Wicked Dirty

by J. Kenner

  "I don't know," I say, punctuating the words with an exasperated sigh. "Sex, of course. But I guess I thought it would be capping off a seduction."

  "Really?"

  He's obviously holding back laughter, and I scowl at him. "It's not that far out of the realm of possibility. I mean, I've seen Pretty Woman. Richard Gere bought her strawberries."

  "Are you saying you're hungry? I think there's a selection of cheeses in the fridge, along with some wine."

  "Ha, ha. And no, I'm not--" I take a deep breath, because what the hell. "Actually, wine would probably be a really good idea."

  "All right, then. After you." He gestures toward the living room that opens up just past the foyer in which we've been standing. I pause when I reach the room, uncertain where to go. But he indicates a stool on one side of a freestanding wet bar.

  I take a seat, and he goes behind the bar, then bends down. Apparently, he's opening a refrigerator, because when he stands again, he has a bottle of white wine and a plate with cheese and grapes.

  He takes the plastic wrap off the plate, then sets it on the bar between us. Then he holds up the wine for approval. When I nod, he pours a glass and hands it to me.

  "You're not having any?" I ask when he puts the bottle back in the fridge.

  "Honestly, I haven't decided if I need to keep a clear head around you or have something stronger."

  I narrow my eyes in a mock glare, and he laughs. The sound startles both of us, I think. And I realize that despite the overall awkwardness of the situation, this moment is actually okay.

  "I have to debate your seduction theory," he says, pouring a shot of Jack Daniels into a highball glass.

  "It wasn't a theory," I correct. "Just an expectation. Apparently, a lame one."

  "I'll say. Under the circumstances, a seduction is the last thing you should have expected."

  "The circumstances?"

  He's lifted the glass to take a sip. Now he raises his other hand and rubs his fingers together, indicating money. "Isn't the whole point of paying so that I don't have to put on the show? Don't have to seduce or entice or play games of any type at all?"

  "I guess." I frown as I trace my fingertip over the rim of my wine glass. "But isn't that ... I don't know ... anticlimactic?"

  "Interesting choice of words." The smile he flashes is wide and genuine and full of the confident charm that has fueled his ride to stardom. "But I assure you that no one has ever accused me of being anticlimactic."

  "Oh." I clear my throat, then take another sip of wine. "I just mean that sex is like a dance. Or a symphony. You can't jump straight to the climax. You need the rise. The crescendo."

  "I think you're confusing sex and romance." He's looking down at his drink, his hands clutching the side of the counter so tightly that his knuckles are white. After a moment, though, he looks up, his blue eyes dark with a pain I don't understand, but can't deny. "What I want--what I'm paying for--is the cymbal crash at the end. That release. That moment when everything shatters. I'm not paying for pretty words and flowers."

  I start to protest, but keep my mouth shut. Because you know what? He's right. That is what he's paying for.

  And it's not like I really came here to be seduced. I'm not delusional. I just didn't expect things to move quite so fast. But if he wants the whole wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am experience, then who am I to argue? As they say, the customer is always right. And tonight, that would be him.

  As for me...

  I already stepped out of my comfort zone by coming here. So unless Lyle pushes for something truly scary, I need to remember that I came with a goal. And walking away now isn't going to help save my house.

  I finish off the last of my wine in one very large gulp, then slide off my stool. I stand for a second, a little lightheaded and wobbly on the heels. At the same time, he comes around the bar, walking toward me.

  "I'll stay," I say.

  He stops walking. "What?"

  "I said I'll stay." I draw in a breath, then exhale slowly as I meet his eyes. "That's why I'm here. Because you're paying, right? And that means you're calling the shots. So just tell me what to do."

  My fingers go to the line of vertical buttons on the bodice. "Do you want me to just take it off? Should I get undressed and into bed? Do you want to rip the damn dress off me?" I meet his eyes defiantly, daring him to suggest that I don't have the moxie to be the wall he needs to wail against.

  "I'm sorry I got out of sorts earlier," I continue, my fingers fumbling at the buttons. "But I'm good now. So let's rewind and start over. Tell me what you want and we'll go from there."

  His hand closes over mine, stilling my nervous fingers. "Stop." His voice is gentle, and he says nothing else.

  "What? Why?" I try to keep the frustration out of my voice, but I can't. I'm quivering from nerves and adrenaline and determination. I've decided to do this, and now I just want to get on with it. "Dammit, please. Just tell me what you want from me."

  "What I want?" He traces his fingertip along the neckline of the bodice, making me shiver. "Isn't that a loaded question?" His touch dips into the small, open V made by the two unfastened buttons, and his finger barely strokes the curve of my breast.

  I actually whimper.

  "So much," he murmurs, the words so soft I can barely even hear them. Then he draws in a deep breath, lifts his head, and looks me in the eyes. "But I can't have any of it."

  "But--"

  He backs away, breaking contact, and leaving me feeling cold and hollow. "You were right the first time," he says. "You need to go."

  I open my mouth to protest, then shut it again. My skin feels hot, and I know my face is burning with the deep red flush of mortification.

  And then, before I can stop myself, I lash out and slap his face.

  I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth as tears stream down my face. I'm sorry, I say. Or I try to. The words don't come. Instead, I'm fleeing to the door, trying not to trip in the stupid shoes.

  I yank the door open and race into the hall, then pause only long enough to slip out of the shoes. I bend and grab them, then take off again, sprinting for the elevator bank. There's someone else in the hallway, but I keep my head down, not wanting anyone to see my mortification.

  When I reach the elevator, I jam my finger against the button, willing it to come faster. What the hell was I thinking? Did I really believe this was a way to make money?

  But that's not the worst of it. I actually let myself feel. I trembled under his touch.

  And, damn me, I wanted more.

  Fuck.

  I jab my finger against the button again. Then again and again, because where is the elevator? Where's my goddamned escape route?

  It feels like an eternity passes before I hear the chime, though I know it's only seconds. The light above the middle set of doors flashes, and I step closer, eager to get on the moment those metal doors slide open.

  They do, a couple gets off, and I'm about to enter when I hear him call, "Wait. Please, wait."

  I know I should ignore him, but I can't help myself. I pause, and then he's at my side, and then I've missed my chance.

  The elevator doors snick closed, and I'm standing there, my face tear-stained, my feet bare, and this gorgeous, tortured man holding tight to my upper arm.

  "Just let me go." In my head, the words are a harsh demand. In actuality, they're a defeated whisper.

  "Take this," he says, shoving a book into my hands.

  I frown at it, struck dumb by the incongruity of the moment. "What--?"

  "Please. Just take it." His voice is a gentle whisper. Low. Apologetic. "And I'll text Marjorie. She'll transfer your money tonight."

  I shake my head. "No. No way. I didn't--I mean, we didn't--"

  I suck in a breath. "I didn't earn it," I say firmly.

  He's looking at me hard. Then--without another word--he cups my head, pulls me toward him, and kisses me so hard and so deep that my knees go week, and it's only his other arm that has snaked
around my waist that holds me up.

  When he steps back, breaking the kiss, I have to reach out and steady myself against the wall. "There," he says. "You've earned it."

  Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing on shaky legs, my heart pounding as I clutch the book in my free hand and wonder what in the hell just happened.

  5

  It's almost three in the morning when the taxi turns onto my street. I know I could have saved the cab fare by paging Marjorie's driver, but I wasn't sure how long I'd have to wait, and I really wanted out of there.

  Although now that I'm away, I'm not sure I feel better. I'm still confused. Twisted up. My emotions bouncing all over the place. Irritation. Apprehension. Arousal.

  And complete and total mortification.

  He'd wanted me to stay--I was sure of it. But then he turned on a dime and sent me away, and I don't understand why. Was I not sexy enough? Did I talk too much? Did I piss him off?

  Of course I pissed him off. Dammit. All my talk about seduction when he'd gone and hired an escort? What kind of an idiot am I?

  Apparently, I'm the kind of idiot who insults her meal ticket--because even before I rattled off at the mouth about seduction, I was accusing him of banging call girls because he needed to work out his issues.

  Holy crap, what the hell was I thinking?

  The answer? I wasn't thinking at all. I was nervous. And stupid. And it cost me that job.

  Except it didn't. I'm still getting the money, after all. And I didn't have to sleep with him.

  So I guess I should be grateful.

  Except I'm not grateful. I'm perplexed. And, damn me, I'm just a little unsatisfied. Because I liked talking to him. I liked the way he looked at me. The way his mouth curved when he was fighting a smile, and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

  Crap. What the hell am I thinking? I was on a job, not a date. And it's over. Doesn't matter how wow that final kiss was, or how much the feel of his lips still lingers. One time--wasn't that what Marjorie said? One time, and I'm done, and I won't ever see him again.

  It's over, and despite my mistakes, I survived.

  I should be celebrating, not wallowing in melancholia.

  That's what I tell myself, anyway. Too bad I'm not following my own advice.

  With a sigh, I slip my hand into my purse and run my finger along the edge of the little book. I'd glanced at it in the elevator, but it's just a slim, hardcover volume with a plain brown dust jacket. I'd opened it on the elevator, but the title page simply said Collected Poems, and before I could flip through it more, the express elevator had reached the lobby, and the doors had opened to reveal a very drunk couple stumbling toward me. So I'd tucked the book in my purse and hoofed it to the taxi stand.

  Now, of course, it's too dark to see, anyway. But I brush my fingertip over the spine, and decide I'll tell Marjorie about the book in the morning. Maybe it's like his trademark. Hire an escort, share some literature.

  I roll my eyes at my crazy, meandering thoughts. But crazy and meandering make sense under the circumstances. After all, a book of poetry with no explanation falls squarely into the realm of what the fuck?

  "Which house, Miss?"

  "Almost to the end of the next block," I say. "Next to the blue two-story."

  I love my street. The houses are all charming, and they range from smallish--like mine, with only eleven hundred square feet--to huge and fantastic. Most are older and fixed up to pristine condition. But there are a few that need a facelift, and every time I pass one, I want to grab a bucket of paint or a toolbox.

  That's why I'd taken out the equity loan that is the current monkey on my back--I'd needed the cash to fund massive renovations on my house after a series of pipes had burst, decimating the kitchen and bathroom. I hadn't done the plumbing work myself, of course, but I'd spent countless hours refinishing cabinets, searching out new fixtures, and refurbishing the floors. Not to mention sanding and painting and a whole bunch of other details.

  I'd started the project in order to save the house I'd grown up in. But as I'd gotten deeper into the work, my motives had changed. I wanted to save the house, sure. But I also wanted to transform it.

  I love my mother and my brother--and I miss them so damn much. But living here--coming home from work every day to the memories that filled each and every room--it was too much. I spent two years balancing on a precipice, and the smallest thing could send me tumbling over into tears and depression. I was lost and alone and scared. And the only thing I had was the house and my memories, and I let myself be entombed with them.

  But as the house changed, so did my feelings. It still held memories, sure, but coming home stopped feeling like torture. I started looking forward to walking through the door. And the house started feeling like a home instead of a tomb.

  The renovations had given me peace, and that could have been enough. But in the process, I'd discovered a love for that kind of work--and a talent, too. And as soon as I dig my way out of the financial hole I've sunk into, I'm going into the business of buying ramshackle houses, fixing them up, and selling them. Not original, I know. Half the television shows these days seem to be about folks flipping houses. But that's okay. It's what I want. And I fully intend to make it happen.

  Right now, though, I just need to focus on my own little house on my own little street in my own little corner of the world.

  As soon as the driver brings the car to a stop, I pay him, then step out of the taxi and head to the wooden gate that stands sentry in the middle of the stucco fence that fronts my property and keeps pedestrians and tourists off my lawn. A necessity since this close to the beach the street is often noisy and crowded.

  But it's also close to local hangouts like Blacklist, not to mention a decent market, an ATM, and most of my friends. I rarely use my persnickety car, instead choosing to walk or bike most everywhere.

  Now, of course, the street is dark and quiet, illuminated only by the dim glow of the few street lamps that line the block like soldiers.

  I have a keypad lock on both the gate and my front door, and I enter the six digits of Andy's birthday to unlock the gate, then step into the sanctuary of my little front yard. The walk is paved in flagstones that I laid and mortared myself, and the lawn is green and lush, thanks to the wonderful California weather.

  My tall lemon tree provides both shade and a bumper crop of lemons that Mrs. Donahue next door turns into lemonade, chocolate-dipped candied lemon peels, and a limoncello that's perfect for sipping on the back porch on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

  Unfortunately, lately I've been working so many hours that I haven't had a lazy Saturday afternoon. But drinking, reading, and relaxing are tops of my To Do list the second I get this damn loan paid off.

  My motion sensor porch light comes on as I approach the front door, and I quickly key in Mom's birthday, then step inside. Now that I'm here, exhaustion is catching up to me, and I can't stop fantasizing about falling facedown onto my bed and passing out for three glorious hours.

  I'd prefer eight glorious hours, but I have the eight to eleven shift at Maudie's in the morning, and if I want tips, I should probably shower, too.

  As I move from the tiny entrance hall to the tiny combination living and dining area, I hear a squeaky meow.

  "Hey, you," I say, sitting on the couch next to Skittles, who's curled up on the side he's claimed as his own. He raises his head, his eyes narrowed as he yawns. I shrug. "Sorry, big guy. I had to work. And don't give me that look. I know Joy came by to feed you."

  Joy, however, wouldn't have stayed. And that means Skittles didn't have his usual evening ritual of eating while I sit at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a book. I read until he finishes, then he gets on the bed while I take off my makeup. Then I join him, read for a while, and finally drift off to sleep.

  It's ridiculously domestic, but it's our routine, and so even though it's past three, I stand with a nod to the kitchen. "Come on, then," I say. "Late night s
nack."

  At the word snack, he leaps off the couch and does figure eights through my legs all the way to the pantry. I grab a can, make him a plate, then put it on the placemat I keep on the floor for him.

  And since I can hardly break tradition, while he attacks the salmon in savory sauce, I sit at the table with a glass of red wine and the book that Lyle gave me.

  It's a narrow volume, its plain dust jacket a bit stained, as if someone put a drink on it more than once. The pages are brown, the paper cheap, and the title page says simply, Collected Poems.

  But when I turn to the next page, I see that the book is a collection of poems by William Ernest Henley, and I feel a little chill creep up my spine. Because Henley wrote the poem Invictus, and it was the memory of that verse that I'd learned in high school that later helped me survive those first days after Mom and Andy died. That reminded me I could survive. That I had, like Henley said, an unconquerable soul.

  Did Lyle know that?

  How could he have known that?

  With my pulse pounding, I start to flip the pages, because I know that poem has to be in here. It's by far his most famous work. That's when I realize that the backside of the dust jacket is being used as a bookmark. I open the book to the page and gasp.

  Because not only is it marking the page with Invictus, but tucked in beneath the dust jacket flap is a one thousand dollar bill in a little plastic sheath on which has been written in Sharpie, Sell, don't spend.

  I stare at it, not comprehending. Sell? What does that mean? Is it art? A joke?

  Do they even make one thousand dollar bills?

  I do a quick search on my phone and, apparently, they used to. And though they aren't in circulation any more, they're still legal tender.

  But the note is right; I'd be stupid to spend it. Because from what I can tell in my five seconds on the net, that single bill is worth almost three thousand dollars.

  So why the hell did he give it to me?

  * * *

  Joy takes a sip of coffee from one of my Mickey Mouse mugs, then sighs with such deep emotion that I think I should abandon my kitchen and give her some privacy.