Dirty Little Secret

by Amber Rides

  “Shit.”

  “I seriously think I should take you to the emergency room,” Melissa stated.

  The determined look on her face finally dampened the mood for me. There was no way I was going to the hospital. There was no fucking way I was going to call my parole officer, and ask for permission to leave my job because I banged my head. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Melissa know that’s what I would have to do to comply with her bossy request.

  I forced myself to hold my body steady as I met her gaze.

  “I told you on the phone, I can’t leave work,” I said slowly, working to keep any kind of pain out of my voice.

  “That was before you were hurt for real.”

  “Doesn’t change a thing.”

  “I’m sure your boss will understand.”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” I replied. “I’ve only been here a little over six months. It’s not as easy to get work as you might think.”

  Especially for a convict.

  I kept that part to myself.

  Melissa jumped to her feet and gave the warehouse a once over. “C’mon, Cutter! Give me a break. This is just a lumber yard. It’s not going to fall apart if you’re gone for a little while!”

  Maybe she was just trying to sway me to leave, but her words pissed me off.

  I grabbed both her hands and forced her back to the ground. Her knees hit the cement, probably hard enough to hurt, but I pretended not to care.

  “My job here isn’t a fucking joke,” I told her coldly. “I happen to need the money I bring in. Badly. If I lose this job, I won’t be able to pay my rent. I won’t be able to eat. I sure as shit won’t be able to afford whatever the going rate is for a girl like you.”

  Melissa’s face reddened, and her lower lip even quivered. I brushed off the guilt with an eye roll. Was she really going to cry? Typical. She didn’t, though. Instead, she crossed her arms again instead and fixed me with a glare.

  “How many personalities do you have?” she demanded. “So far I’ve counted at least three. The cocky asshole who thinks it’s okay to trash a girl’s clothes and self-esteem. The almost sweet, flirtatious guy on the phone. And this…this…I don’t know what this one is. Some total douchebag with completely misguided anger who refuses to do what’s good for him.”

  I bit back a grin. I kinda liked her all riled up, and I couldn’t resist another dig as I came unsteadily to my feet.

  “Sounds as if you’ve got all three of us pegged,” I said. “Unfortunately, though, none of us have a rich daddy to fall back on, so if you’ll excuse us, we have to get back to work.”

  Melissa put her hands on her hips, and gave me a narrow-eyed glare.

  “What makes you think my dad is rich?”

  Fuck. I couldn’t very well admit that I’d web-stalked her.

  “You pay for your own membership at that golf club?”

  “No.”

  “You pay for your own education?”

  “No.”

  “Because your dad is rich,” I concluded.

  “So what?” she replied. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

  “It doesn’t,” I told her. “It’s just first on the list of reasons why it doesn’t make sense for you to be here, looking out for me.”

  She threw up her hands. “I didn’t even come here willingly!”

  “It was obviously a mistake,” I muttered.

  “It wasn’t a mistake. You tricked me,” she reminded me.

  I frowned down at her. I really fucking wished she’d brought a coat. Or a robe. Or anything that might’ve covered up that perfect body and stopped me from turning into a slobbering idiot from just looking at her. It didn’t help that her face was level with my crotch. She didn’t seem to care. Or maybe she didn’t notice. I took a step back, trying to put some distance between us. My ass bumped into the knocked-over lumber, and I leaned into the wood as if I’d landed on it on purpose. I couldn’t go any further without looking like I was trying to run away. Which is essentially what I was doing, anyway.

  I took a breath and floundered for something – anything – to say that would send her running. I failed.

  MELISSA

  Cutter’s nervous expression and slightly weakened state made me bolder. In fact, it filled with me with an unfamiliar sense of power. I went with it.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “Well what?”

  “You just said you’ve got a whole list,” I challenged. “Tell me what’s on it.”

  “Stand up?” Maybe he meant it to sound like an order, but it came out as a plea.

  “Why? You’re the one who pulled me to the ground. I thought maybe you liked looking down on women.”

  “You were put on this planet to torment me, weren’t you?” he muttered.

  “Five minutes ago you were begging me to fuck you. Now you won’t let me touch you to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Why the hell do you even care?”

  For what felt like a long second, I was torn. I could’ve confessed that his dark-rimmed eyes made my heart not just flutter, but thunder like a summer storm. I could’ve admitted that when he spoke in that cocky voice of his, it brought to mind zippers coming undone in moonlit rooms. I could’ve just gone ahead and said that all three of his personalities turned my insides to molten lava. But all of that would be too much like giving in. And I liked the bit of power I had that second.

  I flipped my hair over my shoulder and said, “What you should be asking yourself is what kind of person doesn’t understand the basic principle of human decency that breeds empathy. It’s normal to want to help someone who’s hurt.”

  Cutter’s eyes flashed as he shoved angrily at the wood behind him. “Fine. You want the list? I’ll give you the fucking list. It can start with that comment right there. Real people don’t say shit like that.”

  Then he strode to where I knelt and stood in front of me, looking down with a mix of contempt and pain on his face. He pressed his t-shirt against his neck with one hand, and flexed his fingers on the other as though he was trying not to turn them into a fist. The motion made the line of muscles up his forearm flex. My eyes followed the ripple up his wrist, to his elbow, and fixed on his bicep, which strained against the fabric of his white t-shirt. The trickle of blood from the wound on his throat had dripped down, staining the neck of his shirt a dangerous red. He was suddenly as scary as he was sexy.

  “Let’s move on to reason number two,” he said coldly. “You’re a high-class somebody. I’m a low-class nobody. You can toss a couple of swear words around all you want. I know you’d be more comfortable spouting off Shakespeare. And how about reason three? You sit on your ass for free while I bust mine so I can barely break even. And of course…Reason four. You’re smart, going to school, probably studying history, or some equally academic bullshit and one day you’ll make money doing fuck-all with your degree. I work at a lumber yard, tossing around wood for not much more than minimum wage and I’m never going to do anything else.”

  He paused, and I wanted desperately to say something that proved him wrong.

  The problem was…He wasn’t wrong. I mean, maybe in a literal sense he was. I sure as hell wasn’t into Shakespeare, and I was studying political science, not history. But his point rung true in the figurative sense. My parents – or rather, the people who I’d always thought were my parents – provided for me my whole life. Did I take it for granted? Maybe. Or if I was being kind to myself, maybe I was just naive. It was the way things had always been, so it didn’t occur to me there was another way for them to be.

  Until Cutter slid his big, stupid truck into my life and changed everything. Now my heart hurt at the realization that he’d dedicated so much time to finding reasons why we shouldn’t be together.

  Shit. Why did it hurt like that?

  I stared up at him. His strong jaw was set angrily, his brows knit together. But there was something in that too-scruffy face that made me ache.

  �
��Anything else?” I whispered, dangerously close to tears and trying to cover it. “No reason number five?”

  “Yes. There’s a number five.”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, fuck,” he said, his voice ragged and raw. “Reason number five is that you’re just too fucking good for a deadbeat like me.”

  I froze, unsure if I heard him right. It only mattered for a moment, though.

  He knelt down, grabbed a hold of my arms, and held on tightly. His palms were rough on my skin. They were warm, too. But the heat there was nothing compared to the fire in his eyes. He pulled me in, crushing me to his solid chest. It felt good. No. Not just good. It felt fucking amazing.

  Cutter smelled like the wood he worked with, and also like the work itself – intense, tinged with salty sweat and a sweetness that could only be all him. I inhaled, trying to draw as much of his scent in as I could.

  He ran his thumbs along my shoulder blades, then slipped them under the skinny straps of my pajama top.

  In two seconds, I thought, I’m going to be topless. And I’m not even going to care.

  But Cutter just continued to stroke my skin in a slow, circling motion that made me burn. His fingers found my waist, then the center of my back, and that’s where he finally stopped. I held still, willing him to keep going, to find the smoothness of my ass, to realize I hadn’t bothered with panties, to bring those lips – which were right beside my ear – around to my mouth and to devour me.

  But, he just held as still as I did. The only movement was the matched rhythm of our breathing. As unlikely as it seemed, it was almost more erotic than the kiss I was hoping for.

  The satin of my pjs felt like nothing. With each exhale, I could feel his abs against my breasts, and with each inhale, my nipples tingled. Cutter’s erection pressed into me, hard and long, just at my bellybutton. He held me there for several minutes, then dragged one of his palms between my legs, up under my pajamas, and stroked me slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. And a fourth.

  “Oh!” The gasp came from my mouth unbidden.

  “What do they call these pajamas?” A fifth and sixth measured stroke punctuated Cutter’s question, and answering was a struggle.

  “Baby dolls.”

  “So.” Stroke. “They.” Stroke. “Suit you then.” Stroke.

  With his free hand, he undid his jeans, then grabbed my wrist and guided my fingers around his cock. I held it tentatively at first. It was smooth, and hard, and huge, and somehow made my mouth water. Then Cutter’s palm closed on top of mine, and he squeezed.

  “Fuck it with your hand, baby-doll,” he commanded. “Fuck me with your hand.”

  My shyness stripped away as my hand moved, enjoying the sheer manliness of him in my now-firm grip. He groaned, and it made my heart thud. In a moment, his fingers tunneled into my pussy, and I picked up tempo at the same time he did. My insides pulsed and throbbed with each thrust of his fingers. More and more quickly we moved, in perfect time. The heat between my legs rose and rose, and rose again, until I knew I wouldn’t be able to take much more.

  “Cutter,” I moaned into his shoulder.

  “Now is good, baby-doll.”

  I clenched and shuddered against his fingers, and my hand, still holding tightly to his cock, paused. He let me catch my breath, and then he gripped the back of my head.

  Instinctively, I knew what he wanted.

  And I want it too, I realized.

  Pushing aside my shyness, I slid his pants down his hips and bent over so I could take him into my mouth. The position was only awkward for a moment, and then the burn of my legs faded as I sucked and teased.

  And liked it.

  I thought his cock felt smooth and right in my hand, but that had nothing on how it felt between my lips, against my tongue. I moaned against him and opened my mouth further. I wanted to take more of him into me.

  “Yes, baby-doll,” Cutter rasped. “Fucking take it. Suck it hard.”

  I was happy to oblige. Pulling and tasting and pulling again, until his fingers gripped my hair painfully, and he stiffened, then found his release in my mouth.

  “Melissa,” he sighed, making my name sound like the best thing in the world.

  He pulled me back up, holding me close, and as our breathing normalized, I realized he was shaking. Badly.

  Immediately, I remembered his injury and guilt washed over me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked automatically.

  He chuckled. “Isn’t it usually the man’s job to ask that question?”

  “I guess it depends on the situation. Really, though…Are you?”

  “My head does fucking hurt,” he replied with a sigh, then pulled away.

  “Shit.”

  “You’re not leaving me here, are you?” he asked.

  “Is that an accusation? Or a request?” I teased.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  “Either way…No. I’m not leaving you here,” I confirmed. “Is there a first aid kit handy?”

  He nodded. “In the staff room. Follow me and I’ll grab it.”

  He brushed my swollen lips with his fingers, and we stood up together.

  CUTTER

  It had been a long time since anyone had taken care of me. More than ten years. Before my mom died, definitely, and before she got too sick to do much at all.

  Watching Melissa dig through the red bag, then letting her wipe down my wound and dab it with alcohol while I sat on a bench was unnerving for me.

  Okay, don’t jump all over me for not mentioning this part of my life before, but it would be just too fucking easy to blame my shitty attitude on my circumstances. Motherless boy, doesn’t like or trust women. Grief-stricken father, can’t deal with rebellious son, leads to son resenting authority. After-school-special garbage.

  I guess now that the metaphorical cat is out of the bag, I might as well explain.

  I was ten when she got diagnosed with lymphoma. Aggressive. Stage Four. Two percent chance of survival. No chance for her, as it turned out.

  It was quick, which people said was a blessing. If you’re a ten-year old kid, though, it’s a little hard to see it that way. Because no matter how you slice the fucker up, your mom is still gone.

  I dealt with it. I had to. My dad was always a tool, even before that. (Though I didn’t figure out exactly how much of tool until years later.) Once my mom was gone, his sixty hour work weeks crept up to eighty. His commitment to me and my sister lessened and his commitment to his life as a defense lawyer grew. It should’ve been the other way. Even at ten-going-on-thirty, I could see that.

  I was a good fucking kid.

  I worked hard at school. I took Fiona out for ice cream on her birthday. I protected her when I had to. I never asked my dad for a thing. I picked up his emotional slack and tried to do more than was expected of me. What did all that get me? A short string of girls – ending with Brandy - who came after me for my pretty-boy face and my dad’s money. Oh, and jail time.

  I refused to use all of that as an excuse. So, no, I don’t blame my surly nature on my mother’s death. I don’t blame it on my dad’s narcissism. More importantly, I don’t want anyone else to, either. And I’d prefer not to discuss it any further than I have to. So let’s just leave it at that.

  Melissa leaned back, surveyed her handiwork, and then handed me an over-the-counter painkiller and a bottled water.

  “How do I look?” I asked.

  “Like shit,” she replied.

  “You’re so kind. You could’ve at least said a hot mess.”

  “I told you before…There’s nothing fake about me. If you look like hell, I’m going to tell you.”

  Nothing fake.

  Yeah, my mind went automatically to the way her nipple felt in my mouth, and how her pussy felt around my fingers. Both had been sweet. Sexy as fuck. Utterly real.

  Melissa cleared her throat, and I realized my mind wasn’t the only thing fixated on her body. My gaze was there, too.

&
nbsp; “Just double checking,” I told her with crooked grin.

  She rolled her eyes, but smiled, too. “Anyway…You won’t bleed out.”

  “Can I work, Nurse Hanover?”

  “My official diagnosis is no.”

  “You’re not even a real medical professional. I do like the idea of you in a nurse’s uniform, though. Do you think you could -”

  “You had your chance to see a real nurse,” she interrupted. “Now you’re stuck with me. And I think you should rest. How much time is left on your shift?”

  I glanced at my watch. 5:13 a.m. “Forty-five minutes. You really staying?”

  “If you’re not going to take my advice, I’m at least going to make sure you make it home. If you crash and die, I want someone other than me to be responsible.”

  “I don’t know how to break it to you, but usually the only thing I do after a night shift is hop into bed. You could join me for that instead,” I said suggestively. “And while I’m disclosing things, I should probably let you know that in about a half hour, the day shift will be here. They’ll be very interested to meet you and may have a question or two about your pajamas.”

  “Hmm. How about I just wait in my car until you’re done and follow you home to make sure you get there safely?”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re really fucking stubborn?”

  Melissa shook her head. “Actually…Never.”

  “They don’t know you like I know you, I guess.”

  I meant it as a joke, but two spots of color appeared in her cheeks, and she didn’t duck her head quickly enough to hide them. Maybe no one knew her well at all.

  Spontaneously, I jumped up, leaned in, and kissed her forehead. .

  “Better take my coat. It’s cold outside,” I said with a raised eyebrow. “I hate the thought of anything but me making those pretty nipples of yours all hard.”

  She shot me a dirty – but sparkly-eyed - look. “Are you sure you can part with the coat? It’s pretty cool in here, too. I’d hate for anything other than me to make you shrivel up like a raisin.”

  I burst out laughing, and oh, shit, it felt good to let it go. Still grinning, I grabbed my plaid jacket from my locker. Melissa held her hand out, but instead of just giving over the coat, I stepped toward her purposefully, then wrapped it around her shoulders. She swam in it, looking small and vulnerable. She was really fucking beautiful.