Dirty Silver (The Dirty Suburbs Book 7)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Dirty Silver

  (The Dirty Suburbs Series - Book 7)

  Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Dirty Silver (The Dirty Suburbs Series - Book 7)

  Copyright © 2017 Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents appearing therein are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status of the various products referenced in this work.

  Amazon’s Kindle Store is the only authorized distributor of this ebook. If you have downloaded or purchased it from any other distributor, please note that you have received an illegal copy. This not only violates the author’s copyright, deprives the author of royalties due and puts the book at risk of being removed from Kindle distribution, but it also exposes you to computer viruses, theft of your personal information by book pirates and potential legal prosecution.

  Stories by

  Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  The Dirty Suburbs Series

  Dirty Neighbor

  Dirty Player

  Dirty Stranger

  Dirty Favor

  Dirty Lover

  Dirty Farmer

  Dirty Silver

  Dirty Forever

  The Esquire Girls Series

  Amber’s Story

  Amber Nights (Amber – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Madison’s Story

  For Madison, Always (Madison – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Ruthie’s Story

  Ruthie’s Desire (Ruthie – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Hailey’s story

  Moments with Hailey (Hailey - Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Esquire HEAT Series

  A Very Eager Intern

  A Very Frustrated Attorney

  Standalone novels

  Matteo

  Beast

  Looking for your next binge read?

  Get lost in the Dirty Suburbs!

  Dirty Forever (The Dirty Suburbs Series – Book 8 )

  The much-anticipated conclusion to the Dirty Suburbs series

  Gracie

  "Did he cheat?"

  That's the first question women ask when they learn that I'm separated from my husband. I always offer them a weak smile and assure them that, no, Daniel didn't cheat on me. The man is a lot of things, but unfaithful isn't one of them.

  So then, naturally, the next question that comes to their mind is, did I cheat? Thankfully, they usually have enough couth to refrain from asking that one out loud.

  The reality is that neither of us were unfaithful. We found a host of much more inventive ways to break each other's hearts.

  But I'm just about sick of crying myself to sleep every night. And I hate the look of despondency on his face every time he comes over to pick up our son for the weekend.

  We've both suffered for long enough. It's time to end this madness.

  One of us has to be the bad guy. I guess that's gonna have to be me.

  Daniel

  "Are you dating?"

  That's the first question women ask me when they learn that I'm separated from my wife. Hell no, I'm not dating. And neither is she. I swear – I'd kill any man that gets near my Grace.

  People in this town assume that my marriage is over. But they don't know the lengths I'd go to for that woman. I'm not giving up on my wife. On my son. On my family.

  I'm sick of falling asleep in a cold bed every night. I need her body curled up beside me. I need to wake up next to her.

  She still loves me.

  We've both suffered for long enough. It's time to end this madness.

  One of us has to be the bigger person. I guess that's gonna have to be me.

  COMING SOON

  Join Dirty Folks, my exclusive Facebook group, for updates.

  About This Book

  Dirty Silver (The Dirty Suburbs Series – Book 7)

  Evangeline

  I lied, okay?

  My family and friends think that I'm traipsing across Europe dominating one runway after the next and amassing a small fortune. But the truth is I'm in New York City, on stage at the auction, about to sell off my body to the highest bidder just to pay off the outrageous debt that I owe to my modeling agency. I’m only 22 but apparently, I’m already past my prime.

  I’m scared and I’m humiliated. Still, I know that one month with a wealthy stranger will solve all my problems.

  But the last person I expect to be placing bids on my (non-existent) virginity is Raphael Silver, my father's sexy and filthy rich best friend.

  Raphael

  I miss the good old days when closing a business deal meant cracking open a bottle of aged scotch with a rich old bastard in the VIP section of an upscale Manhattan strip club. But, this young, trust fund brat wants to take it up a notch.

  That's how I ended up at this ultra-exclusive sex club, watching idiot billionaires bid at a virginity auction. This place is sleazy, even for me. I'm not the type of man who gets off on ‘paying for play’. Still, I'll go along with it just to get this new client.

  But the last person I expect to see on that stage in a sparkly little outfit is Evangeline Brooks, my best friend’s way-too-young, way-too-tempting daughter. I can't help but notice that she's all grown up but I'll be damned if I let one of these scumbags get their hands on her.

  I’ll do anything to protect her, even if it means buying her for myself.

  Table of contents

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Evangeline

  "The crotchless one would look ah-mazing on you!"

  With a furrowed brow, I glance toward the source of the unsolicited opinion. I’m met by bright green eyes, a lithe figure and lavender-hued ombre highlights. She's wearing a body chain with a thong and a pair of silver nipple pasties.

  That’s it.

  She looks like a slutty fairy straight out of some pervert’s most depraved fantasy. And she is way too comfortable in this environment. It’s definitely not her first ‘rodeo’, so to speak.

  Slutty Pixie points her chin toward the shimmery bodysuit hanging on the rack of outfits that I’m scanning. Most of the clothing options are revealing – itty-bitty triangle bikini tops covered in glitter, lacy thongs that are practically see-through, one-piece lingerie sets made of strings and swaths of fabric that
barely cover the essentials – but this bodysuit she’s referring to is more daring than them all. It’s woven from transparent threads and clusters of strategically-placed golden sequins. And it has no freakin’ crotch.

  Thanks, but no thanks, Slutty Pixie. I’ll pass on your fashion advice. I’m not the biggest fan of underwear but come on!

  Striking a pose as if we’re backstage at any regular show at New York Fashion Week, she waits for my response. I’d usually have a catty retort right at the tip of my tongue. But tonight, I’m too knotted up with anxiety to find an artful way to tell her to take her opinion and go to hell.

  Because this isn't your typical catwalk and there isn’t a crowd of overzealous fashionistas sitting beyond that curtain. It's a goddamned auction, a room full of filthy rich closeted-freaks who are each willing to pay obscene amounts of money to have an unrestricted, month-long license to some desperate girl's body.

  And I’m nothing if not desperate.

  Only a woman who is decidedly out of options offers up her (non-existent) hymen to a bunch of wealthy strangers waiting impatiently with their dicks hard and their checkbooks at the ready.

  I just try to keep my focus on the reason I’m doing this. In 30 days, my debt will be paid and this nightmare will be over. Once and for all. Then I can move on with my life. Or what’s left of it anyway. My family will never have to know about the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  I’ve already disappointed them enough throughout my life. That’s why I’m so eager to fix this situation on my own. I can’t bear to see my father leaning back in his recliner with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and his scotch dangling between his fingers, gloating, saying ‘I told you so, Evangeline.’

  “Why aren’t you more excited about this?” Slutty Pixie chirps.

  Looks like she’s a talkative one. Yippee!

  “Do you realize how much money is on the line? You submit to one of those rich pricks for a few weeks, and you’ll be jet setting for the next six months. I mean – partying in Barcelona, beaching it up in the South of France, shopping in Beverly Hills.”

  This girl really seems to be oblivious to the biggest problem with this whole set up.

  “You’re conveniently forgetting that you actually have to have sex with some random creep with a pocket full of cash,” I mumble under my breath as my fingers flit across the string of freshwater pearls and colorful beads cinched around my left wrist. It’s supposed to be a wish bracelet. I bought it from a roadside vendor on a modeling trip to Brazil a few months ago. She told me that wearing it would make all of my dreams come true. That was obviously a load of crock because my current situation was definitely never one of my dreams.

  Pixie Chick scoffs, looking at me like I'm an idiot. "Do you know how many men have fucked me over and broken my heart for free? The last guy I fell for had a pocket full of chlamydia. So call me crazy but I’ll take a guy with oodles of cash, a spotless background check and verified medical records this time around." She lifts her nose with a dignified huff. “I won’t settle for anything less.”

  What a classy dame…

  Speaking of ‘classy dames’…Right at that moment, an elegant, throaty voice rings out, carrying undertones of irritation. "Ms. Pittman! Ms. Brooks! No socializing during the event!”

  My attention snaps over to a tall, sharply-dressed woman. She wears her head of sleek, silver hair like it’s a timeless fashion statement, not a sign that she’s past her prime. In fact, she looks like the kind of woman that men of all ages and walks of life routinely get blue balls over because she’s hot but way too intimidating to approach. The slim lines of her body are accentuated by the black, tailored skirt suit and the high designer heels she wears. Her jewelry is understated and timeless.

  Very tasteful for a professional pussy-broker. She actually makes pimping look like an enviable career path.

  But her expression is cold. I can’t tell if she’s just pissed that we’re talking during the event or if her face is actually frozen from all the cosmetic procedures she’s obviously undergone to keep her features youthful. Either way, she’s not done reprimanding us.

  "No socializing! That was indicated clearly on your nondisclosure forms." She storms away without waiting for a response, disappearing into the crowd of girls eagerly preparing for the event.

  Pixie Chick rolls her eyes behind the woman's back. "Ugh, Madame Gwendolyn is such a tight-ass. She acts like she's never had a pube out of place. Wouldn’t need all that damn Botox if she would just chill out." She snatches the crotchless body suit off of the clothing rack and wiggles it in my direction. "Come on, Eva, try it on." How the hell does she know my name?

  That’s when I remember. I’m not exactly anonymous. I was on the cover of the first print issue of Hectic Magazine two months ago. I walked the runway for Gauthier and Pucci. I was on freakin’ Carpool Karaoke. People know me. My face. My name. Evangeline Brooks is not anonymous.

  My heart beats faster. Fuck, this is such a bad idea.

  What a difference a few months make. Things have just flipped on their heads. It feels like just yesterday, I was at the top of my modeling game. I was sought after. I was booking casting after casting. I was invited to make appearances at all the hottest parties. But what people don’t realize when they see those big, beautiful faces smiling up at them from those glossy magazine pages is that most models get paid in free clothes and booze. Not in cash.

  Unfortunately, my banker isn’t willing to accept mortgage payments in the form of pink spandex leggings and snakeskin-leather bullet bras. I’ve got the foreclosure threats to prove it. A girl needs money to survive. Especially when she’s constantly on the road, traveling from city to city for work.

  When my earnings ran out, my modeling agency started giving me cash to stay afloat. As long as I kept booking work, they kept funneling borrowed money into my bank account. But then the season changed and so did the trends. In the modeling industry, the definition of beauty evolves every few months. And now, suddenly my Kate Upton curves aren’t as in-demand as they were two seasons ago.

  I am no longer in style.

  The agency wants their money back. My agent, Simon Leroux, used to be a friend. He would hit the clubs with me whenever our travels brought us to the same city. But now that I’m officially broke and out-of-fashion, there’s no more ‘hanging out’. There’s just menacing telephone calls and texts warning me of what will happen if he doesn’t get his money back. Soon.

  The auction was his idea. He said that if I don’t pay him back immediately, he’ll go after my parents who begrudgingly co-signed my modeling contract with me when I was 17. I begged him not to do that and he suggested the auction instead.

  Of course, I freaked out at that proposal because who the hell wants to be sold off to some stranger, sight unseen? But Simon went out of this way to assure me that it wasn’t a big deal. He and Madame Gwendolyn have a longstanding business relationship. Whenever his models run out of money, he funnels them into her ‘service’ as a fast fix for their financial woes. He promised that once I pay what I owe, he and I will cut ties. We’ll go our separate ways.

  So what happens when I step out on that stage matters. A lot. I glance at that shimmery crotchless bodysuit one last time. I have to do whatever it takes to make sure that someone buys me tonight.

  That Pixie Chick is still talking. "The bidders will go crazy over you when you step on stage in this outfit, especially since you're a virgin."

  Will she shut the fuck up?

  I snatch the hanger from her fingers. "No socializing," I growl as I stomp away. I find a quiet corner of the bustling dressing room and strip down to nothing. Staring at my reflection in the mirror as I shimmy into the bodysuit, shame simmers in my chest.

  Is this what I dropped out of school for? What I left Reyfield for? To become some rich, old perv's fuck toy? How did I end up in this predicament?

  Six months ago, if you’d told me I’d end up here, I’d have sprinkl
ed you with some holy water, tossed you a handful of clozapine and gone along my merry way, laughing all the way to my next runway show. But now, here I am.

  My mind goes back to the day I told my parents that I'd been scouted by a modeling agency and that I was foregoing college to pursue that career. They didn’t handle it well. They’re both intellectuals – my mother a Human Sexuality professor at the Reyfield Community College and my father, the chair of the Mathematics department. Saying that Bob Brooks had freaked out is an understatement. He went into lecture mode immediately. He even had his best friend, Raphael Silver call me and try to talk me out of my decision.

  Mr. Silver...

  Just the thought of him sends a rush of warmth through my body. I've always respected him. He's my father’s dearest friend. Smart and super successful. And hot. Really hot.