Dirty Girl (Dirty Girl Duet #1)

by Meghan March

  From the way she wobbles on her stool, I’m guessing she might be too wasted to place him. His gray baseball cap covers his hair, and his head is turned in profile. Maybe she’s European and won’t recognize him? I’m not sure how big Cav is over there, but I’m desperately clinging to the hope that we’re not going to be outed. On an island this small, we really have nowhere else to hide besides the house. Gossip would spread in hours to every resident of this place.

  I watch for a few more moments, nervousness twisting a knot into my stomach as she talks and laughs. Her blond friend joins the conversation, practically falling off her bar stool to get closer to him.

  The knot in my stomach soon morphs into something other than nervousness. They’re surrounding him, each with a hand on his arm and one offering up her drink to him. Cav waves it away but the brunette insists, nearly impaling him with the straw. He relents and grabs the glass, sips from the side, and nods in approval.

  Another minute and a half of watching these women put their hands on him—his biceps, his shoulder, his fucking abs—has me accepting a simple fact. I’m jealous.

  I don’t get jealous. I can’t think of a time in the last two years with Tristan that I ever saw him with another woman and wondered what the fuck is he doing? But Cav isn’t Tristan. Cav is in a league of his own, the kind of league where men have arms that women, like the blonde, want to wrap their hands around.

  I turn away, not wanting to see any more because, frankly, I’m disgusted with how I feel. The knot in my stomach sloshes around the Panty Rippers I drank, and suddenly I don’t give a shit about the drinks. I want some food, and I want to get out of here so I can analyze what the hell is going wrong with my brain. Jealous? That’s not me.

  And over Cav, someone I know for a fact has half of the American female population drooling over him? Someone who is only permanent as long as we stay in this little fantasy we’ve constructed?

  Seriously, Greer? Get over it. I don’t have any right to be jealous, but my gut reaction doesn’t lie. I don’t want to see another woman’s hands on my man.

  My man? Maybe for however long Creighton decides we need to lay low. Because who knows what’s going to happen when I get summoned back to New York. I’m not placing any bets on where this is going.

  Stop, I order my brain. I’ve got tonight and a limited number of days with Cav. I’m not going to waste them feeling like a jealous shrew.

  As soon as I give myself that mental slap to the face, Cav returns with our drinks.

  I opted for the fresh mango margarita, chancing the jump from rum to tequila in my semi-buzzed bravery. Cav has a bottle of Belikin, the beer of Belize, or so all the signs I’ve seen proclaim. I tell myself I’m not going to say anything about the women at the bar, but the words come out anyway, and I sound just as bitchy as I did in my head.

  “Make some new friends?”

  Cav frowns as he pulls off the napkin that’s wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle and tucked inside the top. “New friends?”

  “At the bar? Did they recognize you? Do we need to vacate the premises and prepare for a paparazzi invasion?”

  He laughs and takes a swig. I glance over my shoulder to the bar and find the two women watching him drink.

  Uh. No, ladies. Not yours.

  When Cav sets the beer back on the table between us, he says, “We’re good. No worries. They were just being typical barflies.”

  Who he let paw at him?

  “Well, they seemed pretty friendly.”

  He takes another drink and nods to my margarita. “Aren’t you going to try it?”

  I reach for the straw paper and toss it away, sucking back a healthy swig of the thick drink. It’s like a mango smoothie that happens to have booze, and it’s delicious. The sweetness helps take the edge off the sour feelings in the pit of my stomach.

  “Greer, what’s wrong?”

  Oh, great. Now I’m clearly telegraphing the fact that I’ve been smacked with the jealous girlfriend stick. Except I’m not his girlfriend. So I do what most women would in my position. I lie.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” The sharpness of my tone gives me away instantly. Epic fail, Greer.

  Cav’s hazel eyes study me and he shakes his head. “Bullshit.” He pitches his voice lower, and it carries a distinct air of authority. “Spill, woman. Something’s up.”

  Do I continue to lie, or do I come clean and get over this ridiculous flare of jealousy?

  I suck back another long, deep drink. Liquid courage at its finest. Cav watches me, not missing my actions. I release the straw and trace a pattern into the condensation forming on the glass.

  “I guess I’m not used to seeing other women’s hands on you in public. You know, outside of a red carpet photo.”

  Instantly, I wish I used different words because now he knows I’ve been following his career. If he only knew that he is one of my top guilty Google searches. I haven’t been able to stop myself from typing his name into the search bar at least once every other week or so after he first appeared on the big screen.

  That first movie poster on the side of a bus almost caused my death when I stepped into oncoming traffic to get a closer look. Watching the face of the man you put out of your mind—because he disappeared without a good-bye or a fuck-you—roll by on a bus while you’re pausing at a crosswalk isn’t something I recommend.

  I made it to my office, my heart pounding and hands shaking, and logged in to my computer and waited for the browser to load. It was a measure of just how flustered I was that I didn’t even think to use my phone. Maybe I knew I needed to see the results on a regular-sized monitor.

  Sure enough, there he was. The man who is now watching me across the table, trying to gauge my mood based on my body language and words.

  “It’s not a big deal, Greer. The blonde said I looked like I could be some kind of action hero, so I took a minute to kill their dreams and told them that I was a fertilizer salesman from Tulsa. I couldn’t think of anything less interesting than a guy selling shit for a living.”

  I choke back a laugh, glad I wasn’t sucking down my drink in earnest at that moment. “That’s your cover story? Fertilizer salesman from Tulsa? Wow.”

  This time I do reach for my mango deliciousness, giggling as I sip.

  Cav shrugs. “It works. Their hands were gone pretty damn quick after that. Shit isn’t a sexy business.”

  “Where did you even get that?”

  He lifts his beer to his lips, as if unsure where that random-as-hell answer came from. When he lowers the Belikin to the table, his answer surprises me.

  “My dad used that one when I was growing up.”

  Confusion has me pausing before taking another drink. “Why did your dad lie about what he did?”

  Cav twists the bottle in his hands. “He didn’t always like to share the whole story. Said it was no one’s business.”

  More confusion and more questions bombard me, but he doesn’t offer anything more. “Are you going to elaborate on that?”

  He shakes his head and tips the rest of his beer back, swallowing it down. “Nope, because we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to have fun and live in the now. After all, if we’re sticking to what you wanted, we would’ve already had all these getting-to-know-you conversations.”

  Irritation flares to life instantly. “Well, if you hadn’t disappeared three years ago, standing me up and leaving me wondering if you were dead, maybe I would know the answers. But you can’t even give me that—the reason you left. I mean, what the hell, Cav? I deserve some sort of explanation.” All the bitterness I’ve been holding on to for three years leaks into my tone like acid.

  Cav sets the beer bottle on the table with a whack. “Not tonight, Greer.”

  “Is that another one of your rules? Did I just make it easier for you to avoid answering the question because of my silly little fantasy where we can both pretend you didn’t kick me in the gut by leaving?”

  His ex
pression shutters, but not before I see pain flash across his features. He doesn’t like knowing he hurt me. Well, guess what? I didn’t like being hurt, so I figure that makes us even. I’ve had a lot more time to dwell on it, though.

  He presses both elbows to the table and leans toward me. “Are you ever going to be able to let that go? Are you always going to hold it over me?”

  I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Would you let it go without some kind of explanation?”

  His expression sets into harsh lines when he says, “There are some things you’re better off not knowing.”

  Uncrossing my arms, I reach for my drink and lift it in salute. “Cheers to being so delightfully vague. You should definitely win a medal.”

  Before Cav can reply, the errant waitress returns with two bottles of water and a tray of food. Conch ceviche and a dozen shrimp and lobster tacos.

  The food smells delicious, but my stomach is still knotted. Instead of reaching for the food, I thank her and ask for another drink.

  Cav watches me as he piles tacos and ceviche onto his plate. “What would you like?”

  “Booze,” I reply, my tone as snotty as I’ve ever heard it.

  His eyes narrow. “Am I going to have to fuck this attitude out of you? Because I will. I fucking promise I will.”

  “All I want is an answer. Some kind of excuse so I can quit thinking about it. You’ve taken up way too much space in my head for years, and I’m over it. I need to move on with my life.” I look up at him. “I need closure.”

  His mouth set into a thin line, Cav leans forward over the table, pitching his words low so only I can hear them. “You don’t need closure because we’re not fucking finished, Greer. We’re just getting started. Someday I’ll give you what you’re asking for, but today is not that day. If you’re not okay with that, then we’re gonna have to find a way to get you okay with it.”

  Again, delightfully vague, but this time with a hint of a threat.

  “Get me okay with it? What does that even mean?” The twisting sensation in my belly fades as hunger takes its place. I reach for a chip and scoop up some ceviche.

  An ominous smile pulls at his lips. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t put two coherent thoughts together, and then I’ll take you to the edge over and over, stopping when you’re about to come until you’re begging me to finally let you. You’ll offer me anything I want if I’ll just let you have your orgasm.” He toys with the neck of his empty beer bottle. “You’re a greedy girl when it comes to orgasms, and I’m going to tease you until you think you’re going to break.”

  Heat pools between my thighs, even though part of me wants to toss my water bottle at him. The lack of panties has me intimately aware of the effect of his words.

  How can I want him so badly when I still don’t trust him? There’s nothing stopping Cav from disappearing again. Well, not disappearing completely like he did before, but disappearing from my life.

  And if he does? Then what?

  I move on once and for all. Fear of losing him slides away because if he walks out like he did before, I’m secure enough in who I am to know that he’s not worth wasting my time on. For three years he’s been the one who got away, and I was left with too many questions and no answers. But if he leaves again, I’m good. Or at least I will be once I clean up the shards of my shattered heart.

  Shattered heart? No, my heart isn’t involved in this game. It’s sidelined because it can’t be objective here. This isn’t love; this is lust and closure for the past. I hate lying to myself, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil to maintain my sanity and composure.

  “And after that?” I ask, a hint of challenge in my voice. “When you can’t keep me drunk with pleasure? Am I going to get answers then?”

  Cav meets my gaze with his own challenge. “If I think you can handle them.”

  I reach for my margarita and raise it again in a cheerful salute. “Then let the fucking and orgasm denial begin because I’m not all right with this.”

  Well, that didn’t go as planned. I carry a completely hammered Greer from the golf cart through the front door of the house. I didn’t expect the first time I carried her over a threshold to be quite like this.

  She’s nearly incoherent and keeps slipping in and out of consciousness. Trying to keep hold of her during the bumpy golf cart ride is an experience I’d like to avoid in the future. Guilt eats at me because I know I’m the reason for her slamming back three more mango margaritas.

  “Greer, we need to get you ready for bed.”

  “Don’t care. Wanna sleep.” Her words slur and she sounds so damn young.

  Laying her on the bed, I strip off her shirt and pull the skirt down her legs. Her statement earlier about not wearing panties flashes through my brain, along with all the dirty things I want to do to this woman. Things I’ve wanted to do for years.

  But we both know I fucked that up royally tonight. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her everything, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch the sparkle fade from her eyes as she comprehended the truth.

  I tuck her into bed and she curls onto her side, facing the windows where the sun will rise so brilliantly in the morning.

  Another day with her, and nothing beyond that is guaranteed. I grab her clothes off the floor and lay them on the dresser before venturing into the walk-in closet to find my phone.

  Messages from my agent, a director I’ve been wanting to work with, and . . . Creighton Karas. I knew it wouldn’t take him long to track me down. I’ve got his little sister in my care, and he strikes me as a man who’d kill to protect her.

  Well, that makes both of us.

  I ignore the messages and shove my phone back into the spot between a pile of men’s swim trunks and T-shirts.

  I’ll protect Greer against any threat that comes her way, but how the hell do I protect her from myself? I’d like to say I’m a good man, but I’ve never been able to make that claim. For Greer’s sake, I wish I could.

  How selfish am I going to be? Can I really take what I want without a thought about the cost? That’s what I’ve been doing so far. And that’s exactly what I did when I stepped on that jet in LA after Peyton DeLong crowed over the ad.

  More than anyone, I know that thoughtless actions have consequences that can cause immeasurable pain. Pain I don’t want to cause the woman sleeping only feet from me.

  Fuck. I’m going to have to let her go.

  The thought is quickly followed by, Over my dead body.

  Toast. That’s the only thing I can force down this morning. Let it be known once more that alcohol and I can no longer be friends. I really need to work on that. Even the sweet-smelling freshly cut pineapple seems to mock me from the bowl on the table.

  I crunch on the bread and groan. Why is toast so freaking loud? Shouldn’t the traditional morning-after remedy be quieter? My head pounds, and yet it doesn’t force away the memories I have of last night.

  I’m so screwed. Does it help to know in advance? I mean, walking into this with my eyes wide open should make it less painful when Cav crushes my heart beneath his Hollywood heel.

  No expectations, I tell myself. That’s the key. Recalling the deal we made yesterday, I decide it’s the only way I can keep myself intact. I’m going to pretend. Pretend I don’t care that Cav is keeping secrets from me. Pretend I’m not dangerously close to getting used to having him in my life. Pretend I’m going to be okay when this is all over.

  I drop the toast and reach for my orange juice. It’s light, sweet, and freshly squeezed, but still I grimace at the acidity in my mouth.

  “Are you going to survive?”

  Cav’s been watching my attempt at enjoying a normal breakfast since I dragged my ass out of bed when the sun was too blindingly bright to keep my eyes closed any longer.

  Thank you for the beautiful sunrise, Belize, but let’s work on respecting some boundaries.

  After taking another sip of my orange juice and replacing it on
the table, I answer Cav’s question. “I’ll survive.” Neither of us mentions last night, and I tell myself it’s a truce. We’re both going to adopt Greer’s fantastic pretending plan.

  “Anything in particular you’d like to do today?”

  When I consider doing anything that requires any sort of sudden movements, my stomach flops in rebellion.

  “Nothing exciting. Laying around the pool tops my list.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He rises and disappears for a moment before returning with a bottle of ibuprofen. “I should’ve made you take some last night with more water, but you were out as soon as you hit the bed.”

  That’s a generous assessment. I think I was actually out before we even made it in the house. Not that it matters, but my morning-after hindsight is incredibly clear.

  There’s still one question I can’t answer. Am I ever going to be able to get over this nagging feeling of dread? We have limited time here—presumably until Creighton sends his jet back and demands my presence at home.

  That can be at any moment. Am I going to get hung up on things I can’t change—at least, not until Cav decides to share whatever he’s not telling me? Or am I going to live in the moment and suck this opportunity dry like I promised myself I would?

  The latter is my only logical choice.

  My hangover gives up around noon, and Rea brings out an enormous cold lobster salad and a fresh baguette.

  Cav, I’ve noticed, eats way more food than any man I’ve ever met. Probably because he isn’t like any other man I’ve ever met. For the last hour and a half, I’ve watched him turn this deck and the beach into a gym. Sprints, push-ups, pull-ups on the railing outside, and he even dug up some weights somewhere and used the chaise as a bench. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin before he finally dived into the pool and began a solid half hour of laps.

  Curled up on the chaise, I lower the worn Lisa Kleypas romance novel I found on the shelf inside, finally admitting to myself that although I’m madly in love with the hero of the book, Blue-Eyed Devil can’t compete with the man in front of me.