Filthy Desires: A Romantic Suspense Collection

by Parker, Kylie

  “Representing her? For what?” I open up the paperwork he handed me, and my stomach drops. “Are these divorce papers?” I snarl loudly, and the kid takes a step down the staircase that leads up the front door. What does he think I’m going to do –punch him? Well, I suppose if he’s seen the news lately…

  “Yes, sir,” he says, “Mr. Braxton wanted to make sure they were hand delivered,” he holds up a clipboard; his hands are shaking a little bit, “If you don’t mind signing here, stating that you received them.”

  I kind of feel bad, but I slap the clipboard out of his hand, and it goes flying down the stairs. “What the fuck!” I shout at him, “This is bullshit!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but, um,” he slowly makes his way down the stairs and picks up the clipboard.

  I sigh. “Bring it here, I’ll sign the damn thing,” I say, and he brings it to me. I read through the slip of paper he wants me to sign to make sure I do not agree to anything, and its pretty straight forward. It’s just a statement of receipt. I sign it and shove it back into the kid’s arms.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Trial,” he says. There is this short pause, “Um, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I don’t suppose you would mind signing this as well,” he remove the top page from the clipboard and shows me this headshot of me. He grins slightly. The little bastard is a fan. No wonder he was so skittish –other than the fact that he had to walk up to a professional boxer’s home to tell him his wife wanted to leave.

  I sigh. “Sure, kid,” I say and scribble at the bottom of the picture.

  I slam my door in his face, bringing the paperwork with me. There’s no way in hell I’m signing divorce papers. I try calling Brandi, and I hear the line pick up. “Brandi?” I ask.

  “Jonathan,” I hear her mother’s voice hiss into the phone. “I guess you got the paperwork.”

  “Let me talk to Brandi,” I say.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” the woman says.

  “Are you kidding me?” I snap, “Let me talk to her! I’m not signing this shit. We need to try to-”

  “What?” she snaps, “try to work it out? Haven’t you put her through enough?” She hangs up the phone.

  I slam the paperwork down on the counter, and I decide to leave the house. I’m not sticking around. I grab my gym bag and head down to Damion’s gym, eager to blow off some steam. I take my car into the city, heading straight for the gym. I jump out of my car as soon as I get to the parking lot and head inside. I’m getting stares from the other boxers from the moment I enter the building. I try to ignore it, but it’s pretty obvious that they’re all watching me.

  A few minutes go by, and soon Damion is coming out of his office, waving me over. I head over, and he looks pretty grim as he pulls me into his office. He goes and sits down behind his desk. “What’s going on, Damion?” I ask.

  “The other guys want you to leave,” he says. “You got to go, Jonathan. After that video of you smacking Brandi-”

  “Damion, you know that was an accident,” I say.

  “Do I?” he leans back on his desk. “You’re bad for my business.”

  “Damion, come on, man, it’s me,” I say.

  “I know, and I don’t really care for who you are anymore,” Damion shakes his head, “You knocked that poor girl flat on her back. You attacked another boxer in the locker room. And, to be honest, Jonathan, I’m pretty sure you got my assistant killed. Now get the fuck out of my gym.”

  “Fuck you, Damion, you old bastard!” I stand up and storm out. I can see the other boxers smirking as I make my way out of the gym. What the hell is happening to me? Everything is falling apart.

  23

  Three Months Later…

  I have come to realize that there is nothing in this world more dangerous than a woman scorned –with the exception of said woman’s parents. Brandi’s parents hired this kick ass lawyer that my own simply could not compete with. I suppose the overwhelming amount of guilt I feel coupled with my unwillingness to put her through much more than I already have did not help the situation. Basically, between the killer lawyer and the pissed off look the female judge gave me when the clip of me socking Brandi in the face was played, I fucking lost everything. Brandi got the house and just about every single dime I still had. The only win on my side is that I get to keep her old, shitty fucking pink Volkswagen beetle that she hasn’t driven since she was a damn teenager, a few personal items like my fucking clothes, and I don’t have to pay alimony.

  Everything I own is either in this small storage unit outside of the city or crammed into the back of my, formerly Brandi’s, fucking pink beetle. The court dates lasted several months, and to be honest, I was ready to sign away just about anything. Brandi never spoke a word to me during mediation or court; she let her parents or her lawyer do all the talking. I tried to speak to her once, if only to offer a sincere apology, but her father had given me this death glare that had warned me off.

  I’m officially moved out of the house now, and now I find myself staring at this shit-hole apartment complex with Tyler standing next to me –being kind enough to carry my bags. Marty’s girlfriend had just moved in with him. Otherwise, I probably would have begged him to let me stay at his nice house in the suburbs. Tyler, the wannabe boxer, did not exactly have the kind of set up I was used to. He was kind enough to let me stay with him, though, so I make it my goal not to complain.

  My arms sway slightly; I feel almost sick. This morning Brandi had been at the house as I was leaving –her parents with her, of course. Fuck them. I had finally managed to talk to her, though, and it had not gone particularly well. I told her I was sorry, and I told her that I hoped she would be happy. She had been really cold towards me. She had turned up her nose and said, “Get sober, or you never will be.”

  It’s not like I can go get drunk when I don’t have any fucking money to spend on drinks, so maybe me losing everything to Brandi in court is a good thing. I follow Tyler, and I cringe when I see the damn elevator is broken, so we have to walk up five flights of stairs. Thankfully I’m an athletic guy, but still. “So, how long has that been broken?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s been broken since I moved in,” Tyler says as he puts my bags down and fiddles with his keys.

  “Haven’t you lived here for two years, man?” I question.

  “Yup,” he says and opens the door.

  I grab one of the bags, and he grabs the other two, leading the way. It’s not too bad. To the right is a door that leads to Tyler’s bedroom; the rest of the apartment is out in the open… oh my fucking God, the damn toilet is in the kitchen! It’s in the fucking kitchen! I cringe as we pass by the kitchen area that is also the fucking bathroom, and he puts my bags down beside his worn out sofa. “It’s a pullout,” he says, “but the springs suck; I would honestly just sleep on it as a couch.” He seems embarrassed; there’s a reason the guys have never hung out at his place. His cheeks are slightly red; I had no idea he was living in such a slum. The wallpaper is peeling off, and there are bars on the window above the couch like we’re in a damn prison cell. Can he really not afford a better place? I had no idea. If I had known he was living in such a shit hole, I probably would have done something about it.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and smile at him, “Thanks, man. Really.” I certainly don’t want him to think I’m unappreciative. If he hadn’t offered up his couch, I’d be sleeping in the pink Volkswagen. I sit down on the couch and take a deep breath.

  “You would have done the same for me… although I probably wouldn’t be sleeping on a couch you pulled from your side job at the dump,” his entire face turns red when he says this because I jumped right up off that couch.

  Now we’re both embarrassed. Great. “I didn’t know you had a side job?” I say.

  “I don’t make shit boxing, but it’s what I want to do. I got to make up for the money somehow,” he says.

  “And you work at the dump?” I question, and he nods. “We’ve been friends fo
r years, man. How come I didn’t know that?”

  “I guess there are a lot of things you guys don’t know about me,” he says.

  To save face, I sit back down on the dumpster-diver couch. It doesn’t look like he got it at the dump, but damn. He sits across from me in a chair, the coffee table between us. I spot a picture frame sitting on the end table beside the couch, and I instantly regret picking it up. It’s a picture of Tyler, a much younger Gabe, and some woman I’ve never met. The three of them are smiling big at the camera –Gabe especially. It makes me cringe, and Tyler becomes really quiet. None of us have really talked about Gabe since the funeral; it stings too much. “Who’s the woman in this picture?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s my little sister,” he says.

  “What the fuck, man?” I question, “How many other secrets you keep from us? Why haven’t I ever met her?”

  “She’s dead, man,” Tyler says.

  Can I say anything else to make today more uncomfortable? “Oh,” I say softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

  “How could you have known?” Tyler takes the picture frame from me and smiles slightly at the picture. “Gabe only met her once, and we took this picture right before she died. I asked him not to say anything to you guys about it; I had only just met you and Marty back then.”

  “How did she…” I cut myself off. It was none of my business; if he had wanted me to know, he would have told me.

  He hesitates, but he decides to tell me, “She was walking home by herself one night; her car had broken down at work. A couple of thugs tried to take her purse, and she fought back.”

  “Awe, shit, man,” I say because I don’t have any other words to describe what I’m feeling.

  “I’m all right, really,” he says, “it was a long time ago. I mean, I guess you’re never okay after something like that, but I’m better now. I guess it was just rough because it had always been just the two of us, I mean, we were foster kids-”

  What the hell? How did I not know that either? I stare at him, completely dumbfounded by all this new knowledge. Was I really so busy partying and fighting that I never took the time to actually get to know Tyler –Tyler, who I consider to be one of my best friends? He has a second job that he keeps to pay his bills? He had a sister –a sister who died –a sister who was killed? He had been in foster care as a kid? Where was all of this coming from? It’s like one secret revealed just leads to another. I guess I have just never really talked to Tyler –not like this, at least. I must be a real jackass to have not known any of this. How wrapped up in my own little world, was I?

  We wind up cracking open a couple of beers, but Tyler won’t let me have more than one. He’s looking out. We sit around talking, and I learn that there was a hell of a lot more to Tyler than I ever thought possible. I learn that his father had died when he was just a kid and that his mother had turned to drugs –which is what landed Tyler and his sister in foster care. He talks about how they had gotten separated a couple of times, but how they were lucky enough to remain together most of the time compared to families with a large number of siblings. He tells me how he called her Lollipop because when they were kids, she used to steal suckers from one of their foster mom’s offices and pass them out to the other kids. He tells me about his job at the dump and how much he hates it, but he admits he is kind of a dumpster diver and enjoys that part of his job. He talks about how much he wants to become a professional boxer. He also tells me more about the night his sister died, and I cringe to hear him tell me she died alone in the street after being stabbed in the gut. He tells me a lot. We also wind up talking about Gabe, but that pretty much puts us both in unpleasant moods.

  After the subject of Gabe comes up, we are both ready to call it a night. He heads to bed after grabbing some sheets and a spare pillow from his bedroom for me to use. I lay down, staring up at the ceiling in the dark apartment after Tyler had retired to bed. I contemplate what an arrogant, self-absorbed asshole I must be to have never known all of this stuff about Tyler I have just learned. I also think about Brandi and Gabe, and thinking about them gives me nightmares.

  24

  I suppose my heart to heart with Tyler was not enough to snap me out of my path towards self-destruction. The worse my situation gets, the more I want to drink and be a dumbass. Currently, I find myself in a bathroom stall with some woman I had picked up at the bar. We give each other drunk, sloppy kisses, and I slide my hand up her shirt. Just as I am doing that, we wind up tumbling backward slightly, and I wind up sitting on the nasty toilet. “Eh,” I say, and she laughs.

  “Why don’t we go back to my place?” she suggests, and I am more than willing to do this anywhere else.

  We take a cab to her apartment in the city, and we bust through the door like a couple of wild animals. She’s really gorgeous, so I suppose drunk me could have done a lot worse. She has long, blonde hair and these crazy bright blue eyes. Seriously –I’ve never seen such blue eyes before. She’s well-toned, and her body type is quite different from the petite Brandi. This woman has a little bit of muscle on her, so I suspect that she works out a lot. I kind of like the change of pace.

  Eventually, we find her bedroom; we both are drunk out of our minds, and I’m guessing she’s probably going to regret this more than me. We don’t waste any time at all. Her fingers slide up and down my pants, teasing me for a second before she unbuttons and unzips my jeans, pulling my cock out and stroking it for a second before she hikes up her red skirt. I see a sexy, black pair of lacey underwear. I grin and slide them down her long, toned legs. I play with her using my fingers for a moment, but she is pretty much ready to go. I press myself inside her while simultaneously working on the buttons on that blouse of hers. When I get her top and bra off, I suction cup my mouth around one of her breasts, and she squeals excitedly for a moment.

  I feel her fingers reaching around my back, and she scratches my shoulder blades. She’s a lot stronger than my little ballerina had been, so the sex is a bit rougher than I had gotten used to, but I fucking love it. She grips me tight, and I can feel her warm breath on my neck as she nibbles on my ear. We pull apart slightly so that I can get some better leverage, and we lock eyes for the first time since leaving the bar. I catch myself smiling at her, and she suddenly has this perplexed look on her face. She groans when she speaks because I’m still violently prodding myself into her, “what did you say your name was?”

  “Jonathan,” I say, “Jonathan Trial.”

  I’m very confused by what happens next. She does this weird maneuver in which her fucking foot manages to come up and press against my chest; she pushes me right off and out of her. I wind up sitting up at the foot of the bed, still fully dressed with the exception of my cock hanging out. “Get the fuck out of my apartment!” she wraps her sheets around her and stands up. When I don’t move immediately, she shoves me off the bed, and I fall back and land on the floor.

  “What the hell?” I stand up and shove myself back into my pants while she grabs me by the arm and shoves me out of her bedroom and down the small hallway that leads to her apartment entrance.

  “Get out!” She shoves me out the door and slams it in my face.

  “Bitch!” I shout at the door, completely flabbergasted by this interaction.

  I’m still fucking hard; I hurry out of the apartment complex, hoping to God that I don’t run into anyone before my erection goes down. Now I’m drunk and horny and in an unfamiliar place. This is a bad combination of things to be.

  Because I am just keen on making a bad decision tonight, I wind up wandering the streets in search of a bar when I spot a couple of women hanging out on a street corner. Don’t do it, a still slightly-sober part of me tries to warn my drunk self. I don’t listen, and I march right up to one of them, knowing I have a wad of cash in my pocket.

  I start flirting with the less trashy looking of the two, but I know it’s not necessary. She asks me if I have a place to go, and I admit that I don’t. I may be drunk, but I
sure as hell am not about to bring a hooker to Tyler’s apartment. We head down a back alley after I confirm for her that I have some money on me. The next thing I know, there are two fucking cops on me putting me in cuffs. Bitch was a cop.

  Soon I am sitting in a jail cell, waiting for Tyler to show up with bail money. He had been my one phone call. I am so fucked. When I finally see him, I feel really relieved, but he looks pissed. “Moron,” he grumbles as we make our way to the front of the station to collect my personal items. “Have you sobered up yet?” he asks me as he is signing some paperwork.

  “Not really,” I admit.

  Tyler kindly asks the man behind the desk if he can give me some coffee before we leave. I don’t see why I can’t get coffee at the apartment, but for some reason, Tyler is pretty hell bent on sobering me up before we leave. Soon enough, I discover why. The damn paparazzi is outside of the building, waiting to get a shot of me leaving. How did they even find out about this? Someone at the station must have squealed.

  Tyler and I march through the crowd of onlookers with their damn cameras, and Tyler curses at a few of them to get out of the way. He helps my still tipsy self into the passenger’s seat of his car before climbing into the driver’s side. He grips the steering wheel and peels out, almost hitting a couple of news anchors on his way out. “Look, man, I’m sorry-” I start to say, and he punches me in my jaw when we come to a red light. “Fuck!” I shout.

  “No, fuck you!” Tyler shouts. “Man, I didn’t give you a place to say so that you can fuck yourself up even more.” The light turns green, and he speeds away, steaming. “You got to get a job. You got to get sober. I’m not kidding. If you don’t, I’m sorry man, but I’m throwing your ass to the curb.”

  I can’t say that I blame him.

  25

  I have to admit that I was a little surprised to have received a text from Damion –mostly because I had no idea the old fart knew how to text. That, and he had seemed pretty cold towards me when he had thrown me out of his gym. He had told me he wanted to buy me lunch to catch up, and truth be told I kind of missed the old bastard –and I was tired of playing housewife to Tyler. Because I haven’t been able to land myself a job, I have been trying to make up for it by keeping house –something, as it turns out, I have no idea how to do. I had maids back home who cleaned up after me. God, I am such a prick. I wonder if Brandi has kept the staff at the mansion? I liked those ladies; they were always so friendly and chipper.