by James, Clare
DIRTY LITTLE LIES
By Clare James
Copyright © 2014 Clare James
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Berto Designs. Cover image used under license from shutterstock.com.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
GABE
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
GABE
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
GABE
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
GABE
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
GABE
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Looking around the room makes me itchy. Excessive, though impressive, female skin adorn the space, while beautiful male forms scatter throughout the swanky condo like props on a movie set. Decorated in glass and steel, the place is cold and sterile. Much like the guests. The men are all some version of a Ken Doll—most likely hung like one too—donning various cuts of Armani. Normally, I’d say Armani is hot. But here it’s so common and unoriginal, the men look like they belong in a Dockers commercial.
Typical corporate soirée for Chicago’s young and successful.
Personally, I’ve always detested the Ken Doll. I was more of a James Bond action figure kind of gal. My grandmother found one at a garage sale when I was ten and I kid you not, he was my first love. Maybe because he reminded me of Bogie from all the classics Granny and I watched together.
How I’d love to be cuddled up watching those old movies right now, but I promised Max. Attending work functions is definitely one girlfriend duty I could do without. Plus, I don’t know why Max would even want me here. I’m so out of place. All the women are perfectly posed in their sculpted Pilates bodies—golden and dewy—draped in tiny, strappy little numbers. I, other the other hand, am secured in my modern-day girdle and vintage dress. With coiffed hair, matte face, and pale lips to match. I was going for Ingrid Bergman, but have a feeling it’s coming off more like the sad librarian who lives with her cats.
I was born in the wrong time. I’m sure of it.
“One hour,” Max says. “I promise.”
“I’m okay,” I tell Max, taking a crab cake from one of the servers, who gives me an ear-to-ear grin in return. I’m sure I’m his first female customer all night. The ladies in attendance aren’t really known for eating.
“Go ahead, babe,” I say. “Mingle. Talk business. I’ll follow along.”
“Come on,” he says, dragging me over to a group of Kens. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
I raise my brows and he stops, giving me a look that I haven’t seen for quite some time. A look that shoots right to my lady parts.
“I won’t let you down,” he whispers in my ear.
Could it be? The end to the dry spell?
On the off chance I’m right, I really do it up. I am the perfect G.F. all night. Laughing at the lame jokes, making small talk, smiling until my cheeks ache. I am rewarded. There is sizzle between Max and I the entire evening—genuine sizzle!
I am so getting laid tonight.
***
One hour and twenty minutes later—
Max has my legs in the air as he pushes into me, and I gasp for breath.
Well, this is new.
Oh my stars, he might actually get me there this time.
Please God, please deliver the O ... it’s been more than a freaking year.
“Max,” I say, without realizing it’s almost a yell.
He stares down at me, and the moonlight shines on his face with an expression I can’t quite understand. Pain maybe? Worry? Horniness? It’s been so long, I’m not sure what to make of it. Frankly, I can’t be bothered. My insides are tingling in anticipation of what he’s going to do next. Max stretches my arms over my head and locks my wrists in one of his large hands, taking his time as he rocks into me. I close my eyes at the surprisingly pleasant feeling of each movement.
It’s a goddamn revelation, and I say a silent prayer of gratitude.
Each thrust is foreign to me. Hell, Max is foreign to me. Where has this guy been for the last year? There’s a pulling in my core, one that says he just might get me there. Yes, something is definitely off with him—in a completely delicious way.
I stare at his beautiful face: tan, chiseled, adorned with full lips. He’s a Ken Doll, but edgier—like he’s trying to break free from the mold. A mass of sandy hair dips close to his big blue eyes. They’re close tightly now, full of concentration. My gaze travels down his strong, tight body. I keep pace with each movement, longing for a happy ending.
He is so fantastically deep and grows almost crazed with his movements. I let him take me and take control, enjoying the friction between our bodies. He’s really doing it this time. I’m climbing, climbing, legs trembling with the promise of release. Then he shifts the angle, and I start to lose it.
Noooooo!
My eyes pop open. It’s like an alarm, waking me into the present, one where I’m never allowed to come. I try to turn off my mind and focus on the task at hand. Shutting my eyes, I go through all the scenarios that usually do the trick when I’m alone: a dirty delivery from the scrumptious UPS guy, being ravaged by the new intern at the design shop, or a gorgeous commuter taking me in the back of the ‘L’ on the way to work.
Nada.
I know of about five other ways he could get me off, but after he freaked out when he first saw my toy box, I know better. No, I’m sure he wouldn’t take too kindly if I asked him to pass me my vibe right now. So I’m stuck to mental play only. Sadly, even my mother of all fantasies—yoga threesome—doesn’t get me there. Max has no trouble, however. He squeezes his eyes shut, grunts a few times, and rolls off me.
Shit. Fuck, fuck. Shit.
“Maxxxxxx!” His name echoes through the apartment, but it’s not my voice bouncing off the walls. No, I’m too frustrated to move. It’s Free Bird, our little cockatoo, making all the racket. Yeah, his name is completely ridiculous, but Max insisted. And though Max’s bedroom antics leave much to be desired, his romantic gestures are hard to resist—he brought Free Bird home on our six-month anniversary to keep me company when he traveled. It was the same month we moved in together.
Free Bird understands my pain. Born in captivity, the poor little guy has never had a proper lay. I haven’t had one since … well, I can’t even go there. It’s just too sad.
Yeah, my sex life with Max sucks balls. He knows it; I know it. It’s just the way it is, and we’ve come to accept it because everything else in our relationship is great. Seriously great. So we deny our pissed-off libidos and go through the motions.
The first time Max was unable to seal the deal, I told myself, hey no big deal. It’s all part of being in a relationship. The second time? I chalked it up to whiskey dick after too much Jesus juice at a holiday party. Once we got into the double digits, though? I started looking for an escape route.
But when I told Tia I was going to dump Max after three months, she thought I was being my typical flighty self. “You lasted longer than I thought you would.” She grinned with that knowing look covering her face.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Let’s just say you don’t have a long attention span when it comes to men. Or careers, apartments, hair color …”
“Okay, okay.” I waved my white flag. I didn’t want to hear any more. It was the same thing my parents had been telling me for years.
“It’s okay, Stevie.” Tia wrapped her arm around me. “It’s just how you are. And I love you for it.”
Of course, she was right. In the past five years I’ve had: five jobs, four apartments, six hair colors, and countless relationships that never seemed to go anywhere. It was embarrassing actually, and I didn’t want her to love me for it. I didn’t want to be that girl.
So I stuck it out with Max.
By the time I realized our sex life was hopeless, I had already fallen in love with the shmuck. The way he could make hanging in for dinner and a movie fun; the sweet look in his eyes when I came home from work; how he always made me feel safe and wanted. No, it wasn’t hot and heavy like I had with some guys, but it was comfort and love and security. Real grown-up stuff. And considering I turn thirty this year, I’d say it’s about time.
Max opens his eyes and that painful look is still there. It kills me. This is usually the part where we slip away from each other. Where we drum up the courage to pretend there’s nothing wrong. This time, I want to be close to him—like I was for that brief moment when my orgasm stood at third base, waving me home. I want to get that connection back.
I snuggle into the crook of his neck, my favorite spot in the entire world, and run my hand along the peaks and valleys of his chest. I feel his muscles tighten under my palm. Whether that’s a good sign or not, I haven’t a clue.
“That was yummy,” I whisper, because it really was. Even without the happy ending.
Max doesn’t acknowledge my comment with words. He simply kisses the top of my head and slides off me.
I go into the bathroom to clean up, frustrated beyond words. Not just because of orgasm denial … again. No, it’s Max’s reaction. The way he just falls inside himself and doesn’t even try to fight. I’m tired of it. This time I will not take it lying down. I march back into the bedroom to take what’s mine. Seize the O. Instead, I’m welcomed back to bed by a virtually comatose Max, snoring like an elephant in heat.
For fuck’s sake.
Chapter 2
Waking up to an empty bed, I immediately have an unsettled feeling brewing in my belly. From the kitchen, the dishes rattle as Max opens and closes the cupboards. The coffee pot gurgles to life as he prepares our breakfast—just like he always does.
But this scene feels anything but ordinary.
I throw on my ratty old robe before going out to join him. But when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I’m unexpectedly aware of how awful I look. Max always says he likes that about me—I don’t dress to impress or show off for him, and that I am completely comfortable in my own skin. This is so not the case today. Yikes, maybe this is why he keeps his eyes closed so much during sex—maybe he has to use his own fantasies to get there.
We eat breakfast in silence and my heart aches. Max leaves on a business trip this morning so it’s going to be days before we can smooth things over. He barely glances in my direction, keeping his eyes glued to his phone. Or his plate. He pretends to eat, but only moves the scrambled eggs into a neat pile in the center of the dish.
“Time to shower and pack,” he finally says, abruptly ending a meal he’s hardly touched.
I finish my coffee and join him after he’s showered and dressed. “Can I help?” I ask. Of course I want to talk about what happened last night. I want to know why he was all dominating and aggressive one minute and passive and quiet the next. But I know it’s too touchy of a subject, and I can’t go there. So I zip my lips and play the doting girlfriend.
“You can get me my toiletry case,” Max says with a weak smile.
I go into the bathroom and gather his toiletries for his trip, when I hear sneezing outside the door. Poor guy. He’ll need some Claritin for his allergies. July in Chicago is miserable, and I’m sure when he gets to Cincinnati it’ll be no different. Maybe that’s what has him looking like a kicked puppy this morning.
I grab the bottle and open his bag, and that’s when I see them.
Condoms.
At least a dozen of them all linked together in a pretty row.
I stare into the bag for a minute, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Trouble is, it doesn’t make sense. We haven’t used condoms since I went on the pill. And this toiletry bag came with his new luggage set we bought last month. I let these thoughts and excuses roll in and out of my brain until his voice pulls me back.
“What’s the holdup, hon?” he asks. “Come on, I’ve got to get moving.”
When I don’t answer, he joins me in the bathroom. “What’s taking so—” He stops as his eyes reach the open bag with the row of condoms draping over the side. “Aw shit, Stevie,” he says like it’s my fault I stumbled onto his stash.
“Yeah, shit, Max,” I say to him, feeling my cheeks burn. “Care to explain?”
He shakes his head and releases a labored sigh.
Not a good sign.
“Who is she?” I ask as my stomach turns, forcing me to talk slowly, deliberately, before I throw up on his newly-polished shoes.
“It’s not what you think, Stevie. Things just haven’t been working between us. I’m trying to fix us—”
“Is it serious?” I interrupt his explanation to ask the big question. The question I’m not sure I want to know the answer to. I really don’t want to know any of this.
“No.” Max runs his hands through his hair.
“Are you in love?” My palms grow damp, and I bite my lip to keep it from trembling.
“No, Stevie.” Max takes a deep breath, frustrated. “I’ve only ever loved you.” He reaches out to me, but I recoil.
The slip of past tense isn’t lost on me, even in this state. “You have a nice way of showing it,” I spit.
“I’ve been trying—trying so hard, you have no idea.” He pounds on the bathroom counter, making me jump. “But I’m losing you,” he says quietly. “I can see it every day. We’re becoming more like roommates and less like lovers. We have to stop pretending it’s not a big deal.”
“And fucking someone else is helping our predicament?” I steady my shaking hands so I can pick up the row of condoms. Then I smack him with it, before launching the entire open bag at his head.
Max doesn’t even try to dodge the flying debris. He just looks around, for what I can only assume is a shovel to dig himself a deeper hole.
“This isn’t about one person,” he says. “I’m not having an affair.”
“What are you saying?” The words are rough as they fall out of my mouth. “This has happened with more than one woman?”
“You’re not listening to me, Stevie,” Max yells now. “I need time to figure this out so I can explain it to you.”
He needs time away from me?
“Okay,” I tell him, panic lacing my voice as I watch my life crumble before my eyes. “Say no more,” I add, even though I want to beg him to stay. I don’t want him to go, especially knowing there’s someone out there to take my place. Multiple someones, apparently. But I know this isn’t the time for begging. Plus, I’m too numb to do anything but listen to the low hum of the air conditioner that fills the silence. We stand there, not moving, for what feels like an eternity.
&n
bsp; Until his phone rings.
“I have to take this,” Max says, glancing down at his phone. “It’s the shuttle service.”
I watch as he answers the phone and listen as he tells the driver he’ll be right down. He seems like a stranger to me. His voice so far away. His body untouchable. How could that happen so fast? When just a few hours ago we were the closest two people could be.
“Stevie, I’m sorry but I have to go. Let’s talk about this when I get back. Please.”
“I’ll be gone by the time you get back,” I tell Max without thinking. And definitely without meaning it. But I had to say something, anything to break the desperate mood.
I grab a suitcase from the hall closet and haul it onto the bed, waiting for him to stop me. Hoping that he’ll stop me. He doesn’t. Heat rises from my chest, up my neck, and soon it becomes difficult to breathe.
“I understand if that’s what you want,” he says, grabbing his suitcase. “Take some time.”
Oh, I’ll take some time alright.
Never in a million years did I think it would end this way. Over the past few months, I didn’t think it would end at all. We’ve even looked at rings. This was the real thing. A grown-up relationship. But I will be damned if I put up with this shit, grown up or not.
“Maybe a break will help us think through this, and help us find out what we really want.” Max stops at the front door. “Take your time. You don’t need to rush out. But text me and let me know when you’re gone so I can have Tommy come in and feed Free.”
And you’re keeping the bird!
I force myself not to cry, but my eyes are filling and I can no longer see. It’s a losing battle. Soon, tears are spilling down my cheeks.
My head goes foggy and as I watch Max gather his things, the edges of his tall frame blur. His goodbye is muffled. As the blood rushes to my head, the room spins. I hardly hear the door as it slams. I sink down to the floor and just sit there, staring at the door. I’m not sure how long I stay that way.
When I notice the room has stopped spinning, and I’m able to start breathing again, I fall apart. The tears come flooding out and before I know it, I’m doing the ugly cry, sobbing like a three year old with the hiccups. And like a toddler, I want my blanky. I roll Free’s cage into the bedroom and make sure he has food and water.