Dirty Secrets
Lauren Landish
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Edited by
Staci Etheridge
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Landish.
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2018 by Coverluv.
Photography by Sara Eirew.
Edited by Valorie Clifton & Staci Etheridge.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.
Contents
Also by Lauren Landish
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Preview: Dirty Deeds
About the Author
Also by Lauren Landish
Irresistible Bachelors (Interconnecting standalones):
Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper
Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker
Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed
The Virgin Diaries:
Satin and Pearls || Leather and Lace || Silk and Shadows
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Buck Wild
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Prologue
Dominick
The shot rings out, and before the echo even dies, I’m running to her. I don’t care about the rest. I just care about her. I will not allow harm to come to her.
I hear a high-pitched scream pierce the air. Someone’s hurt, and I start uselessly praying to anything listening to a devil like me . . . please, let her be okay. I’ll trade everything I have. The empire I’ve built can turn to dust if it’ll ensure her safety.
By the time I reach the hallway, there’s already a small group of my people standing in the doorway, mouths hanging open. Whatever they’re looking at, it’s the sort of shock that makes people forget themselves, the sort of thing only violence can bring. It’s a look I’m more than familiar with.
I don’t even have to order them to move. They just part like the red sea as I approach, barreling in to take stock of what’s happened. There’s blood spray on the walls and a dead guy in an expensive suit sitting in a chair, but he doesn’t matter. I’ll get the details on him later.
All that matters is Allie.
My heart starts beating again as I see her. She’s cowering in the corner, her brown eyes wide with terror. The spatters of blood on her face, on her breasts, on her stomach make me hot with fury, but at least she doesn’t seem to be wounded.
Still, the fact that someone has sullied her body, so sweet and tempting and mine, makes the insult of a hit in my territory that much worse. My men quickly follow my orders to handle the situation, but my attention never wavers from Allie. She’s what counts, and I can’t wait to get everyone else out of here.
Thankfully, my men are well-trained and professional. Once they scatter to carry out my commands, I gather her into my arms, ushering her into my office. She’s so shocked I finally scoop her up to carry her up the stairs, nudging open the door with a toe before I set her down in a chair, cringing at the smear of blood bright against the white leather. It doesn’t matter. I’m just thankful it’s not hers.
I fill a crystal glass with whiskey and force it into her shaky hand.
“Drink this.”
She glances at it unseeingly and I can tell she’s lost in her head, replaying what she just witnessed in her mind’s eye on an endlessly-looping, surreal repeat. I remember when I felt like that. In my mind, events slowed and sped up at chaotic intervals, fresh details coming forward to be blurred into confusion by the next replay as something else takes precedence. It pains me to watch my Allie suffer through the same torment.
I lift the glass with a gentle touch, and as it reaches her lip, she drinks reflexively. Encouraged, I tilt the glass up further, and she downs the whole shot.
Setting the empty glass on the nearby table, I take a handkerchief out of my breast pocket. It’s silk, but still not fine enough for a creature as beautiful and precious as Allie, but it’s all I have.
I squat in front of her, my hand moving slowly so as not to startle her, but she still tries to intercept it.
“Let me,” I order, not allowing disobedience. Her hands fall to her lap and her eyes flutter closed, flicking behind her smoky lids. She’s made up for the stage, not like I prefer her, fresh-faced with only a hint of makeup to highlight her natural flawlessness.
As I clean her face, I’m struck by how easy it would be to finally give in. She’s so close, mere inches from me, eyes closed, lips parted, her spicy floral perfume surrounding me though it’s tinged with the metallic tang of blood. She’s soft right now, all her defenses lowered in shock, and I could ease her anguish, give her something else to focus on . . . me.
I wipe a smudge from right beside her lip, close enough that our breaths mingle. My thumb trembles, and I take a deep breath.
“Allie,” I rasp, my voice a rough rumble. Her eyes pop open, meeting mine, and I can sense that she feels the charge in the air too.
She bites her lip, white teeth bright against the deep red, and her breath catches.
“Dominick?” she whispers, the confusion apparent in her questioning tone.
The sound of my name on her lips, breathy and soft, is a memory I’ll keep forever. A better one than the rest of the shit show tonight has been.
But it’s enough to wake me from the hazy fog Allie puts me into. I know better than this. I am better than this. I set the rules for a reason, and no leader can be effective if he holds himself to a different standard than he holds his subordinates.
With all of my mental strength, I slam the door shut in my mind, breaking the moment and cloaking myself in my usual stonewall defenses. I stand slowly and her brown eyes follow me. Any other time, this position, with her sitting and me looming over her, my cock at mouth level, begging for her kiss, would be my undoing.
But not now, not here, not like this. I’m a cold bastard, but I wouldn’t dare take advantage of her.
“Let me take you home.”
She nods, and with an almost childlike innocence, she lets me escort her downstairs to the changing area and then out to my car.
Arriving at her place, I tuck her into bed, wishing I could crawl into the mess of brightly colored blankets with her. I know I can’t, but it would be heaven.
Her deep chocolate hair fans
out on the pillow and her face relaxes as she looks up at me and smiles tentatively, an angel swaddled in cotton. She looks soft, her usual fierce shell chipped away by the night’s events.
I’m sure the shower and hair brushing I forced upon her helped. She’d argued lightly that she just wanted to fall into bed, but I’d known she’d needed care after such a violent experience. And she’d sighed as she admitted I’d been right.
I didn’t need to be too forceful. I just reminded her that sleeping with her stage makeup on would be a mess in the morning, and it did the trick. She even gave me a heartfelt smile when she came out in a towel and saw that I’d laid out a pair of pajamas for her.
I pause at the door as she falls asleep, watching the even way her chest rises and falls with each breath. She’d understandably asked me to leave the hall light on, and now the dim light illuminating her lets me see every expression on her face as she fades deeper into slumber.
I should go, leave her to rest. But there’s no damn way I’m leaving her.
Instead, I sink into the chair in the corner of the room, watching her, protecting her, possessing her, even if she doesn’t know it.
Even if my own morals won’t allow it, that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve fought myself to stay away from her, but tonight, things changed.
I could’ve lost her, and that is one thing I won’t allow.
I’ll always keep her safe, even if it’s from me.
Chapter 1
Allie
“And grand jeté . . . soft landing, Brynn . . . and plié with your bow. Beautiful!” I tell my student, offering a light applause as the soft classical music ends. “You’re getting much better. Your leap must be at least two inches higher than last month.”
Brynn, a young girl just out of junior high who decided to ask her parents for ballet lessons for her birthday, beams at me. It’s a late start for a ballerina, but she’s making leaps and bounds of progress to catch up with her peers because of the amount of work and time she puts forth.
“Really? That’s awesome! Thanks, Miss Allie!”
She does a little pas-de-chat step of happiness over to her bag, tossing it over her shoulder. “When I get the part as the Sugar Plum Fairy, you’ll have to come watch me!”
I smile back, remembering when I used to think being the Sugar Plum Fairy was the best thing in the world too. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Brynn leaves the studio in a whirlwind of energy that is wasted on the young. I don’t envy her youth, the fourteen-year-old ballerina just starting her career and still living on hopes and dreams, because I was once that girl and tasted firsthand how sour those dreams could turn.
Once, I was the little girl who dreamed of wearing the white tutu and prancing onstage. A couple of injuries and a body that turned into something that isn’t quite suited for ballet dancing . . . and now I’m something different. Older, jaded, maybe even a bit cynical. At least where dance is concerned.
At twenty-six, I’m virtually ancient in the ballet world. Not that it matters, considering I left any chance at a professional career behind at barely twenty-one when I injured my ankle, tearing two ligaments.
Nine months of rehab, and it’s fine for daily life and even for dance, but not for the daily grind of being a principal dancer en pointe in any company worth the work.
It put me in a pretty dark place for awhile, and I did some things I’m not proud of. I don’t regret them. I have some good relationships out of them, friendships, and I’ve made damn good money . . . but none of it’s going on my resumé anytime soon.
And that’s why I live for teaching the next generation of dancers, wanting to ensure that they have long and healthy careers by taking care of themselves better than I ever did.
The thought of how poorly I treated my body for years makes my stomach turn. I force it all to settle with a deep breath that I hold for a five-count before letting it out slowly, counting the good things I have in my life as I do so. I repeat the process twice more, just as I learned, counting out the beat to maximize my lung capacity before I feel re-centered.
I head to the lobby to see Eileen on the phone. She’s one of the dance moms, but thankfully, not like the drama-mamas on television. She just works at the studio, answering phones and doing paperwork to help offset the cost of her daughter Sydney’s lessons.
I admire that about her. Actually, there’s a lot to admire about Eileen in general. She’s a single mom doing whatever it takes to support her child, and though she’s not a dancer herself, she doesn’t harbor any desire to live vicariously through Sydney’s journey. She kind of reminds me of my own mother, though my parents are still happily married and act more like newlyweds than a couple going on thirty years of wedded work. That’s what my mom calls it, ‘wedded work,’ and she maintains that people who call it ‘wedded bliss’ are just lying to make it seem easy.
Eileen told me once that she’d put in all kinds of work to make her marriage last, but it’d been one-sided then, and now she basically parents alone. I hate that for her, but Sydney is a happy kid, so Eileen must be doing something right.
“Hey, Ei—” I start, but she holds up one finger, telling me to wait a second.
I stand for approximately two seconds before lifting my right leg up to the counter and stretching. It’s a dancer thing. Any free moment is spent stretching, bending, lifting, tilting, always working somehow.
Even if I’m in a position where I can’t physically move, my brain is constantly dancing, practicing choreography or considering new combinations. It makes the line at Starbucks seem to move much faster.
I’ve barely begun when Eileen hangs up and squeals, “Are you ready for tonight?”
“You mean they didn’t cancel? I swore they would.” I feign shock, knowing that my private class tonight definitely wouldn’t cancel, considering they paid extra to rent the studio for this lesson. And considering just how much extra, it’d take an emergency for them to break the deal.
“Shut up, you know the ladies are excited. This is a good thing, girl.”
She’s right and I know it. I’m just nervous, which seems silly considering how many times I’ve performed on stage and how many classes I’ve taught.
But this class is different. This class isn’t people of all walks of life, toddlers to adults, wanting to add a bit of ballet to their life.
No, this class is a bachelorette party where I’m teaching the bride and her bridesmaids a little routine to use . . . in private.
I’d automatically refused when Donna, the studio owner, had asked me to teach this class. I’ve always kept the other side of my dance life separate from the studio. It’s like I’m two women, two dancers.
But when Donna promised it’d be just the one time and told me she’d share the rental fee with me fifty-fifty, I’d reconsidered. The money is . . . good.
And now, Stripper 101, as I’ve been jokingly calling it, is almost in session. Eileen, of course, doesn’t understand.
“I hear you, Eileen,” I reply, sighing. “I just thought that I’d left the sequins and body glitter at the other place. But it’s following me.”
I glance over my shoulder like there’s somebody there, and she laughs as I intended.
“You act like it’s a bad thing. You can be Ballerina Barbie and Stripper Suzy at the same damn time. There’s no shame in dancing, however and wherever you do it, if you enjoy it and it supports you.”
I smile, glad for her lack of judgment. I can’t say that I would’ve ever dreamed I’d be making a living as a stripper, but alas, here I am.
At least I’m fortunate enough that Petals from Heaven, the club where I work, is top quality, VIP only. I’m one of their star performers, able to set my own hours and prices.
It’s a far cry from the ballerina I thought I’d be, but at least now, I get to live both sides of the coin, stripper and ballerina. And still pay my bills.
“I still can’t believe you don’t care about that,�
� I tell Eileen. “I honestly figured that if the dance moms here found out, they’d yank their kids out of my classes faster than you can say ‘hell to the no.’ ”
Eileen’s smile is sad but at the same time mischievous. “Honestly, there are some moms who would, so we just don’t tell them. All I care about is your ability to teach the kids proper technique, something you are excellent with. You connect with the kids and never, ever make them feel like they’re wasting their time or not doing fantastically.”
“I love their faces and their hard work,” I admit. “Who cares if they make it pro or not?”
Eileen grins. “Exactly. And there are a handful of us who know your gig. We’re just waiting for the stars and babysitters to align so that we can come crash one of your performances en masse. Girl, I plan on making your night by making it rain.” She giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
I laugh. Eileen’s ridiculous sometimes. “That sounds awkward as hell, but awesome. I’d put an extra spin in my pole routine just for you.” I bat my lashes at her and we both laugh again. “Anyway, guess I’d better get ready for tonight.”
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