Romantic Secrets
(Book 1)
by
MONIQUE DUBOIS
Copyright © 2020 Monique DuBois
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Places, names, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Connect with Monique DuBois
one
The minister says a few last things, and then the casket is lowered into the ground. It’s over. Emma is gone. Really and truly gone. I shudder and pull my thin sweater closer around my shoulders, and then squeeze my eyes shut as I mentally say goodbye to the cousin I’d only met a few times in my life. A few Facebook messages a year don’t count as a relationship, of course, but she was still my blood. My family.
I stand off to myself, feeling numb. A few people mill about. Emma clearly didn’t have many friends. Something about that realization makes me feel closer to her in a way. I don’t have many friends either. Despite the prickling in my eyes, the squeezing in my throat, tears don’t come. Maybe tears are only for people who you know well or are close to. I do feel profoundly sad, though, despite my lack of outward emotion. Sad for the young life cut short, right before her college graduation. Sad for the few memories of the child who I played with in a sandbox long ago: a cousin and friend who I never saw again after our mothers had a falling out. Sad for the human being who is no more.
Murdered, that’s what the cops said. Emma was murdered in her dorm bedroom, along with her boyfriend. Then someone cleaned it up. But later, the pieces were put together by some good detective work. The cops still don’t know for sure who did it, although there was a suspect in custody, some guy named Robert who was obsessed with Emma’s roommate. I’m still not sure where they found Emma’s body because the police are being hush-hush about it, but all that really matters is that a young life was snuffed out for no reason. The wrong person at the wrong time, mistaken for her roommate by a crazy stalker. It’s tragic, and my throat clamps tight every time I think about what Emma must’ve experienced in those last moments. The pain. The fear.
I’m the only one here representing Emma’s family. Her mother—my aunt—is still in the drug treatment program and couldn’t come. Her father…well, he disappeared long ago, when Emma was a baby. My mom said we needed to have some kind of funeral, to show our respects to her niece and my cousin, and so she paid to have Emma’s body buried in a New York cemetery. It was too expensive to fly her home. My mom wanted to come to the funeral but couldn’t get the time off work. I felt I should go, to represent Emma’s family…even though I couldn’t afford to. Even though I didn’t know her anymore.
Besides the need to be here for Emma’s memory, I don’t know exactly what compelled me to fly all the way out to New York from the Midwest, putting such a hefty airfare on my credit card when I could barely pay my rent. Maybe part of it was selfish, since I’d always wanted to see New York. At one time, I’d had dreams of becoming an actress or model, back before I realized that waiting tables was my destiny. It usually is the type of thing a girl like me gets stuck doing: a girl with no college education, no money, no connections, and my type of past.
Or maybe what really compelled me to come here was the cryptic message Emma left on her Facebook wall two days before she died. She’d said she was going to “start putting her talents to use to make some money, just like her roommate did,” and then she posted a sex video of her roommate. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or being sarcastic or mean or what. I’d private messaged Emma, something I rarely did, but I was curious and had to know what she meant. I hadn’t expected her to reply back because she and I weren’t all that close, so I was surprised when I actually got a message from her. She said she was going to become a call girl, and that she knew a woman named Ms. White who her roommate worked for. Ms. White ran a high-end escort agency that paid oodles of money just for having sex with rich, handsome men. At the time, I’d thought Emma was bluffing about the sum of money she said would be making just for having “dates” with rich dudes. Of course, the dates would include sex, which had also intrigued me. You see, I love sex. I’ve been known to have a slutty side, just like my cousin. That was something we had in common. Every time I saw her post about another guy she’d laid, I would laugh to myself. We were more alike than she ever knew.
I love men and being desired by them. I love the physical act of having sex, even though I’ve never had an orgasm. What I really like is the temporary feeling of feminine power that sex gives me. I love feeling beautiful and wanted in a man’s arms, if just for a moment. Even in my podunk town where I live, there are some very good-looking guys who will take you to dinner and then to bed if you want them to. What girl in her right mind would pass up a free meal and a great night of toe-curling sex? I never say no to pleasure. I’ve got a bit of a reputation for being the town slut, but a girl’s gotta escape how she’s gotta escape. After all, what else do I have going on? I have a shitty job, a shitty car that backfires every two seconds, no boyfriend, and no future to speak of. All I do is go home after work and watch TV. Sex is my only outlet. It’s my only real fun. I like getting dressed up, hitting up the local bar, having some drinks, and then ending up in the bed of some guy I’d seen around town with arms like pistons and a way of temporarily loving that can make a girl dream of better things, if just for a few hours. Those are the times I pretend I’m in a real relationship with a man who loves me…even though that’s never going to happen.
You see, it’s not going to happen because I won’t ever let it.
I’m only in it for fun, not long term. That’s just the way I am. Chalk it up to my past; chalk it up to my modern-girl mentality. It’s how I roll.
It’s not all fun and games, though. My fantasy nights often end in some sort of shame and disappointment, but that’s part of the price. I’ve gotten used to it: to the feelings of worthlessness that crowd in as the evening’s buzz wears off and the man I’m with gets that distant, post-sex look that says he can’t wait for me to leave so he can get some sleep. I’m used to that walk of shame out to my car, where I put the key in a cold engine, wait for the usual backfire that is like a defiant fart in the face of my one-night stand, and then drive off into the night.
By mid-afternoon of the next day, the shame has mostly disappeared. After all, I’m a modern girl taking control of her own sexual needs; what’s wrong with that? The one thing I gave up long ago was the illusion that any of my one-night stands would lead to something more…not that I ever wanted them to. One-night stands are perfect for me. They don’t lend themselves to long-term relationships. There are no complications, and I don’t have to be vulnerable. I’ll always be single by choice, I’ve come to realize. I’ve made peace with that long ago, and in fact welcome it. I’m not relationship material and never will be. Not after what happened to me all those years ago with my stepfather. Those nights as a l
ittle girl…the nights I can’t bring myself to remember… Those were the nights I would escape inside myself and promise to never get married because of what men are capable of. If that was love—the way he whispered in my ear with his foul breath as he did bad things to me—then I never wanted to experience “love” again. I vowed, even as a young girl, that when I grew up, I would take my power back from men. I would never let any man close. I would look out for myself and myself only. It was the only way to survive. And so I have.
To the outside, my life probably looks like it sucks. I guess it does. So be it. If it sucks so bad that sex is the only thing that makes me feel good, then I’m taking what I can get. But I’m never falling in love. That’s a losing game. After all, my mother fell in love and look what it got her. Look what it got me. Love is pain, and I’ve decided that I’m just going to be pragmatic about things.
That’s why Emma’s Facebook post intrigued me so much. What if I could have impersonal sex and get paid for it? What if I could have all of the physical, hedonist pleasure of sex, and of being wined and dined and feeling like a powerful woman, but none of the pain of relationships? It sounded perfect to me.
After Emma’s funeral, I vowed I was going to track down this Ms. White Emma had mentioned and ask to work for her as an escort. I could only hope she would say yes.
So I got on a plane bound for New York to say goodbye to my cousin…and hello to a new life.
And here I am.
two
As I’m leaving Emma’s funeral, I notice a college-aged girl standing off to the side, wiping tears out of her eyes. Something about her looks familiar…and then I realize she’s the same girl I saw in the sex tape that Emma had posted.
I would recognize that face, that hair, that…body, anywhere. Except this time she’s not pleasuring herself for a camera.
Yep, it’s her. The roommate. The one who was supposed to be in that casket instead of my cousin.
I need to talk to her, and it’s not just because I have questions about my cousin’s death and the roommate’s part in it. I also need to talk to her because she’s the only one who knows Ms. White’s information. She’s my ticket to a new job and a new life as an escort.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk over to her. She blinks when she sees me. She stares as if she’s seen a ghost.
I sigh and give her a wisp of a smile. “Yes, I know I look like Emma. We’ve been told we looked alike since we were kids. I haven’t seen her in a long time, but when I saw her Facebook pictures, I realized we still had a strong resemblance.”
“You could be twins,” the girl says, her eyes wide. Her face is pale, and her lips tremble. “It’s like seeing a ghost.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling a twinge of compassion for this poor creature. She looks as though she’s been through hell and back, based on the deep circles under her eyes and the way she keeps twisting a tissue as she stares at me.
“I’m Abigail,” I say, sticking out my hand. “But you can call me Abby. I’m Emma’s cousin.”
“Isabella,” the girls says. Her hand feels small and clammy in mine. She’s not much shorter than me, but something about her countenance seems much smaller, as if she’s shrinking before my very eyes. It’s as if she’s terrified of me.
“Don’t worry,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “I won’t bite.”
“You’re a lot nicer than Emma,” she blurts out suddenly, and then looks chagrined. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I could tell from her Facebook posts and Tweets that she wasn’t the nicest person. Or if she was, it was hidden under layers of snark. If I were to psychoanalyze her Dr. Phil style, I would say her bitchy attitude was probably a facade covering pain underneath, but still. It doesn’t give someone the right to be a nasty witchy-poo just because they’ve had some hard times. We’ve all had hard times. Right?”
She looks astonished. “Right,” she stutters. She stares at me for a long moment. “I didn’t know Emma had any relatives. She always talked as if she had no one who cared about her in the world.”
“Maybe she didn’t,” I say. I inwardly sigh. I know that feeling. It was just another thing that made me feel a tiny bit closer to my wayward, bitchy cousin. I might be nice on the outside, but Isabella shouldn’t be fooled. I’m just as hard as my cousin, except Emma’s hard shell was on the exterior. Mine is inside, reversed. I’m all smiles on the outside but tough as nails beneath this top layer. Life can do that to a person. When you’re stripped bare of all hope, your heart tends to grow a protective cage around it. The difference between me and Emma is that she let the world see her anger. She was more honest.
I hide my feelings, and my truth.
Isabella picks at a nail. “It felt wrong coming to her funeral because we didn’t have the best relationship.” She looks up and meets my eyes. “We hated each other, in fact.”
“Then why did you come?” I ask matter-of-factly. “If you didn’t want to, you shouldn’t have bothered.”
Her head snaps back as if I’ve just slapped her. I can tell by her expression that she now thinks I’m more like her cousin than she’d previously thought. Okay, I guess I’m known for my bluntness sometimes. It’s a family trait.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “But why waste time on people you don’t like, even if it’s their funeral? No disrespect to the dead or anything.”
She swallows hard. “I came because I feel responsible for her death. It was supposed to be me.”
“I know,” I say. “But don’t take on the guilt. Shit happens.”
“Wow.” She exhales slowly. “You sure are no-nonsense, huh?”
I shrug. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s horrible that Emma died, and I lost a lot of sleep about it when I first heard. But we weren’t that close. I feel bad for her and wish it hadn’t happened, but it’s not like my cat died or something.”
“Jesus.”
“Just kidding,” I say. “Well, mostly. I tend to joke around when I’m under stress or feeling emotional. I really do feel bad that she died, but she was essentially a stranger to me. I shouldn’t feel guilty just because I’m not weeping and gnashing my teeth over it. And you shouldn’t, either. We paid our respects, we feel bad, and that should be good enough. We don’t need to open a vein to prove that we’re sad or regret that she’s gone.”
Isabella stares at me, unblinking. “Are you always this cerebral about things? This…unemotional?”
“I guess.” I look away, past the headstones. For an instant, something about Isabella makes me tempted to tell her more, to tell her why I’m as hard as I am. Maybe it’s the kindness in her eyes, or the way she’s acting like a friend. I have the strange urge to tell her how I’m feeling, and to open up about my hard life and my past. But I give myself an internal shake. I need to get a grip. Isabella is not a friend. I don’t have friends. She’s just being polite. She’s just the roommate of my cousin who was murdered.
A roommate who also must be into some nefarious shit if someone wanted her dead. I should probably stay my distance, which is something I’m good at. Something I’m familiar with. I wonder if this Robert guy who stalked her was one of her escort johns. It seems like escorting could be a dangerous business.
Come to think of it, if there’s that kind of danger in being a call girl, do I really want to pursue the same line of work?
I push the thought away. Isabella’s past is none of my business, and besides, there’s danger in every job. Heck, I could get held up for my tips at the diner. I’m not going to let a little danger dissuade me from my chance at a different life. A better life.
Isabella is pulling on her jacket. The air is slightly frigid, which is odd for New York in summer, and there’s the smell of damp earth in the air. It almost feels like fall. I’d always thought it would be hot and muggy here during the summer, but there must be a storm passing through. That’s likely, given how my hair is
frizzing out like a dandelion about to lose its seeds. Or maybe the weather is just showing its respects to my cousin. I roll my eyes at the thought. It’s not like me to get sentimental.
“Well,” Isabella says, eyeing me. “I guess I should get going.” She probably wonders why I’m still lingering and not leaving after making my introduction. I can tell she senses I want something from her.
“I’m hoping you can help me out with something,” I say.
“Okay?” She raises an eyebrow, looking at me suspiciously. I can tell she’s probably thinking I must be some loser who wants to crash in her apartment or borrow money from her. One of Emma’s loser relatives. Maybe I am. But I’m not here to borrow money. I’ll be making my own soon enough, once I get Ms. White’s address.
“It’s just a small favor,” I say.
“Sure…” she says warily. “What is it?”
“I’d like the address of Ms. White.”
She jerks back as if I’ve struck her. “Ms. White?” she whispers. “How do you know about Ms. White?”
“My cousin told me,” I say, keeping my voice calm. This poor chick looks as though she’s going to piss her pants right here in the graveyard.
“Emma?”
“Who else?”
“She knew about Ms. White?”
“Yes. She was going to work for her.”
“That’s…not possible,” she says. She’s trembling and the whites of her eyes are showing. I don’t get what she’s so worked up about…unless her escorting was supposed to be some big secret. That must be it.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I say, leaning in and lowering my voice. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“H…how did you find out? Did Emma tell you?”
“Yes. She knew. She was planning on getting into the business herself. She had a meeting with Ms. White before she was killed. And she referred me.” This last part is a lie, but it has to be done. I can tell by Isabella’s countenance that she’s not the type to go blabbing Ms. White’s information to just anybody. In fact, she’s probably held this little secret close to her vest for quite some time, based on the way she’s acting.
Romantic Secrets Page 1