Dirty Laundry
Page 1
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
Epilogue
Dirty Laundry
Lauren Landish
Edited by
Valorie Clifton
Edited by
Staci Etheridge
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Landish.
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2018 by Coverluv.
Cover Models: Matthew Hosea & Nin Coleman.
Photography by Reggie Deanching.
Edited by Valorie Clifton & Staci Etheridge.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual
Contents
Introduction
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
Epilogue
Excerpt: Dirty Talk
Heartstopper
About the Author
Introduction
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I’m a reporter, and I’ve got the best assignment in the world–get dirt on the hottest country star on the charts, Keith Perkins.
The sexy beast who rocks those tight jeans like nobody’s business.
I’m supposed to learn all of his Dirty Laundry, his deepest and darkest secrets.
Without sleeping with him.
Easy enough, right?
Wrong.
I mean, just looking at him makes me wonder what those big, rough hands could do to me. With a voice that’s one part velvet and one part growl, it’s hard for me to sass him when he melts me into a puddle with a single look.
And when he sings?
All bets are off.
He owns the stage . . . and maybe some naughty parts of my body too.
But he’s notoriously single and notoriously private.
Given his status as a walking sex god, neither makes sense.
Something is amiss, and I’m going to figure out exactly what it is.
But if I’m not careful, I might just become his dirty little secret.
Chapter 1
Elise
Yes, sir. I’m on it, sir. By Monday, of course.” I sigh, rolling my eyes as Donnie, my boss, somehow manages to both ream me out for not delivering yet and make me feel like I can totally accomplish my latest assignment.
I’m not sure how he manipulates people so well, but he does. It’s a gift, I guess.
Hanging up, I look at myself in the mirror, making sure my disguise for today is in tip-top shape. I’m not famous, but my face is known enough that I want to be sure I’m not recognized. My blonde hair is tied up under a dark brunette wig that falls down in perfect mermaid waves, my usually slightly made-up face is fully done like I’m some YouTube makeup tutorial, and I’m dressed in casual clothes that scream money in quality, not flash. I’ve got on the one pair of designer jeans I own, a perfectly slouchy tee, and a fluffy soft hand-knit cardigan.
With the addition of my huge sunglasses and heeled booties, I’m off . . . looking just like one of the other millions of twentysomethings, out for coffee and to run errands. Which is exactly what I need, nondescript from the masses.
It’s nowhere near my normal look, but that’s what makes it a great disguise. Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ll need to take a cab if I’m making my first observation point on time. At least I can turn the receipt in for reimbursement because taking cabs all over the city is definitely above my pay bracket.
I hope Donnie isn’t going to be a prick on the expense report this time.
After a quick ride, I order a coffee and a blueberry muffin before sitting down at what’s become my table over the last week, taking out a notebook full of scribbled notes. To an interested observer, I’m working on a movie, or maybe a TV show, or something similarly vapid. I assume an aura of ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ and pretend to work, which makes a great cover because I am actually working, just not on what it seems.
Keeping my head still behind the shades, my eyes move left and right, not missing a thing. From the obviously morning-after coffee date, to the mom juggling two kids while bribing them with muffins that look just like mine and will put those two into sugar overload in ten minutes, to the old man reading the paper. I’ve worked long and hard on these skills. They’re more vital to my career than the ability to type quickly.
It’s not long before my target appears. Keith Perkins, the country music star who’s topping charts and winning awards left and right. He walks in to order his morning cup o’joe. He’s not really in disguise, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but the missing cowboy hat and tennis shoes instead of boots seem to be all the disguise he needs to go about unrecognized in this town. Then again, this isn’t a big country town. I bet he couldn’t pull this off in Nashville without getting mobbed.
He tells the barista his name is Kevin instead of Keith, but I don’t think she even looks up. In fact, I know she doesn’t look at him, because if she did, she’d be drooling like I’ve been for the last five days since I started my assignment.
There’s something about the way he moves, like coiled power waiting to spring into action, that makes me hum with anticipation. Combine that with a build that’s tall and wide-shouldered, with powerfully built arms and a tightly muscled waist that’s so narrow that he can’t wear normal jeans without squeezing his thighs and leaving his waist baggy . . . the man’s walking sex on a stick. He’s infused with energy in such a way that you can’t help but wonder what he could to with it.
Or what he could do to me with it.
I shake my head, a small smile tilting up one corner of my mouth. As if. That�
�s never gonna happen. I’m not the sort who gets wooed and swept off her feet by handsome stars who then proceed to wine and dine me before making my toes curl. No. With my job, I have a better chance of my name ending up pinned on a voodoo doll than my body being pinned to a bed.
My job is to follow Keith and watch that fine ass and dimpled smile as much as possible to find out his secrets. Once those secrets are in hand, I’ll write a damn good story for the online gossip rag I work for. It’s not my dream gig. Hell, I’ve hated it at times, but it’s interesting and pays the bills. I wanted to be a real investigative reporter. I wanted to follow in the steps of Woodward and Bernstein, exposing the back-alley machinations and dirty laundry of those who really deserve it. Those in power who are trying to fuck the average Joe.
Too bad most of the reporters on that gig are just as dirty as the assholes they’re covering. So I get to watch and report on celebs. But it pays the bills, so here I am lusting after the mark I’m following in preparation to expose all of his dirty laundry to readers who circle like vultures. Sometimes, I feel sorry for people like Keith. He’s not into drugs or acting like a jackass, and I’ve even listened to his music. It’s music to make you feel good. And make my panties wet, but that’s his voice. He could read his grocery list and I’d be all ears.
Knowing his routine, I start to gather my things, ready to follow out a few seconds behind him. As he walks out the door, questions run through my head, mental preparation for what’s coming. Where are we going today, Keith? The recording studio? Maybe the quiet spot at the gastropub you like to write at that has those bacon cheeseburgers that I have no idea how you eat and still have a six-pack? No jelly there. Or maybe just some errands? I could really use some errands so I have more to complete your picture.
He doesn’t answer, of course, but I carry on the conversation with myself as if he does. Sounds good, I can learn more that way. Maybe after your errands, you can take me home and fuck me stupid? Make that tight ass of yours good for something . . . pounding into my needy pussy. How’s that for a plan, Keith?
God, I need a man.
It’s been months since my last boyfriend, the bastard. While I’m known for being a spontaneous, up for anything kinda girl, I don’t sleep around and have pretty discerning taste. Which, of course, is how I find myself fantasizing about Keith’s ass as he walks down the street, sort of looking down as he walks, maybe to hide his face from the public or maybe because he’s got his own internal dialogue going. It’s too much to hope he’s thinking about the sexy brunette in designer jeans and sunglasses he saw in the corner of the coffee shop and how he’d like to take her home and make all her dreams come true, but fuck it, I’m allowed to fill in the blanks here.
He pauses in front of a store and looks back, so I step over to a potted plant in front of a store as cover, jostling the sidewalk traffic flow as a younger guy on rollerblades yells at me, “Watch it, bitch!”
I scowl, not wanting the attention, and quickly bury my face in my phone but sneak looks out the side of my sunglasses as I catch my breath.
Focus, Elise. Get your brain out of the gutter and do your fucking job!
Suitably chastised by my own more responsible half, I continue on, following Keith into . . . a grocery store?
Wouldn’t have expected Mr. Fancy Country Singer to be buying his own food. With online delivery and personal assistants running rampant around this town, I just never imagined him buying his own jars of basil pesto. Still, the fact that he does is cute, sweet, and maybe even a bit humble. I like this down-to-earth potential tilt to my story, so I sneak a few pics of him pushing his cart around the store, an old-fashioned piece of paper in his hand as he goes over his grocery list.
Following at a distance, I grab a few things totally at random as cover while I try to scope out what he’s buying to see if there’s anything interesting that’ll tell me his secrets.
Bread . . . boring, it’s not even fancy, just plain old wheat bread. Steaks . . . no surprise, although I wish I could afford a nice rib-eye every now and then. Speaking of USDA prime beef, God, I could take a bite of his biceps. Yummy. Milk . . . so 1990. Wait, not milk. He’s buying milks, two different kinds of milk . . . skim and whole, a half-gallon each. And the skim milk is that special type for people who are lactose intolerant.
That’s unusual, right? I mean, if you drink milk, you’re not likely to go for two drastically different fat contents. Unless he cooks? Maybe the skim is to drink and the whole is to cook?
Hmm, could be. But then, why the lactose intolerant one? I’ve tasted it myself, and no matter what the makers say, it’s crap compared to the real thing.
I keep following as he walks . . . into the feminine hygiene aisle. Jackpot.
Why would a notoriously single man, one whom women literally throw themselves at and are routinely rebuked, be buying tampons and pads? Because he’s not single anymore! The little news ticker in my brain rolls by . . . Hearts break all across America as Keith Perkins confirms he’s off the market, ladies. News at ten o’clock.
He’s stockpiling his house. By the looks of the third box of goodies he tosses in the basket, he’s got damn-near a full medicine cabinet in there. I sneak another pic for proof and follow him up toward the front of the store.
Choosing the line behind him, I consider maybe taking a chance to say something. It’s risky, but I might be able to tease some nugget of information out of the potential encounter. After setting his items on the conveyor belt, he looks at me.
I smile my biggest, flirtiest smile, expecting him to see stars. This smile has gotten me into more private rooms, parties, and information trades than I could say . . . unless you’re paying.
But from Keith, nothing. Not even a returned smile. His eyes slide over me and then back to the conveyor belt as he watches the little display show each item as it’s rung up.
How rude!
The whole encounter, Keith ignores me and barely speaks to the cashier. Most of the noise is grunts and mmm-hmms coming from him in response to the cashier’s chatter. She doesn’t seem to know who he is either. I get that we’re not in a country town, but do none of these people listen to country music? Or music period?
You wouldn’t think he’d be able to take off his hat and be incognito, but apparently, he can. Clark Kent, eat your fucking heart out. He pays—cash, I notice—and grabs his bags, disappearing out the door in a hurry. Shit, did he make me?
I pay for my mismatched bread, soda, and candy bar and hustle out behind him, wishing I hadn’t grabbed that bag of tater tots as part of my cover for going down the frozen food aisle because it wasted precious time telling the cashier I’d changed my mind about them. I’m so busy looking left and right down the sidewalk, trying to find his bald head above the crowd, that I don’t notice when he steps out right in front of me.
His chest is like running into a brick wall, bouncing off a slab of iron hard muscle that barely gives. I cry out in surprise, more of a startled squeak really, but before I fall, he captures my arm in a tight grip. For a split second, we’re in tight proximity and I can feel the thrum of hot control resonating from him, and it makes me drunk. Suddenly, I’m aware of where my hand is, and it’s cupping something big, warm . . . and I bet it would get even bigger if I had a chance. I feel my face heat and am momentarily thankful for the caked-on makeup to hide the flush racing along my cheeks.
The makeup can’t hide the shiver that rushes through my body though, straight to my core as I’m reminded once again how fucking sexy Keith is. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I finally squeak out in a voice that’s about an octave higher than I normally have. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
It isn’t until I’m finished that realization hits me, and I start praying this was accidental. The last thing I need is his figuring out that I’m part of the press and that I’ve been following him.
Keith looks down at me, no small task considering I’m five seven in bare feet and usually feel par
t Amazon by the time I get high heels on. Even in running shoes, I can stand eye to eye with the average man.
As I look up, though, I realize I could wear my highest heels and he’d still be taller than me, still be able to bend me over and fuck me senseless. God, every thought I have of this guy is about sex. Either I’m really that desperate to fuck, he’s that sexy, or both. Either way, I need a new vibrator. Hello, Amazon Prime, you are amazing. Two-Day shipping? Yes, please!
Luckily, my traitorous eyes are covered in sunglasses so he can’t know what I’m thinking, but regardless of whether he can catch my vibe or not, he doesn’t seem impressed.
“Well, maybe you should watch where you’re going then,” he half growls, steadying me for a moment. “This isn’t the sort of place for daydreaming.”
Without another look, he strides off down the street. I stare at him, too shocked to even stammer a reply.
What an asshole! I think for a split second before I realize that yeah, I was following him, but he didn’t know that for sure!
A tiny thought jumps through my mind, reminding me how hard his body felt, how strong his grip on my arm was as he kept me from falling. And yes, the feeling of what’s inside his jeans, even if it was only for a microsecond. For a moment, I’m torn. Should I keep following him? Or now that he’s had eye-to-sunglass contact with me, would that be too suspicious? I decide the risk isn’t worth it. Besides, I think I have exactly what I need.