Wicked Dirty

by J. Kenner

"This is like liquid heaven," she says. "Very essential liquid heaven."

  "Traditionally it's called coffee." I take a seat opposite her, sipping from my own mug. "But on a morning like this, I think we can call it ambrosia."

  Joy's waggles her eyebrows. "A morning like this, eh? Does that mean that last night was both late and energetic?"

  "Um, hello? Last night was a job, remember? Not a first date."

  "Sorry," she says, looking immediately contrite. "I'm an idiot. Was it okay, though?"

  "Odd," I say.

  "Really? Why?"

  I just shrug. "Doesn't matter. But at the end he gave me this." I pass her the book.

  She frowns at the volume. "You sleep with the guy, and this is what he gives you as a tip?"

  "Actually, there wasn't sex--"

  "Wasn't sex?" Her voice rises with incredulity.

  "--and I'm not supposed to be talking about any of this to you, am I?"

  "The NDA, you mean? You can tell me whatever you want."

  I must look dubious, because she crosses her heart and holds a hand up like a Boy Scout. "No, really. And not just BFF rules. I'm totally, legally allowed to hear."

  I peer at her over the rim of my mug. "How?"

  She makes a face, then lifts a shoulder. "Because Marjorie hired me about two months ago to do administrative stuff, so I'm part of the formal staff, and formal staff is outside the NDA. I'm her only employee who sees the whole picture. She needed someone to help because, honestly, she runs a pretty big operation. And I got tagged since I'm family and I could handle working some extra hours."

  "The whole picture? You know who Mr. Z is?"

  She shakes her head. "Nope. That's the only part Marjorie keeps locked up tight. In her head and in her safe."

  "I can't believe you didn't tell me that you work for her."

  "That would violate the whole secret part of the gig. At least until you'd officially taken the job, and by then you were out the door. Speaking of secrecy, you're not required to tell Marjorie anything that goes on unless it's dangerous, but you're not forbidden, either. Marjorie discourages it because she doesn't want a flood of girls giving her the down and dirty, but it's all in your contract. Marjorie sent you a copy last night. Check your email and read it if you don't believe me."

  "I believe you," I say. "And the book wasn't the tip. This was." My purse is on the kitchen table where I left it last night. I'd put the bill in there for safe keeping until I figured out what to do with it, and now I pass it to Joy. "It's worth more than two grand."

  Her eyes go wide. "That is seriously cool." She passes it back to me, and I tuck it safely away in my wallet. "Of course, I was hoping he'd just pay off your house, but an extra two K is pretty cool. Especially if he didn't fuck you. There really wasn't sex? You're serious?"

  "There was kissing," I admit. "And then we talked. It was--wait. Pay off my house?" I frown as her words finally worm their way into my sleep-deprived brain. "You're joking, right?"

  "Slight exaggeration," she admits as Skittles leaps into her lap. "But I was holding out hope."

  "Holding out hope," I repeat. "Okay, but why?"

  "I told you there might be a tip. I just didn't tell you how generous he sometimes is. Marjorie told me about one girl a year or so ago--he bought her a car."

  "Seriously?" I was about to get more coffee, but now I sit down again.

  "Okay, not entirely. But her car was broken, and he got it fixed, and it was a major engine thing. Like seriously pricey, and she never could have afforded it. Pretty nice of him, right?"

  I agree that it was.

  "And there was another girl who was doing the escort thing to earn tuition money. He paid all her tuition and fees for that semester and the next. Swear to God."

  "Why?" I ask. "I mean he's already paying a ton of money just for the date. And then to top that off..."

  "Dunno. Maybe he's a genuinely nice guy."

  I nod thoughtfully, thinking about the man I met in the hotel last night. A man who'd aroused me. Who'd intrigued me. A man who'd run after me so that he could give me one hell of an amazing tip even though I hadn't done anything to earn it.

  "Yeah," I say. "He's nice. An enigma," I add, because I still don't get why he's hiring escorts in the first place. "But nice."

  I glance at the clock--almost seven. "I need to get moving," I say. "I have to walk Lancelot and then get to Maudie's for the breakfast shift. And I need to hit the bank right when I get off, because it closes at noon today."

  Her eyes go wide. "You can't deposit that. You have to sell it to a collector."

  "I'm not depositing it. I'm using the ten grand to make a payment on the loan. And as for that old bill, if you really think I can keep it, I'm going to put it in my safe deposit box."

  "Keep it? Of course you can." She winces as Skittles starts to knead her lap. "Why wouldn't you? You're keeping the ten."

  She has a point, although I feel guilty about that as well. I'd gone to the hotel because Lyle was hiring a girl for sex, and all I ended up doing was freaking out and drinking with him. But I still walked away with cold, hard cash.

  "I don't have to open the shop until nine," Joy says. "Want company? I'll walk the dog with you, and then you can serve me breakfast burritos before I have to split."

  Since that sounds like a fine plan, I finish getting ready, then we go next door together to fetch Lancelot from Jacob's apartment over the garage.

  "Hey, Sugar," Jacob says as he passes me the leash. "You look good enough to eat."

  "Have I mentioned how not funny that joke is?"

  "Only a couple of dozen times," he says cheerfully. "I'm late for my Saturday study group. You'll put him back in the apartment?"

  "No problem." I bend down and nuzzle Lancelot's golden brown coat. He's an eight month old lab, which means he's already huge and about as cheerful as a dog can be. Right now, his tail is banging out a rhythm against the door so loud I'm surprised Mrs. Donahue hasn't stepped outside to see what's the racket.

  Lancelot pretty much calls the shots on our walks, and now he leads the way to the boardwalk, his favorite place to wander. He'd prefer the beach, I'm sure, but that's verboten, and he's learned that he has to keep off the sand.

  "So you're walking Lancelot," Joy says, as if there'd been no break in our conversation at all. "Then waiting tables. What's after that today?"

  "Mrs. Donahue," I say. "I'm deep cleaning her kitchen. I blocked out two hours. And after that," I add, because obviously she's determined to account for my every minute today, "I'm going to Greg's."

  "Yeah? He finally convinced you to say yes?"

  I roll my eyes. "He's not trying to convince me. We're just friends. We've only ever just been friends."

  "He wants more," she says.

  "Yeah, he does. He wants to start a business."

  "More," she repeats, and I groan.

  "You said the same thing about Jacob yesterday. Now Greg? I'm seeing a pattern here."

  She sighs. "Just living vicariously."

  "Well, stop," I say. "You too can have a life if you'd just jump back in."

  "Right. So. How is Greg's place these days, anyway?"

  I consider calling her out on the change of subject, but decide to let it slide. Joy's last boyfriend experience was about as shitty as they come, and she's taking a self-imposed sabbatical. Personally, I think it's time she tested those waters again, but if she's not ready, I'm not going to push.

  Instead, I tell her that Greg's house is coming along. "All the structural stuff is done. Everything now is cosmetic. Floors, countertops, walls."

  "Can't wait to see it," she says, and I nod.

  The truth is, neither can I. I've known Greg since high school, though we really didn't become friends until a couple of years ago when he took a part-time job bartending at Blacklist. He's an aspiring screenwriter who's living rent-free in his seven hundred square foot house in exchange for doing the renovations for his landlord, something he has the
skills to do since he grew up working in his family's construction company.

  He'd helped me with the work on my house, and we got along so well doing it, that he asked if I'd help with his house project. We've been working on and off for five months now, documenting every step of the project with pictures. When it's done, we'll both have a nice portfolio. And, with any luck, one day we intend to go into business together--investing, renovating, and selling houses. He doesn't plan on giving up the writing, but flipping houses is the kind of job that lets him write on the side. Plus, Greg is realistic enough to know that even with talent, he might not make it as a writer.

  As for me, I never had a dream job when I was growing up. And it wasn't until after I dove into renovations on my own house that I discovered how much I love doing it. With my house, it was cathartic--a way to not only save my home, but to work through the pain of my memories. With flips, it's about the plan and the execution. About envisioning something and seeing it through.

  So, yeah. I want the business, too. And I'm grateful to have a partner like Greg in my corner.

  Of course, at this point it's still all baby steps. But we'll get there. Our plan is solid.

  "Want to watch a movie or something after?" Joy asks. "Movie and martini night?"

  "I would," I tell her. "But I'll probably watch something with Greg if we finish in time." Lately, our routine has been to work, then relax with whatever movie he's currently analyzing. "Besides, you forget that I've got my own martini night planned."

  She stares blankly for a minute, then her face clears. "Oh, right. You've got a ten o'clock shift at Blacklist. Damn."

  "Not damn for me," I say. "House. Money. Remember all of that?"

  "Like four hours at Blacklist is going to make a difference."

  I tug on Lancelot's leash to turn him around as I shoot Joy a scowl. "Hello, Miss Negative Energy. The tips will be good, and you know it."

  But as we head back toward Jacob's apartment, I can't deny that good isn't good enough. Not even close.

  "Do you want me to call Marjorie? Get you another gig soon?"

  I draw a deep breath as I think about my house. And about how much money I'll still owe on the loan, even after I make a huge lump sum payment today. Then I think about Lyle, and for a minute, I'm actually excited about getting another gig from Marjorie.

  But then I remember that he won't be the client. That if I do this thing, it's going to be some other man kissing me. Touching me.

  I'll save my house, yeah. But the price will be more than just dollars.

  "Laine?" Joy prods.

  "Yeah," I say quickly, before I can change my mind. "Make the call."

  Why not? Lyle Tarpin is a fantasy, after all.

  But the debt on my house is about as cold and hard as reality can get.

  6

  "Good," Riley said as Lyle pivoted and kicked the sandbag for what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon. "Next time get your body and leg completely parallel with the ground. Form's important, Tarpin."

  "Fuck you," Lyle retorted amiably, wiping sweat off his upper lip. "We've been at this for six hours. You do remember I'm going to have a stunt double, right?"

  "Nice try. You're the one who said you didn't just want to be in shape. I think your exact words were, 'I need more than muscle and strength. Even if I'm only walking, I need to move like someone who knows his way around a fight.'"

  Lyle groaned. "How was I supposed to know you'd break from pattern and actually listen to me?"

  "Come on. Just do it one more time, and then we'll switch back to upper body work."

  "Oh, joy."

  Riley laughed. "You're the one who's going to go shirtless in a movie that's gonna be seen by millions. But if you want slack muscle tone when you're on the big screen..."

  "You know you're a prick, right?"

  "It's one of my most endearing qualities. Okay, go."

  Lyle did, managing to bend and pivot a full ten reps without falling on his ass. And, as a plus, he kicked the shit out of that damned sandbag each and every time.

  "Not bad," Riley said, when Lyle was upright again and mopping his face with the towel Riley tossed him. "Especially impressive considering you've been off your game all afternoon."

  Lyle lowered the towel. "I have, and I'm sorry. It's not the workout--if anything having you ride my ass is helping me to not think."

  Riley took a long pull from his water bottle, then lowered it slowly. "Oh, fuck. It was yesterday, wasn't it? Thirteen years since the accident. Since Jenny died. Christ, Lyle, I'm an ass for not remembering sooner."

  "You're not," Lyle assured him. He hung the towel over his shoulder, then went to sit on the wooden bench on the far side of the shabby gym space that Riley had lined up for their sessions. "And I'll be fine."

  "Fine?" Riley repeated, frowning slightly. "Yeah, sure. You'll get by--you always do. But if you need to talk we can ditch the session, go grab a beer."

  Lyle forced a smile. "I'm almost tempted just because my muscles are screaming, but I really am okay. Jenny's death twisted me up some yesterday--I figure it always will--but she's not the reason I'm off my game today."

  "Is that a fact?" Riley crossed his arms over his broad chest, his feet hip distance apart. With his dark hair, rugged features, and seriously honed muscles, he looked more like a superhero than Lyle ever would. Then again, considering what Riley did for a living, he pretty much was a walking, talking action hero.

  "You gonna clue me in?" Riley pressed.

  "I wouldn't lay odds on it."

  Riley Blade was Lyle's oldest friend. They'd met in Iowa when they were kids, and despite a three-year age difference and all the other shit that should have kept them from clicking, they'd become fast friends. Lyle might not have any blood relatives left, but as far as he was concerned, Riley was his brother.

  But even brothers didn't need to know everything.

  Still, he'd told Riley part of the truth--he was distracted. But not by Jenny's memory. Not by flashbacks of that horrible night.

  No, his thoughts were on a gorgeous blonde with a sharp tongue, soft lips, and wide, beguiling eyes that had seen at least some of his secrets.

  For the first time in a long time, it wasn't Jenny on his mind. And Lyle wasn't sure if that meant he was healing--or if he was about to climb the ladder to a whole new level of guilt.

  Riley still stood there, as if debating whether to press. Finally, he shrugged. "Suit yourself, man. But distraction or not, you better get your shit together sooner rather than later if you want me to be the one getting you camera ready on fight techniques and weapons."

  "I know," Lyle assured him. "And I'm focused. Hell, I'm just glad you could squeeze a couple of weeks into your schedule for me." A former FBI SWAT team member, Riley was an expert in hand-to-hand and weapons-based fighting. Not to mention firearms and ordnance, though the latter two had no relevance to Lyle's prep work for M. Sterious.

  Riley was also dead serious about fitness, and Lyle knew that every day he trained with Riley would make him that much more authentic in the role. Superpowers or not, Lyle had to project strength, confidence, and skill, all of which were qualities that Riley's methods of training honed. And since Riley had worked as a consultant on several films, including The Price of Ransom, Lyle knew that his friend understood how to train and prep an actor.

  "You never told me where you're heading after we finish here," Lyle said. "Back to Texas?"

  Riley had left law enforcement for the private sector several years ago, and he hadn't looked back. Now he was working as a consultant with McKay/Taggart, a Dallas-based a private security firm that Riley swore was top notch.

  "I wish," Riley said. "No, the assignment's for a short term security detail. I meet the client in Illinois. Then we have two weeks traveling around the country in a tricked out bus."

  "Rock star?"

  "Politician."

  "Sounds like hell," Lyle said.

  "Better than LA." Riley
took another long drink from his water bottle. "I swear, I must love you, man, to come back to this hell hole."

  Lyle flashed the trademark smile that had made his face famous back in his sitcom days. "What can I say? I'm lovable." He tossed the towel aside. "We still have another hour. Might as well let you get back to tormenting me."

  They were just about to get back into it when the door opened and Evelyn marched in, accompanied by Lyle's assistant, Natasha, who looked efficient as always in black slacks, a white sleeveless shirt, and a red leather portfolio held tight in her hands.

  "Sorry to interrupt, Lyle," Natasha said, without acknowledging Riley. "Evelyn needed to see you right away, and I thought it would be easier to drive her here than to explain where this shithole of a gym is hidden. Especially since it's a shithole without any decent WiFi or cell service."

  "Not a problem," Lyle said at the same time Riley said, "Good to see you again, Natasha."

  She only gave him a half nod, then stepped back as Evelyn moved in to fill the gap. She clutched the portfolio to her chest with one arm, her attention still locked on Lyle. If anything, it looked as if she was avoiding even turning in Riley's direction. And, Lyle noticed, she was twisting a strand of long dark hair around her finger. She'd worked for him for going on four years now, and he recognized the nervous habit.

  All of which, he thought, was pretty damn interesting.

  Whatever was--or wasn't--going on between his assistant and his friend, however, was pushed out of his mind when Evelyn took another step closer. "I'm going to assume you haven't seen this," she said as she thrust her phone at him. "But I damn sure hope you have an explanation."

  He looked down at the image--and as he did, he felt his guts twist inside him. It was him, no doubt about that. And the picture showed him in a passionate lip lock with Sugar. At least, he knew it was Sugar. About all anyone else could tell was that she was blonde and a head shorter than him.

  "I think it's pretty self-explanatory," he said, giving the phone back to Evelyn.

  "Who is she? Someone you've been seeing? Someone you met in a bar?"

  "Something like that."

  Evelyn scoffed. "Dammit, Iowa. I may not be able to tell who that girl is, but I do know she's not Frannie. Who, by the way, has called me twice. Which is nine times fewer than the studio calls I've fielded--every department from publicity all the way up to Ronald himself," she added, referring to the head of the studio backing the film.