always seem to have the upper hand?

  I decided to take what little dignity I had left and hightail it out of there. After all, I knew where he lived, and even though my formerly perfect self had never needed to exact revenge before, I was pretty sure it was the kind of thing that could only get better with planning.

  I shoved my phone back into my purse and climbed into Danny’s car.

  By the time I reached the apartment I shared with Shelby, I was shivering so badly that I almost couldn’t unlock the door.

  My friend gasped when she caught sight of me.

  “What happened?”

  “The coffee shop was out of frappes,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  My teeth started to chatter. “I d-d-don’t feel very well.”

  Shelby brought her hand up to my forehead. “You’re burning up!”

  “Sh-sh-shelby?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s your favorite ice cream?”

  “Vanilla. Why?”

  “N-n-no reason. I need to go to bed.”

  “Let me run you a bath first. I think you have a fever.”

  And there – if I wanted it - was the excuse I needed for my recent, out of character behavior.

  But I didn’t want an excuse.

  Instead, I wanted to use the fever to feed my dreams of a blonde Sasquatch ravaging my body.

  CUTTER

  I’m the first to admit that appearances can be deceiving. My own was a case in point. I had all the hallmarks of a hard luck life, when in fact, I’d dived into that life head first. You’d never know that I’d experienced the greener grass for the first eighteen or so years of my life. You’d never know that just five years ago, I’d been the one wishing I could sway a jury to my opinion while wearing an over-priced suit.

  I’m not going to lie and say that trading in the tie for a t-shirt turned me into one of those guys your eyes slide over in a room. I still stood out. Which suited me just fine. Mostly.

  I had no interest in fitting into that too-tight mold any longer. And I was happy to feel like I was about to prove my father wrong. I didn’t need the suit. I didn’t need the high-priced education. I didn’t need the girl with the faker-than-fake lifestyle. I didn’t need her hot self and her perky tits clogging up my brain.

  Faking it topped my very short list of shit I won’t do, shit I won’t tolerate, and shit that’s just that – shit.

  Something about that blonde, though…What was it?

  Whatever it was, it ate at me. Thoughts of her plagued me, and I couldn’t pinpoint my problem.

  On Saturday after work, I took out my confusion on the canvas, slashing out the lines of my favorite subject - a nude woman.

  The woman’s legs were crossed, hinting at what she had hidden between them. It wasn’t until the colors swirled together, I realized – or maybe acknowledged that - it was her. The sweeps of silky yellow, almost the colour of the sun, gave it away. Her face wasn’t clear, but the hint of her pert nose and arched cheeks were visible.

  When I moved to the eyes, trying to capture their cornflower blue, flashing and sweet at the same time, I had to stop.

  I need to see her to get them right.

  Except I wasn’t going to be able to see her.

  Because here’s the thing about house arrest. If you happen to have a hobby, you’ll have time to get really fucking good at it. However, if you need to stalk somebody to get that hobby perfect, it’s just too fucking bad.

  I bit down on the end of my paintbrush and gave the canvas a dirty look.

  My cell phone rang, and just this once, I was happy for the intrusion.

  “Cutter here.”

  “Galini. Here.” The mocking reply made me grit my teeth.

  Allow me to take a moment to introduce the asshole who was my probation officer. Let’s just say he took his authority seriously. He is the boss of you. Or in this case, me. He felt a constant need to remind me of this, and did so in as obnoxious a way as possible. Mostly by making everything he did seem like a favor. As if my monthly (
thank God they were no longer weekly) visits to the jerk weren’t court-mandated and he wasn’t getting paid to monitor my activities.

  He liked to ask questions he knew the answer to, as well.

  For example, he knew perfectly well how my work schedule worked. Five morning shifts. Five night shifts. Five shifts of afternoons. I was in the middle of the mornings, and finished by four o’clock.

  That didn’t stop him from asking, “Not at work?”

  “Done for the day,” I managed to reply pleasantly.

  He was also always saying annoying shit. Like always using his own personal buzz words.

  “Touch base”.

  “Moving forward”.

  “In the loop”.

  He did it just then. Of course.

  “Right. So, I’m going to go ahead and disregard the fact that you didn’t touch base with me yesterday.”

  What I was thinking is this. It’s not the first Monday of the month. The first Monday is our day to touch base. Or make out. Or whatever gets your rocks off. I don’t have to call you any other goddamned day of the month.

  I’d learned early on he wouldn’t think that was funny, and that he would gladly take away one of my few so-called privileges – cell phone, private residence, scheduled visits – in a quick-as-hell heartbeat. My first month under Galini’s care had landed me a daily drug test and an unpleasant weeklong tour of what passed for a halfway house. Seven months in, and I’d learned to ride the line between kissing his ass and biting my tongue.

  So what I said was this. “Sorry, man.”

  “Sorry, man? Care to elaborate on that? What did the college say?”

  In my head. None of your business.

  Out loud. “The college liked the piece. A lot. I’m painting now, in fact.”

  I was careful not to say I was working on the commissioned piece. He’d know right away it wasn’t true. For all his cocksucker-iffic attitude, if there was one thing Galini was great at, it was detecting a lie. I wasn’t prepared to tell him that I’d dirtied up a pretty girl and that now I was a little fixated on getting the color of her eyes just right on my canvass. It was exactly the kind of thing that made him ask me to piss in a jar.

  “Lovely,” he stated.

  He sounded like he thought it was anything but lovely, of course. He didn’t really want to see any of his probe-ies (as he called us not-so-fondly) succeed in much more than menial labor or bagging groceries.

  “So…I’ll see you on the next Monday, then?” I asked.

  “You bet.”

  I waited. I knew the conversation wasn’t over until he’d closed with “Over and out.”

  “Oh. Cutter?”

  “Still here,” I acknowledged.

  “Permission came through from the courts. For your sister’s wedding.”

  I greeted his announcement with silence. He said it as if it were an afterthought, but I’d sent the request in three months earlier. In fact, I’d kinda given up hope of getting it granted. How long had Galini known?

  “Cutter?”

  I cleared my throat and injected a smile into my voice. “That’s great news, man. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Are you sure you’re going to be all right with this?” he wanted to know.

  I forced a chuckle. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “That doesn’t fill me with confidence,” Galini replied.

  “I’m going to be a grown up about it,” I offered.

  “I’m rooting for you.”

  Like fuck you are.

  “Thanks, man.” It required a lot of effort to make it sound sincere.

  “No problem. Over and out.”

  I hung up and turned back to my painting.

  Why wouldn’t I be fine with it? I thought sarcastically. After all, my sister is just getting married to the man who let his friends drug her and assault her. Right after he abandoned her on the side of a highway to die.

  MELISSA

  A whole two days had gone by since I collapsed into my bed, and if my mom – yes, I was going to keep calling that because no way was I rocking the boat - hadn’t begged me to join her for brunch and a round of tennis, I probably would’ve stayed in bed for a second day. And maybe a third. The only good thing about being sick was that I’d been able to effectively avoid Danny without much trouble. The man (why did I feel like I was using that term lightly?) was a total germ freak.

  Normally, the patio at my parents’ country club was one of my favorite spots. It offered both an unobstructed view of all the club’s amenities, including the pool, tennis courts, and golf course, and a panoramic view of the valley. But at that moment, I couldn’t appreciate any of it. All I wanted to do was curl up in a self-pitying ball of left over sickness.

  It didn’t help that somewhere below us, a construction crew was repairing the pool house. Every few minutes, a hammer hit, or a drill or saw roared to life, making me cringe.

  “Are you all right, Missy?”

  My mom’s question irritated me. Everyone and his dog knew I hated being called Missy. I’d rejected the nickname when I was five years old, but now and then, she used it anyway. Like rubbing salt in a nickname-shaped wound.

  “Missy?”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I snapped. “Cut me some slack. I’ve been sick.”

  The appalled look on her face at my tone should’ve initiated some kind of emotional response in me. Regret being the most likely candidate, followed closely by guilt. Respect was expected. And usually automatic. I was the seen-and-not-heard child, after all. But right then, I had a hard time caring.

  It isn’t my fault my illegitimate birth had ruined their plans for early retirement.

  I wanted to pick up my iced tea and toss it at her. I tightened my fingers around the glass. The thought of covering her in its contents made me smile just a little bit.

  “Chin up, dear,” my mom said.

  I raised the glass, tempted. Then I pressed it to my forehead, and looked away so she wouldn’t see my eye roll. My gaze sought something else – anything else – to fix on other than my mom’s frown. What it found was enough to make my head throb against the iced tea.

  The construction crew had moved into view, and for a minute, I thought the fever hallucinations were coming back. I blinked. He was really there.

  So. The truck-driving doorknob is also a hammer-wielding doorknob. What a bloody surprise.

  It wasn’t really warm enough to be topless, but he was anyways. Of course. The sight of him today, with his perfect pecs on display, pissed me off even more than the sight of him and monstrous truck two days earlier.

  The asshole couldn’t even leave me alone long enough to be sick in peace. And it was his fault to begin with.

  He looked up, like he could feel my eyes on him.

  C’mon, I willed silently. Just try your little act here. See how fast your ass gets kicked to the curb.

  But he didn’t notice me. He just took a long swig from his water bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he did it.

  For a brainless second, I was envious of that bottle, and the way his lips closed over it. What would it feel like, to have that mouth clamped down on me with such fervor?

  One of the other workers – his top was on, I noted snidely – said something, and the obnoxious bastard threw his head back and laughed before turning away from me. A tattoo spread across his well-muscled back, stretching from one hulking shoulder to the other. Was it an eagle? Or a hawk? It was hard to tell, and I leaned forward in an automatic attempt to get a better view.

  “How inappropriate,” my mom murmured.

  I jerked back, embarrassed, struggling to find an excuse. But her gaze was fixed on the construction workers, just like mine.

  “Don’t you agree, Missy?” she asked. “It’s hard enough to enjoy brunch with the racket they’re making, but when they’re not made to comply with the club’s dress code, it’s twice as bad.”

  I bit back a comment about how man
y ladies were probably positioned on the deck at that very moment just to enjoy the free show.

  “Well?” she prodded.

  “They’re by the pool,” I pointed out. “Maybe they thought only the pool dress code applied.”

  My mother raised both her eyebrows in surprise. “Was that sarcasm?”

  I took a solid sip of my iced tea and met her eyes. “Of course not! You know me, Mom. I was just trying to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

  She sighed. Because as of a few days ago, I wasn’t a liar. Of course, if I was being honest…A few days ago, I probably would have agreed with her sentiments whole heartedly.

  “Someone ought to say something,” she added.

  I jumped up, nearly knocking over my iced tea. “I’ll do it. I think I saw the manager hanging around a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you had to do it. I could ask one of the staff to find Mr. Cole and – “

  “No, Mom. I’m happy to so it. I want you to be able to enjoy your brunch.”

  I hurried away before she could realize that my words, which probably would’ve been said with the utmost sincerity just a week earlier, were a big, fat lie.

  I made my way through the club with my head tucked down, in case I ran into Mr. Cole, the manager of the club, for real. I didn’t want him to ruin my fun. After the way things panned out the other day, I was really looking forward to putting the construction worker in his place. I took a short-cut down the staff stairs, then through the laundry room that was adjacent to the indoor pool, and out to the grassy area beside the outdoor hot tub.

  I got about five feet away from Mr. Douchebag before I paused. My gaze rested on his back. The tattoo wasn’t a bird at all, but a griffin. Its eagle’s wings spanned his ample breadth, and its lion’s body was poised as if ready for a fight. There was something equally poignant and triumphant about the art.

  As if the jerkface has any depth to him at all, I thought. Probably got it in a drunken stupor.

  I dragged my eyes away, automatically travelling the rest of his body, assessing his appearance.