Dare to be Dirty (The Dirty Girls Book Club #2)

by Savanna Fox

  “Right.” She sounded less than ecstatic.

  “Well,” Marielle said cheerfully, “you know me. There’s no one man, job, or drink that’s going to keep me happy for the rest of my life. As for being safe, I happen to be a great judge of character.” She turned to Kim. “You’re being quiet. What do you think?”

  “That the ideal is what George says,” she answered slowly. “It is for me, anyhow.”

  “Yeah, but you thought you had that with your boyfriend,” Marielle said, “and found out you were wrong. So now, why not have some fun? Like you seemed to be having with Ty.”

  Only the most fun she’d ever had. Maybe Marielle was right, and it wasn’t such a bad thing to have some harmless fun. Thoughtfully, Kim sipped her boring cranberry drink. Maybe she wasn’t a total slut.

  “There’s a difference between dancing and having sex,” Lily said.

  Nine

  Kim swallowed. Right. That was the bottom line for her too. Slowly she said, “Yes. Dancing, socializing, that’s great. But sex . . . It should be special.” Sex under the stars, sex in a cowboy hat, that had been pretty special. She frowned. “I mean, uh, emotional. Intimate. With someone you know and care about, where you think maybe there’s a future for the two of you.”

  Marielle, who’d been lifting a forkful of tuna tataki toward her mouth, paused. “Why?” she asked bluntly.

  “I guess . . . because otherwise you’re wasting your time.”

  “Having fun isn’t a waste of time,” the other woman said. “You go drinking with friends. Isn’t that as much a waste of time as having sex with a hot guy?”

  Kim frowned again. “Okay, then maybe it’s about valuing yourself. Not giving yourself to anyone who comes along.”

  “Hey, not just anyone. Did you hear me say ‘hot guy’?” Marielle tilted her head. “You think Marty Westerbrook disrespected herself by having sex with Dirk?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You think I’m disrespecting myself by having sex with Blake? Or you’d be disrespecting yourself if you’d done more than just dance with Ty?”

  That was how she’d felt when she studied her debauched reflection in the motel room mirror. But, hmm . . . She took a long drink of cranberry and soda. It was complicated, sorting this stuff out. “I don’t think you’re disrespecting yourself, Marielle. You have such a strong sense of yourself and so much confidence, and you know what you want. But what you want is temporary, and what I want is permanent.” And that was why she felt so much shame and guilt.

  “How about Marty?” George asked. “Do you think she was wrong to have sex with Dirk, given that—” She broke off. “Sorry, I forgot you haven’t read past the sex scene.”

  “Right,” Lily said. “We can carry on the discussion next week, when we’ve all read the next section.” She raised her eyebrows in Kim’s direction. “That’s not going to be a problem for you, is it?”

  Of course it would. It would make her think of Ty. But, to be realistic, she’d think of him anyhow. And she didn’t want to drop out of book club. This afternoon had reinforced how much she liked these women, and the way they challenged her. “No problem.”

  * * *

  Alone in his bedroom at Ronan Ranch on Thursday night, Ty gingerly touched the silky winged top with one rough finger. He’d done that a lot since he’d woken Sunday morning to find that Kim had gone. No note, no phone number. She hadn’t even told him her last name. But she’d left the top. Intentionally, as some message that he was too stupid to get? Or had he been lying on it, and she couldn’t pull it free?

  Why had she left? They’d had incredible sex. She’d been into it; she’d liked it.

  Could she be married? She hadn’t worn a ring, but he’d known women to take off their wedding rings and hook up with a rodeo cowboy.

  He shouldn’t waste time thinking about Kim. She’d been a one-nighter, great sex to break his dry spell. He should find a woman with long-term potential. He was nearing thirty. Ronan Ranch was getting established. This was the right time to marry, and then think about a family.

  He needed a ranch wife, a woman like his grandma and his mom. An equal partner who’d share in the hard work and love the country lifestyle. No point wasting his time with a dragonfly art student from Hong Kong.

  But man, Kim was something. She was different, unpredictable, exciting. Passionate. Oh hell, he wanted to see her again. Or at least find out why she’d skipped out and ended one damned fantastic night.

  Kim from Hong Kong, an art student at Emily Carr who designed clothes and was into butterflies. How hard could it be to track her down?

  He sat in front of his computer, and in less than a minute, he was looking at her Facebook page. The art was a vibrant abstract design that looked like wings. In her picture, she had orange streaks in her black hair. That hair looked kind of spiky, but when he touched it, it had been soft as silk. Soft as feathers.

  Maybe she really did have wings. Maybe she’d flown away, not driven.

  Ty wasn’t a fast typist—his hands were too big—but he clicked out the letters deliberately.

  Why the hell did you run and when the hell am I going to see you again?

  He studied the blunt words. Yup, that pretty much said what needed to be said. He added his e-mail address and phone number, and sent the message off to her.

  And now it was bedtime. If the past nights were any example, his sleep would be filled with sex dreams of Kim, and he’d wake with a hard-on as rigid as a fence post.

  * * *

  Thursday night, after working on more ideas for a clothing design business, Kim turned off her computer with a frustrated sigh. This just didn’t feel right, and agonizing over it wasn’t helping. Inspiration and creativity didn’t feed on angst.

  She curled on top of her double bed in a nest of pillows and opened Ride Her, Cowboy.

  It was now the second day of the cattle drive. Marty’s muscles had loosened up, and she found she enjoyed riding along with nothing to do but take photographs and record notes.

  Despite the dust and noise of the sizable herd of cattle, the occasional shouts of the cowboys, and the barking of their dogs, there was something surprisingly peaceful about the experience. The country was so vast. Awe-inspiring. It made her and her companions seem small and insignificant, yet, oddly, that thought was almost comforting.

  She did know that what she did mattered. She brought information and enlightenment to people. What Dirk and the cowboys did mattered too. Their cattle fed hungry people, and the work supported them and their own families.

  Important, yes, but only a blink of time in the grand scheme of the centuries these mountains and plains had been here.

  Last night—the wild sex under the stars at the river—had been less than a blink, yet the memory of it throbbed pleasurably in her body. Would they do it again?

  She’d had sex when she was on assignment before. Three years ago, she’d even fallen in love. She’d been in Afghanistan, death waiting around each corner. Sex and love were so intense, an affirmation of life and hope. Hope that there’d be a future.

  Her soldier had stepped around that corner and death, in the form of a teenage suicide bomber, had taken him and half a dozen others. She was alone again, the way she’d been since her parents both died in a car crash when she was eighteen.

  Now she was happy to have sex, but love was something to avoid. When she thought of the future, it was in terms of her work. More assignments, more travel. It kept her busy.

  Kim nodded, guessing what George had been about to say on Monday, before she remembered Kim hadn’t read this section. No, Marty wasn’t disrespecting herself in having sex with Dirk. Like Marielle, she chose sex and rejected love, though in Marielle’s case it was about fun and variety, and in Marty’s it was because of a broken heart. How sad. Kim read on.

  Maybe she’d felt a little worn-out lately, but that was because she’d been working too hard. This assignment was timely. Long days in the saddle,
inspiring scenery, interesting chats with the cowboys as they took turns riding alongside her, and—with luck and privacy—more blazing sex with Dirk Zamora.

  It might take luck, because he was avoiding her today, though she’d caught him watching her more than once. Maybe he regretted the passion that had flared between them. She figured he still resented her being here—both as a woman on a cattle drive and as a journalist writing a story he’d rather not have written. He’d told her he only agreed because his sister had insisted, saying they needed the good publicity. Marty figured she’d be giving that to him too, because the more she saw of him, his cowboys, and his operation, the more she respected him.

  They’d barely exchanged two words by the end of the day, but there he was, sitting across the circle from her as everyone gathered around a crackling fire under that same canopy of stars she’d seen over his shoulder when they had sex last night.

  Tonight, she was a little achy from the long ride, but less so than last night. She felt pleasantly tired, and grateful to be drinking chilled beer and eating perfectly grilled filet mignon, potatoes fried with onions, and sautéed greens.

  “I’m not surprised to be eating beef,” she said, “but I hadn’t expected gourmet fare.”

  “Been watchin’ them old cowboy movies?” a graying man called Len, who did most of the cooking, asked. “Figured I’d serve you up a mess o’ beans on a tin plate?”

  She grinned at him. “Pretty much. And I’ve eaten lots worse.”

  “Yeah, sure.” It was Dirk, a touch of disbelieving snark in his voice. “Gotta say, I’m surprised you’re still with us. Bet you’re feeling crippled after all the riding.”

  “Nope. I’m in pretty good shape”—she paused, then added deliberately—“in case you haven’t noticed.” He certainly should have noticed the strength in her thighs when she’d tightened them around his hips as he pounded into her last night.

  He snorted and, not giving an inch, said, “Yeah, sure, you’re a tough girl.”

  She cocked an eyebrow, fed up with his attitude. “You think this is tough? Wait until you’ve been in Afghanistan, where you can’t walk an inch without being afraid you’ll trip an IED, or that”—she swallowed—“some kid on a bike or woman in a burka will turn out to be a suicide bomber and blow you up.” She fought to hold her voice steady. “If I can handle that, cowboy”—she said the word disparagingly—“I can handle your little cattle drive.”

  “You were in Afghanistan?” The snark was gone now.

  “Twice.” The first time, she’d loved and lost. The second time, she’d gone back to prove to herself she could handle it. Now that, she figured, was tough. Not that she’d share that bit of personal history with Dirk Zamora.

  “Okay,” he said slowly and almost grudgingly. “I’m impressed. I figured you’d covered . . .” He shrugged.

  “Fluff pieces? The latest styles in fake fingernails? Yes, I’ve written about beauty pageants and breast implants, though I’d hardly call those fluff subjects. I’ve also covered civil war in Syria, the drug war in Mexico, and . . . well you get the picture.”

  “That’s one hell of a life you live, girl,” one of the cowboys said. “Can’t say as I’d want to do it.”

  “Each to their own,” she said.

  Across the circle, Dirk remained silent, but his gaze didn’t leave her face.

  “Well,” Les said, “better clean up and hit the sack. Dawn’ll be here before you know.”

  The men rose and went about chores, each clearly knowing his role. Dirk headed toward the horses, and she followed.

  Though she walked quietly, he must have heard her because as soon as they were out of sight of the fire, he turned. “Glad you came. There’s something I need to say.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I misjudged you. Sorry.”

  She hadn’t liked the way he’d made assumptions, but she respected a person who’d admit he was wrong and apologize. “Apology accepted.” She held out her hand. If he touched her, he’d feel that spark between them. She curved her lips as he reached out to take her hand. “Does this mean you like me a little?”

  He grasped her hand firmly, but didn’t shake. Instead, he gave a quick, firm tug.

  Surprised, she stumbled forward.

  He released her hand, caught her by the waist to steady her, then next thing she knew the front of his body met hers.

  “Maybe a little,” his voice rumbled close to her ear. He caught her jean-clad butt, pulling her tighter against him so she felt the hardness of his dick through his fly.

  She ground against him, damp for him, craving him. “We can’t do this now. I don’t want your men to know.”

  He shook his head. “Me either. It’s got nothing to do with them.”

  Nothing to do with his real life, he meant. For the first time, it occurred to her to ask, “Why aren’t you married? Shouldn’t you have a ranch wife and a passel of kids?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re volunteering?”

  “God, no. Just curious.”

  “Been busy, I guess. But yeah, I gotta do me some looking, one of these days before too long.” One hand left her butt to slip under the front of her shirt and tease her nipple through her bra. “How come you’re not married? Too busy traveling all over the world, writing about breasts and civil wars?”

  Three years ago, she’d thought about settling down in one place, with one man. But that was a romantic dream fueled by being in a war zone. “That’s right. My lifestyle’s nomadic. I follow the story. That’s what I always wanted to do.”

  “We’re ’bout as different as two people can get. Funny how there’s this physical thing between us.”

  “Funny,” she echoed. “So what’re we going to do about it?”

  “The hands will be asleep in ten minutes. Make like you’re going to bed, then when they’re all snoring, come meet me right here.”

  So, they’d be having sex again. No surprise, and Kim liked how Marty and Dirk had come to respect each other. She decided to go through her bedtime ritual and climb under the covers, so she could really get into the sex scene. With any luck, she’d click off the light with fantasies of Dirk Zamora—not Ty Ronan—filling her mind and heating her body.

  One final check of e-mail, and a quick glance at Facebook—and her jaw dropped when she saw a message from Ty Ronan.

  Why the hell did you run and when the hell am I going to see you again?

  He wanted to see her again?

  He didn’t say anything about the top she’d left behind, so it wasn’t that he felt obligated to return it. And he’d tracked her down on Facebook.

  The possibility of seeing him again had never—except in sexy dreams—crossed her mind. It was a sleazy one-nighter; it wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a relationship. It had definitely been great sex, though. Did he agree, and want more of it?

  Why her? There was nothing so special about her. Or, at least, the things that made her special, like her quirky creativity, couldn’t really appeal to a cowboy, right? And why was she fussing over why he wanted to see her? The important fact was that she hadn’t the slightest desire to see him again. She wasn’t like Marty in the book, nor like Marielle, who was all about fun. Saturday night had been an aberration, a onetime thing. The real Kim wasn’t into casual flings.

  The real Kim didn’t have fun.

  No, wait. Where had that thought come from? Of course she did. Making art was fun, hanging out with friends was fun, book club was fun. She’d had fun with Henry when they’d been a couple. Okay, the sex hadn’t been as phenomenal as with Ty, but it had been fun believing they loved each other and had a future.

  A future that she’d ended. No, it wasn’t as dramatic as having her man torn apart by a suicide bomb, and it hadn’t made her swear off men. She’d meet someone else once she was home in Hong Kong, and they’d have loads of fun, in and out of bed.

  Ty Ronan had no place in her life.

  She stared at his message ag
ain. Blunt; the opposite of romantic. She didn’t owe him an explanation. Her fingers rested on the keyboard. Probably, she should just delete this. Instead, she slowly tapped out:

  Why?

  She sent the message to his e-mail address, turned off her computer, and got ready for bed. When she picked up Ride Her, Cowboy, she knew that, no matter how hot the scene between Marty and Dirk, there’d be a different cowboy in her erotic dreams tonight. Just because a guy wasn’t a marriage prospect didn’t mean a girl couldn’t fantasize about him.

  Did it mean she’d be disrespecting herself if she did more than fantasize?

  Ten

  Ty got up before dawn and found Kim’s e-mail. Huh. So she could be brief too. He figured the “why?” referred to why he wanted to see her again. He responded:

  Had fun. Thought you did too.

  Then he headed out to do some chores.

  When he came in to make breakfast, he found her response:

  Life’s about more than just fun.

  That sent his eyebrows jumping. He responded:

  You’re talking to a guy who’s put in more than 3 hrs

  hard work before 8 am. A working man needs some

  fun too. So does a gal.

  He shook out his large hands, cramped from this bit of typing. Thank heavens his mom handled most of Ronan Ranch’s e-mail. Frustrated, he typed:

  Why are we talking this way? Give me a call.

  A minute later his cell rang. “Hey, Kim.”

  “What do you want?” She sounded jittery, a nervous dragonfly ready to take flight.

  “Just to see you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “We both had fun. We could have fun again. How’s that a bad idea?”

  A long pause. Then, “If I’m going to see you, we need to talk.” Her voice was higher pitched than on Saturday,; still, it sounded good to his ears.

  “We are talking.”

  “I mean, uh, I’m not like that. Not like I was Saturday night. I don’t just, you know. With any guy who comes along.”