by Amie DeVere
THE SECRET LIFE OF AN INVISIBLE GIRL
Amie DeVere
Erotic Romance
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book
Erotic Romance
The Secret Life of an Invisible Girl
Copyright © 2013 Amie DeVere
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-961-7
First E-book Publication: November 2013
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by Larriane Barnard
Proofread by Ariana Gaynor
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Secret Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
Dedication
For all of you who have secret stories to tell.
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**Forget Me Not, paranormal erotic romance:
A war is brewing, a war that could destroy an entire vampire race if left unchecked, and Julian Marino has been requested to participate in it. He stops his search for a long time friend to go home and discovers there is more at stake than just his wants.
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THE SECRET LIFE OF AN INVISIBLE GIRL
Amie DeVere
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
When I walk into a room men stop what they’re doing and look at me, although not in the way you might think. If they’re swearing, telling dirty jokes, or talking about women, they’ll stop and look uncomfortable. If there happens to be a stray swear word that reaches my ear, I will always, and I do not exaggerate, always get an apology. But still they don’t see me. It’s my super power, and like my hero brethren with secret identities, men have no idea who I am or how much I want to hear their stories and hear them use “Fuck” over and over again like a cock pounding into me.
Nothing about me stands out. I wear Victoria’s Secret size XS. It’s not the size the models wear in the catalog. I have shoulder length wavy blonde hair. I don’t know the color of my eyes. They’re like a mood ring, some days blue, green, hazel, or brown. I usually say they’re gray, and as Emily Webb’s mother said to her in Our Town, I’m ‘pretty enough for all normal purposes.’
I’m twenty-four, but people think I’m younger, under drinking age young, even when I tell the bouncer at the door of the club that it’s a federal offense to counterfeit a passport. I sound young too. Not in a Minnie Mouse kind of way, but young enough to have the guy at the other end of the phone say, “How old are you, babe?” in a voice tinged with fear. The way he said it, made me wet. The babe was what got me, protective and liquid and sweet. He didn’t believe I was twenty-four and hung up.
I couldn’t blame him. I work as a paralegal at a criminal defense firm and know you can’t be too careful. We’ve defended some dumb fucks. Strangest thing I ever read was an IM transcript of a male police sergeant pretending to be a fifteen-year-old girl and a forty-year-old client pretending to be a seventeen-year-old girl trying to convince the fifteen-year-old to have sex with her friend who was, in fact, him. Those cops are good. The client was too. They could have written a movie script together.
I do research and writing for the firm. The boss introduces me to clients as ‘the brains of the operation,’ which they think is a joke, but it’s not. Smart enough to get the boss’s kid into Harvard and smart enough to get some of our clients off, although not in the way they originally intended.
I take the commuter rail to work each day. The conductor who collects tickets on the inbound train has the most beautiful hands I have ever seen, with long elegant fingers. I always buy my ticket on the train. I love watching his hands while he punches the ticket,
takes my money, and gives me change. I imagine his fingers in my cunt, fantasize about his cock, and smile when he hands me the receipt.
Outside work I smile a lot. I smile at people on the train. I say ‘Hi’ to anyone who sits next to me. I don’t hog the train seat to myself and avoid eye contact like people do to me. I don’t sit and flap my newspaper or magazine in front of the person’s face. People respond to courtesy. I smile at my fellow customers in Dunkin Donuts and at the counter people, and I don’t complain when they get my order wrong unless it’s giving me regular coffee instead of decaf. Why? Because their job sucks and unless my health is on the line, I’m not going to make it suck more. I smile and say “Thank you.”
In the end, I’m invisible. At the office, I put my hair up and cover my lingerie with efficiency. On the train, no one knows I exist. Most of the time on the ride home, the conductor will not even ask for a ticket and walk by me as if I weren’t there. Courtesy and a smile for strangers are no more than momentary. By the time they fall asleep at night they don’t remember me.
It had been three months since my boyfriend left me for a job across the country. In these times a girl can’t compete with gainful employment. He said he didn’t expect me to wait, meaning there were girls in California, and he had heard they were plenty cute. Fine, but there is only so much a girl can do on her own. It started with masturbation, then cyber-sex and then phone sex. All great, gosh, sometimes amazing, but I needed something more than just release. The online sex had some awfully sweet guys typing awfully sweet things, getting dirty, and going down on me with more enthusiasm than I’d ever experienced in real life, and the phone sex did have the voice. God, I love a man’s voice, but in the end, technology and imagination cannot compare with the weight of a sweaty guy on me with his cock in my cunt. Vibrators don’t have arms, I can’t run my fingers through their hair, and they don’t appreciate blowjobs. I needed a man.
It got to the point I was sizing up prospects at the train station and staring noticeably. I realized I had crossed a line when guys would move to the other side of the platform when I smiled at them. Wound tight did not begin to describe my condition. I was peevish and distracted. You know the saying, ‘She needs to get laid,’? Yeah, there’s a reason it’s an expression, but no one was coming up to the plate.
In the state I was in, I missed a service deadline on a Motion to Suppress. I told the boss I’d take it over to the DA’s office, and it shouldn’t be a problem. At the end of the day, I walked the short distance over to the courthouse with a copy of the Motion and Memorandum. I asked the secretary for the DA assigned to the case.
“Oh, that case has been reassigned,” she said. “John Hawkins is now handling it. He’s in if you’d like to see him.”
I hadn’t heard the name before. “I don’t need to see him. Can you just make sure he gets this? It was due yesterday.”
“Oh, if it’s late, I think he’ll want to see you.”
“Fine.”
By rule a copy of the filing was due to the DA ten days before the hearing. Some lawyers brought it in the day of the hearing, really not a big deal. She directed me to his office. I hadn’t allowed myself enough time and was anxious that I might miss the train. I knocked on his open door, and he looked up from behind his desk and said, “Come in.”
I just wanted to get rid of the damn thing and go. “Here.” I held the copies out to him. “It’s a day late. The hearing’s next week.”
Instead of taking them from across the desk like any normal human would have done, he got up and walked around. I tried to size him up, but all my mind registered was tall, young, dark hair, and lovely eyes. He took the papers from me with his left hand, smiled, and introduced himself, holding out his right. I mumbled my name and shook his hand. He gave just enough pressure to make me blush. I cursed myself for having my guard down. This was the enemy camp. I had not even considered that there would be anyone worth my attention in the DA’s office. I did not sleep with the enemy, and there were conflict of interest laws that prevented such couplings anyway.
“Why’s it late?” he asked, flipping through the papers.
“It was my fault. I was…distracted.” He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I continued. “The motion has merit. It was a warrantless entry and sweep of the premises. Setting up a sting in the apartment was a bit beyond the scope of a search incident to arrest, don’t you think? There’s no question of consent…to the search.”
I know what you’re thinking. ‘This is why she doesn’t get any. She won’t shut up.’ You may have a point, but for me, that statement was just a notch down from foreplay.
“I’ll have to look at it then.” He turned to put the papers on the desk. “As long as you’ll have a drink with me.”
“You’re going to look at it only if I have a drink with you?” I asked with some of my uptightness coming through.
He smiled then, which did not help matters. “No, I just wondered if you’d like to have a drink.”
I looked at the clock on the wall. I had missed the train and it was two hours until the next one. “Sure.”
* * * *
We walked over to the V-Bar where opposing counsel often waited for verdicts and returned to celebrate their victory or swallow their pride with a chaser. It was neutral territory, a demilitarized zone where overt posturing stopped and covert operations began in an atmosphere of friendly rivalry. Although technically opponents, John Hawkins and I blended into the late afternoon crowd. The bar was three deep and raucous when we got there, indicating the end to some significant case. John took my hand and led me to the far side of the bar. I let him, the suddenness of the action robbing me of the ability to protest. Was this a display of authority and possessiveness or rather an impulsive and protective gesture to get us intact from point A to point B? As my mind debated his intention and marveled at the warmth of his smooth, dry touch, we surfaced into an air pocket, a relatively quiet corner. He dropped my hand and turned with a smile that made me smile back and squelched any misgivings.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t I buy the drinks, since I am the one who filed late?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“No.” I paused. “Do you?”
He laughed. “Actually, I’m not used to answering questions. Besides I invited you.”
“Invited? Is that what you call it? I’ll remember that the next time one of our clients is accused of extortion.” He shook his head, and I continued. “I’ll have beer, whatever’s on tap, nothing light, though.”
“A woman after my own heart,” he said and disappeared back into the fray, while I kept the perimeter of point B secure and mused about John Hawkins. He was confident. That was certain but not arrogant, a paper-thin balance I sometimes thought unfair to ask of men. He seemed to have pulled it off—so far. He also seemed genuine, willing to be teased, and spontaneous, in short, an all-around promising prospect, except for the fact he was a DA. I let out a heavy sigh as he returned with two glasses filled with russet colored ale and handed me one.
“What shall we drink to? I asked.
“Wow, you don’t let up on the questions, do you?”
“Apparently, neither do you.”
“Here’s to questions then.” He held out his glass.
“And answers.” I raised my glass to his before taking a well-deserved sip.
“Indeed,” he said and looked at me as though he could see me and through me.
The conversation meandered and we asked and answered plenty. He had moved from California, where he’d also been a prosecutor, only three months before to be near his family and atone for his rebellious youth. The human exchange between here and California did not escape me with my end of the bargain improving as we continued our own exchange of guarded information and the beer encouraged tentative confidences.
When the number of patrons dwindled, we moved to a secluded booth where he sat beside me
instead of across. We were on our second drink when he leaned over and whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. “I want to fuck you.”
That kind of declaration overwhelms a girl. I could have pretended I was insulted. I could have walked away. I could have said, You read my mind, or What the fuck? Instead I said, “I can’t. I’ll lose my job.”
Not an overstatement. The Montagues and Capulets had nothing on the doomed romance between a prosecutor and member of the defense team. Undisclosed romantic interludes have led to the reversal of convictions. The law demands full disclosure of any such liaison to the client, and I didn’t think our clients or my boss would be sympathetic to my desire to fuck the prosecutor.
He removed the clip holding my bun, and my hair tumbled over my shoulders. Shifting closer to me, he slid his hand along the back of my neck and bent to kiss me. If I had an operator’s manual his move would be under the section on how to turn me on. His warm lips parted slightly on mine. I tasted him and sighed.
“I can’t,” I whispered again, my eyes closed and my lips hovering over his. It was downright embarrassing how much I wanted him, but when I looked in his eyes I saw no judgment, only his understanding and need.
“Shit,” he said. “Okay, what if I can switch cases with another DA?”
“You’re going to rearrange the DA’s office so you can fuck me?”
“God, I love it when you say fuck.” He looked at me, his green eyes steady and bright. Any remnants of resistance melted. He had me at ‘I want to fuck you.’
“I have to catch the train,” I said and stood. He got up and let me out. I didn’t trust myself to look at him again and turned to leave the bar, conscious of his stare as I retreated because retreat was exactly what I did. I didn’t have the energy for a battle of wits, words, or engagement of any kind. My mind reeled with the sudden events, and I needed air and some time and distance to sort my way. I walked into the cool air of the early evening to the station. On the ride home, cradled in a corner seat and lulled by the gently rocking train and the effects of the alcohol, I drifted off to sleep thinking of him.