Dirty Little Virgin: A Submissives’ Secrets Novel

by Michelle Love

  Mindy’s short bark of laughter held no humor. “Well, I thought so until half an hour ago, when you called to cancel.”

  “Wait, what?” Inca’s head began to pound uncomfortably and she knew another migraine would follow if she didn’t calm down. “I’ve never called them, Mindy, not ever. I wouldn’t even know their number. I certainly didn’t call to cancel this morning.”

  Mindy’s voice was hard as she intoned, “I’m calling to cancel the appointment because I don’t want you or your asshole workers anywhere near my property. Fuck you and fuck your signs.”

  A ribbon of ice trickled down Inca’s stomach. “Mindy … I swear to God, I never made any calls. I will get you my phone records if you want, but I did not make that call. I was in the city with my boyfriend a half hour ago, or at least in his car on the way back. I would never, ever, treat someone like that. Come on, now; you’ve known me for months. Do you really think I’m capable of behavior like that?”

  Mindy suddenly sighed. When she spoke, she sounded tired and drained. “No, I don’t, I guess. I just … the guy was really upset, and the way he said you spoke … what’s going on, Inca?

  The pain in Inca’s head was shrieking now. She sat down on the bottom stair and rubbed her free hands over her eyes. “I have no idea … someone must have called and pretended they were me.” She shook her head. “Who would do that, though? I’m really sorry for the sign guy, even if it wasn’t me. Jesus.”

  Mindy sighed again. “Who would—”

  She didn’t even get the rest of the sentence out when Inca realized. Her shoulders slumped and she gave a low, resigned groan. There was only one person petty enough and who hated her enough to do this.

  “Mindy, it’s okay. It’s someone messing with me, and I think I know who it is.” She apologized again, said her goodbyes, and set the phone down. The doorbell rang and, as she went to answer it, she felt anger sweep over her as she contemplated just how she would pay back her tormentor.

  She opened the door to see Olly smiling at her, but his smile faded when he saw her face.

  “What’s up?”

  Inca sighed. “Olly, would you happen to know if Belinda Clements is back in town?”

  “The Queen of All Evil?” Olly grinned as she stood aside to let him in. “I really don’t know. Why?”

  Inca told him and Olly rolled his eyes. “It does sound like something she’d do—but like ten years ago. What’s her beef now?”

  “Who the hell knows? I really could do without it though, you know?”

  Olly patted her arm. “Listen, we can deal with a spiteful little bitch like Belinda. I want to talk some more about this ex-husband of yours.”

  Inca sighed. “I wish he was an ex-husband, believe me. You have one hour. Tommaso is picking me up in two hours for dinner.”

  “Deal.”

  Later, when she was showering and dressing for dinner, she thought about Belinda again. The two of them had been sworn enemies since childhood; Inca had refused to bow down to her Queen Bee schoolyard antics, and Belinda had instead made Inca the target of all her spite. It hadn’t changed when they grew older. Belinda’s jealousy of Inca’s beauty and popularity, especially with Olly, with whom Belinda was besotted, meant she had bitched and griped at Inca until, at last, Belinda found some rich idiot to marry her and they moved to California.

  Inca really hoped it wasn’t Belinda who had bought her beloved apartment.

  I’d be tempted to leave a candle burning, she thought darkly, then smiled. Belinda Clements was the least of her problems, and now all she wanted was to enjoy her evening with Tommaso. Despite her reluctance to see him that morning, his company had been just what she had needed.

  Screw you, Belinda. You won’t spoil anything for me.

  Sixth Grade, Willowbrook Junior High

  Then

  “Chink.”

  Inca ignored her, far too busily immersed in Boo saving Scout and Jem. A drop of purple soda flicked onto the page in front of her.

  “Hey. I called you, Chink.”

  Inca pushed her glasses up her nose and glared at the ginger-haired girl in front of her. Belinda Clements was grinning nastily at her, her band of nervous-looking acolytes hanging back. They knew what was coming and clearly, Inca thought, it was going to be bad.

  “As you well know, moron, I’m Indian, Japanese, and American. What do you want, you little jerk?” She stood up and faced the girl.

  Belinda’s gang skittered back, jabbering quietly among themselves. Inca Sardee was small, but she could launch herself with all the power of a cannonball on someone who riled her.

  Belinda grinned. “Guess what my poppa told me? He said Tyler fucks your mommy with a zucchini, right in her Volvo.”

  Inca rolled her eyes. This was nothing new. “It’s vulva. And you’re an idiot.”

  The girls behind Belinda giggled, then stepped back as Belinda rounded on them, eyes blazing. “Shut up!”

  They shut up.

  Inca grinned at her. “That all you got, lame ass?” She picked up her bag, shoved her book deep inside, and gave Belinda what she hoped was a withering look as she pushed past her. Belinda hooked a finger in the top of her T-shirt and jerked her back. Inca stumbled and the others laughed.

  Belinda bent down to Inca’s ear and whispered, “Does Tyler fuck you with that zucchini, pigdog? Do you enjoy it?”

  And Inca was on her, yelling, pounding her small fists into the girl’s face and body. The entire yard came running then, most of them shouting encouragement at Inca. After a minute or so, Inca felt herself being picked up and carried off by a teacher. She struggled, still incensed, trying to get back to Belinda, who was being helped to her feet amidst snickering from the other kids.

  “Inca Sardee! Quit it! Quit it now!” The teacher, Mrs. Lindo, tried to contain the squirming child. Inca gave in but gave Belinda the finger as she was carted off to the principal’s office. She heard a bark of low laughter coming from behind her. She looked past the school gates to see a youth, no more than fifteen or so, grinning at her with cigarette in hand. The look on his face said he was impressed. She gave him the finger too, which only made him laugh harder.

  The principal, Bill Porter, a squat African-American with a jolly face, said he was disappointed in her. He winced when Inca relayed in a dull voice exactly what Belinda had said to set her off. He sighed, but said that because of the provocation and her history—or ‘the unfortunate incident’—he was prepared to overlook the fight this time.

  Inca was used to people referring to the ‘unfortunate incident. Nancy and Tyler would never tell her what it was, and Inca had stopped asking. All she knew was—it got her out of most trouble.

  “Make no mistake though, Inca, I cannot keep making exceptions for you. Next time it happens, I’ll suspend you. Take a good look at your behavior, young lady.”

  Inca thanked him politely and walked out into the secretary’s office.

  The school secretary was shooing a blonde woman in her thirties into the outer office. A girl of about seven, dressed impeccably in a princess costume, came skipping in. Inca returned her friendly smile then stopped as the boy from earlier rolled around the door jamb and grinned at her. Inca flushed, remembering she’d flipped him the bird. As she passed him, he chuckled again and she shot him a glare. She tried not to smile as his merry eyes twinkled at her, but failed. Behind her, she heard Mr. Porter greet the woman. She introduced herself and then pulled both her children to her side with an exasperated sigh.

  “For God’s sake, behave. Mr. Porter, this is my daughter; you’ll be seeing her in a few years.”

  Inca turned to leave the office just as Mr. Porter asked the boy his name. The boy winked at her.

  “Hello,” he said with a face-splitting grin. “I’m Olly.”

  Nancy was waving the paper at her angrily as Inca entered the teahouse the next morning. She’d hoped to get there before anyone and had walked into town wanting the fresh air.

 
Sleep had eluded her for the rest of the night and she’d given up trying after a while. She couldn’t get that call from Mindy out of her mind. Mindy had been so sure it had been Inca who had called the guys and abused them. Had she done it? No, of course not. But it bugged her why Belinda would want to start their feud up again after all this time. She needed something to distract her. Taking advantage of the apartment’s lack of neighbors, Inca cranked Pearl Jam up loud and cleaned the whole place until dawn broke over the town.

  Now, though, confronted by an obviously annoyed Nancy, she wished she’d stayed home.

  “Have you seen this crap?” Nancy shoved the paper at Inca, who glanced at it.

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s The Bugler. What do you expect?” She dropped the paper on the counter without reading the article. Nancy wasn’t letting it go, though.

  “The Geisha Murders. Geisha!”’ She followed Inca into the kitchen, huffing to herself.

  Inca chuckled. “It’s a rag, Nance; they can’t function without giving something a tagline. And they’ve no more sense or decency than to use a racial stereotype.” She stopped and looked at her mom. “You’re going to stew on this, aren’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  Inca sighed and went to open the front door. Tommaso was waiting there, smiling at her. He kissed her as he stepped in.

  “Hey, you. How are you feeling?”

  She tried to smile, then shrugged. “Okay. These things happen. Come on in and I’ll get you some coffee.”

  He followed her to the counter. Nancy appeared at the door and squinted at him He smiled easily at her.

  “Hey, Nancy. How are you?”

  “Boy, did you pick the wrong time to ask that,” Inca muttered at Tommaso, who looked alarmed.

  “Why—” he started, but then Nancy waved the paper at him.

  “Look at this.”

  Tommaso took the paper, looking confused. Nancy glared at him. “Don’t you think it’s outrageous?”

  “Um …”

  “Nancy, leave him alone.” Inca nudged her mother, who huffed.

  “If he cares about you, then …”

  “Nancy!” Inca was red-faced and Tommaso, poor Tommaso, just looked confused. Nancy stomped out of the room.

  Tommaso looked at Inca. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing. It’s not you.” Inca waved off his question. “She’s just in a mood. Apparently, the murders now have a nickname that she objects to.” She gave him the newspaper. “Plus, she’s always in a funk.” She raised her voice slightly, grinning at Tommaso. “She’s been in a bad mood for the last seventy years, I think.”

  From the backroom, a voice came “I can hear you.” Nancy poked her head out of the door, ignoring Tommaso. Inca gave Nancy her best cheesy grin. Nancy scowled at her. “We’re out of oolong. I’m going to the market.”

  Inca’s grin widened. “Okay … geisha …” she added, and ducked as Nancy fired a dishtowel at her. She disappeared again and Inca turned back to Tommaso. He was reading the paper intently. She left him to it while she poured his coffee and wiped down the tables.

  “Hey, oldies. How you doing?” Scarlett scooted into the teahouse with Luna behind her, punching Inca’s arm. “Guess what, Inks?”

  Inca rubbed her arm and scowled at her young friend. “What?”

  “Luna met someone.”

  Inca raised her eyebrows. “You did?” It was a little unlike Luna to announce a new boyfriend. The girl usually sneered at relationships or anything lasting longer than one night. “Tell me more.”

  Luna chuckled. “Nope. Not yet, but maybe if I see more of him. He’s hot. English.”

  Inca went cold, but shook herself. No way. “So, what’s he look like?”

  “Swoony.”

  “That isn’t a word.”

  “Is too. But, yeah, he looks like a male model.”

  Inca relaxed a little. Kevin had most definitely not been male model material. “The handsome ones are always trouble,” she said, running a hand through Tommaso’s dark curls.

  “That’s so very, very true.” Knox appeared at the door then and grinned at them all. “We are such a rare breed.”

  Scarlett made a gagging noise and Inca laughed at them both.

  Tommaso looked up, not seeming to take in the newcomers and instead turned to Inca.

  “Please tell me you don’t go into the city alone?” His eyes were locked on hers. She smiled and nodded.

  “Sure, sometimes.” She looked away from his intense gaze, feeling the burn of embarrassment creep onto her face. She moved away, but he caught her hand.

  “I’m serious. Not at night?”

  She nodded again, taken aback by his fierceness. He seemed to realize this and took a deep breath in. His smile was rueful.

  “Sorry, but …” He looked at Knox for the first time and Inca quickly introduced them. Tommaso nodded at the paper. “You know about this?”

  Knox’s face was resigned. “Too much. It’s bad. Guy’s a maniac.”

  Tommaso nodded and turned to Inca. “You have to take this seriously. Please.”

  Inca saw Scarlett’s eyebrows rise. She couldn’t tell whether her friend was impressed by Tommaso’s concern or …

  “Hey.”

  They all started a little. Olly was standing behind them, watching. Inca smiled at him.

  “Hey, you.” She felt relieved that he’d broken the tension but, she noticed, Olly studiously ignored Tommaso as he pulled up a seat at the counter.

  Luna hugged her brother from behind.

  “Hello and goodbye, bro. I have to scoot.”

  “Hello and goodbye. Loser.”

  “Dillhole.” Luna grinned at him and waved at Scarlett and Inca before she left the teahouse.

  Olly sipped his coffee. Tommaso pushed the paper at him.

  “You see this?”

  Olly glanced at it. “Same as most people round here. Most local people anyways,” he added, a ribbon of petulance creeping into his tone. Inca shot him a warning glance. Tommaso smirked, shaking his head.

  “All right, then.” He got up to go. “Inca, I’ll see you later?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you later. Eight? My place?”

  Tommaso nodded, smiling, then said his goodbyes. Olly watched him walk out, then turned back to Inca.

  She glared at him. “What’s your problem with Tommaso?”

  “Nothing. Just don’t like rich guys for whom nothing is a problem. Including laying claim to the people I love.”

  Inca was annoyed now. “If I remember rightly, you didn’t want this person anymore. And I’m not a possession to be laid claim to.”

  She stomped out into the kitchen, annoyed. Taking a deep breath, she opened the back door and went outside for some air.

  He watched her from across the street, well-hidden back amongst the trees. God, she was so beautiful with that long dark hair caught up in a messy bun at the nape of her neck and her curves in that T-shirt and jeans. The swell of her breasts, the strip of golden skin between her T-shirt and her jeans …

  He closed his eyes. He needed to kill again. The thought of finally killing Inca was becoming all he could think about. His cock got hard just thinking about his knife cutting into her flesh, hearing her shocked, terrified gasp of agony, seeing the ruby red blood spill out of her.

  But once she was dead, that was it. The end. So he knew he had to keep his distance until the perfect moment. He knew how to sate his bloodlust on other women. But he liked the idea that Inca knew he was coming for her and that she was his ultimate goal, the suffering of his other victims nothing compared to what he would make her endure.

  He disappeared into the trees and found his car, driving into the city. He would sit for hours waiting for the perfect girl, then he would follow her. He thought about the other girls he had killed. The singer had been a mistake, a risk. What was her name … what was her name? Ita. She was the only one who could lead the police to him.

  He had been there watching w
hen she sang at Carmel’s that day before she died. He had watched her slap that stupid, drunken fucker who tried to feel her breasts. Spirit. She had that.

  Ita.

  He remembered the look in her eyes when she realized it was really happening, her long dark hair sticking to her face with perspiration. Her fear. Oh, and she'd looked down on him, dismissed him, laughed at him. Told him to get out, disdainfully. Until she could not speak, her mouth moving aimlessly, loosely, open and shut, dying, losing control. No more laughing.

  Or the girl with the spider’s web tattoo on her belly. Sexy. He'd come across her in a deli on Fifth. She had been arguing with the insolent-looking cashier. He'd helped her out. Followed her home. Arranged to bump into her later. She'd been grateful and invited him in for a drink, looking at him with interest. So easy. An hour later, she had been slumped in her chair, looking at him again, this time in confusion as he removed her shirt. He knew she thought he was going to rape her, and looked down at her in disgust.

  Whore.

  He had told her then exactly what he was going to do to her, that she wasn't worthy and he wouldn't sully himself on her. She tried to move or scream as he raised the knife. Then he had seen resignation as the blade plunged into the center of the spider’s web again and again. So much blood. He liked the idea of Inca having that tattoo; he imagined her with it as he stabbed her to death. It made him hard.

  He perked up now when he spotted her. Indian. Gorgeous. She looked so much like Inca that his breath was almost taken away. Sweet face, warm smile. He followed her home almost laughing out loud when she drove back to Willowbrook—so close to Inca—and waited until after dark.

  After midnight, with no moon, the storms clouds painting the landscape black, the house was hushed. Footfalls, a whisper of movement …

  He stood over her, watching, the knife in his hand. He breathed deeply in through the nose, out through the mouth. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him, still mostly asleep, not really seeing him. He smiled, but said nothing. Her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again. She frowned, her face creasing with confusion.