Three Guilty Pleasures

by Nikki Sloane

  “That was you?” she cried. “But it couldn’t be. That guy didn’t have an accent.”

  I needed to take charge of this conversation. “If I concentrate, I can speak without one. While it’s true I went to the club looking for a story, that’s over. That was before we got together.”

  When I tried to advance, Regan stepped protectively between us. I remembered how she’d acted that night in the club, and it made more sense now. Beyond Regan, I could see that every inch of Tara’s body language was screaming she didn’t believe me.

  “I didn’t know you worked there when we met,” I said. “Think about it. You fell, and I caught you. I didn’t seek you out, and I didn’t know until the next night when I saw your tattoo. I was supposed to stay away, but I’d already agreed to help with your audition.”

  Fire burned on her face. “Okay, but then why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

  “Julius made it real fucking clear to leave his business alone, and honestly, Tara,” I said, letting the hurt seep into my voice, “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  “I was going to,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if I could before. You told me you were looking for a story.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I was, but not anymore.”

  Regan lifted an eyebrow in displeasure. “Why should she believe you, if you’ve been lying to her from the beginning?”

  Irritation simmered in my core. This conversation was supposed to be between Tara and me. “I’ve known about the blindfold club for a while now, and have any stories come out about it?”

  Silas hadn’t participated until now. He frowned. “That doesn’t mean anything. Her bosses would squash that story, just like they did with—”

  “Silas,” Regan hissed.

  Tension was already high, but her single word took it to a new height. The silence between us was taut.

  Tara’s focus swung from me to the couple. “What does that mean?”

  “He meant that Julius would handle it,” Regan answered quickly.

  “I know what I heard. He said bosses—as in—plural.”

  Regan’s breathing picked up, but otherwise, it was hard to tell if she was nervous. “We can talk about it,” her gaze flicked to me, “in private.”

  “No, I’m done with secrets.” Tara crossed her arms over her chest and looked dubious. “Julius runs the club by himself, so explain how you have more than one boss.”

  “What if,” I said quietly, “she works for someone else?”

  The mob? No, that didn’t make sense. They had a lot of power, but not enough to kill a story. Who had that kind of authority?

  Bloody hell.

  I couldn’t make sense of it. “Do you work for the government?”

  “No,” Regan snapped.

  It was a lie, and we all knew it from the way Silas reacted. He’d turned away, unable to look at any of us, trying to hide his expression.

  “Oh my God,” Tara gasped. “You’re . . . a cop?”

  Regan lifted her reluctant gaze to the ceiling. “Not exactly.” She let out a deep sigh. “Goddamnit, Silas.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but as he continued talking, he built steam. “Look, I didn’t mean to ‘out’ you, but . . . you know what? I’m with Tara on this one. I’m fucking over it with all the lies.”

  Fury rolled into Regan’s expression. “Holy fuck. Did you do it on purpose?”

  “What? No.” He looked seriously pissed at her accusation. “Yeah, I won’t be sad if you don’t have to work there anymore, but Jesus. It was an honest mistake.”

  “I’m still struggling,” Tara said, “with what ‘not exactly a cop’ means.”

  Regan didn’t like being caught and wanted someone to blame, and I was an easy target. She gave me a hard look. “I know you probably think you’ve hit the jackpot here, but your story will never get off the ground. The FBI will kill it, make you look bad in the process, and the only thing you’ll end up doing is getting me reassigned.” Her expression shifted and took an edge of desperation. “I won’t be able to protect the people I care about.”

  Tara didn’t seem to hear the last part. She balled a hand into a fist and held it against her stomach. “You’re FBI.” It was impossible to tell if it was a question or a statement from her shell-shocked voice. “I can’t . . .” She put her hands on her temples and stared at the ground, completely overwhelmed. “I can’t do this right now. It’s too much.”

  When she moved for the door, we all went to stop her.

  “Wait,” the couple said.

  I ignored them. “Let me take you home.”

  “No.” She threw open the door, and I followed her out into the hallway, which she rushed down. “I need some time.”

  Down the stairs she went, her leggings glinting in the light as she moved at a fast clip. I was bigger, but it was surprisingly difficult to keep up.

  “I know you’re dealing with a lot, but can I explain?”

  She flung open the apartment building’s main door, not checking to see if I was still following. She knew I was. “What part of ‘I need some time’ do you not understand?” She whirled around to face me, and she was both angry and scared. Like a wounded animal trying to survive a threat. “I just found out that everyone I care about has been lying to me. And, yeah, I’m aware I’m not innocent in this either, but you’re going to give me one night to work through this shit.”

  It hurt to see her like this, especially since I was the cause. “Can I please just take you home?”

  A cab with its sign lit turned the corner, and she waved before turning a cold stare my direction. “I already told you no, and you need to respect that.”

  It wasn’t a battle I could, or should, win. “You’re right. I’m sorry, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But Tara? I don’t care about the club or what you do there. I’m with you. That’s all that matters to me.”

  I should have left it alone, instead all I did was add to her confusion. She said nothing as she climbed into the back of the cab and murmured her address to the driver. Then she yanked the door closed with a slam, and the car pulled away. Her head never turned. She didn’t look back to see me standing there, feeling like I’d just lost everything.

  I came home directly after. Maybe it was rude not to say goodbye to Silas and Regan, but that would have been fucking awkward, and I just wanted to be alone. Well, that wasn’t true. I wanted to be with Tara right now. For selfish reasons, but also to comfort her.

  She’d trusted Silas and Regan and been honest with them about everything. Their betrayal had to sting, and worse—was she in legal jeopardy? Regan insinuated she was protecting her.

  Did Julius know she was FBI?

  For once in my life, I wasn’t curious. All I could think about was how I’d ruined what was supposed to be one of the best days of Tara’s life. Hopefully, she’d get a decent night’s sleep, and in the morning, she’d see that our lies canceled each other’s out. We could talk about everything openly and figure out how we’d move forward.

  I stared at the used wine glasses beside my sink, Tara’s lipstick faintly kissing one edge.

  It felt like I’d just played two rugby matches back to back, and they’d been blowout losses. I locked my front door, turned off the lights in the living room, and made my way to the bedroom. My overnight bag was in the corner, and I went to unpack it, only to be crushed for the second time this evening.

  Her ledger.

  I still had it.

  My knees softened, and I sat on the edge of the bed we’d slept in only a few hours ago, my hands gripping the black book. She’d asked for one night of space, and I was going to give it to her, but first thing tomorrow, I’d tell her what I’d done. It was too much to ask her to deal with tonight.

  I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Weak. It was why I opened to my page in her journal and read it again, running my fingers over the ink she’d spilled about me. It was black and the pages
thin, and I could make out words from the page behind mine. Words like Mr. Gold and humiliated and scared.

  She’d stopped working recently because a client had gotten too attached, she’d said. I turned the page, unable to quench the thirst to know what had happened. I needed to know she was safe. It was the last page of handwriting in the journal.

  I shouldn’t have read any of it. I knew nothing good could come from it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I read about the vile shit he’d said to her and how she’d told him they were finished. She was worried he wouldn’t handle it well. He was powerful and rich, and one of the best clients at the clubs.

  It seemed like he’d been a regular, and I wanted to know more about him. Had he always been this horrible little man? How often had she seen him? Did she know his name?

  Paging through her journal, I lost all track of time and any fucking sense.

  I read it cover to cover, nearly three years of entries. It was scintillating. Erotic. And utterly fascinating. Every part of Tara was revealed in these pages, and I fell even more hopelessly in love with her. She was kind, and funny, and unapologetic about the way she lived her life.

  When I finished, I placed the journal on the empty pillow beside me in bed, where she’d slept earlier this evening and it still smelled like her, and hoped she could forgive me.

  I fell asleep for the second time with my clothes still on, but it was restless. I wondered if it was because she wasn’t here, but as my phone vibrated a second time on the nightstand, I realized what was happening. Pale light came from the screen. Someone was texting me at four a.m.

  Tara: Did I meaning anything to you?

  Tara: Or was I just a story?

  I bolted upright in my bed and thumbed out my response, my heart pounding ferociously.

  Grant: You mean everything to me. It was never about a story.

  The bubbles flashed on the screen, indicating she was typing, and when the message came through, my heart plummeted in my chest. Fuck.

  Tara: THEN WHY DID YOU TAKE MY JOURNAL???

  -31-

  Tara

  I didn’t sleep much, even though my body wanted it. My mind was too loud and too angry, and my heart was too hurt. It was an invisible wound, bleeding in my chest where no one could see, but I felt it with every painful breath.

  Everyone had lied, which was hard to handle, but I wasn’t sure I’d survive Grant’s latest betrayal. He hadn’t just lied, he’d deceived. He’d stolen from me. Taken something I didn’t want shared with anyone else. Had he learned nothing from what his ex-girlfriend had done to him? This was a million times worse.

  On top of all that, he’d let me squirm on a hook of guilt for more than a month as I wrestled with revealing what I did for a living. I’d had massive angst it was going to drive him away. But he already knew, and had just played along, making me a total fool.

  All so he could get his precious story.

  As I stood in front of the apartment door, a cardboard tray of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a paper bag of blueberry scones in the other, I fractured. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to have to do this.

  Suck it up and get it over with.

  I knocked on the door, and a moment later, footsteps approached.

  When it swung open, Hector stood there, wearing a white t-shirt, plaid patterned pants, and his hair was askew. I knew they’d been awake for a few hours, but it was a lazy Sunday for them. He was in his late forties, patches of gray in his short beard, and in great shape. I’d passed him plenty of times as he was leaving or coming back from a morning run.

  “Hi,” I said, mustering a bright tone when I was all darkness inside. “We haven’t officially met, but I’m Tara. I live downstairs.”

  “Hey, there.” He didn’t seem put out by my intrusion, just confused. “I’m Hector. Is Brad being too loud? I know he’s a heavy walker.”

  Between the two of them, I was sure Hector was worse, but I said nothing. I was barely holding it together. “These are for you.” I shoved the tray and the bag at him. “Coffee and scones.”

  His confusion shifted into worry as he cautiously took them from me. “Um, thank you. Is everything okay?”

  I pressed my lips together and tried to nod but couldn’t. My eyes watered. “I was wondering if I could ask you and Brad,” I sucked in a calming breath, “for a really big favor?”

  Hector shifted the contents in his hands. Was he nervous I was going to ask for money? Or worse . . . a ride to O’Hare?

  Brad appeared over Hector’s shoulder. He was younger than his partner by a few years. He was handsome, but when he smiled, the dimples came out and made him seriously cute. “Hi, neighbor,” he said casually, but picked up on Hector’s mood right after and turned serious. “What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but my,” I stumbled with the right word, “ex-boyfriend is coming over soon to return something, and I was hoping you guys wouldn’t mind hanging out with me while that happens.”

  Both men’s eyes went wide.

  “Did he threaten you?” Hector asked. “If you don’t feel safe, you should call the police.”

  “No, no, it’s not like that.” God, this was embarrassing. “It’s just, he’s going to want to talk to me, and I don’t want to hear it. He needs to drop off my book and leave, and I don’t want to . . . cave.”

  Brad’s mouth rounded into an ‘oh.’ “You need to stay strong about kicking his ass to the curb.”

  “Yes. If you guys are with me, he won’t push as hard for a conversation.” Because Grant wouldn’t talk about the contents of my journal or the blindfold club in front of strangers, would he? “I’m sorry to spring this on you, but he’s going to be here soon, and my friend isn’t available.”

  Elena was with her mother, whose church was across town. I didn’t see the point in her coming all the way here for something that would hopefully take two minutes.

  Brad hung his arm around Hector’s neck, who responded by putting his hand on top of his partner. It was a loving gesture, wordlessly communicating they were a united front.

  Hector’s voice was full of understanding. “Of course.”

  The silver lining to the whole terrible situation was I got to know my neighbors while we waited for Grant’s arrival, and they were the nicest guys. They didn’t pry for details, but also didn’t shy away when I got emotional. We were strangers to each other, but it didn’t feel that way.

  Maybe it was because we’d all heard each other’s orgasms.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Brad asked, sipping the coffee I’d brought him. He was lounging on my couch while Hector perused the titles on my bookshelf. “We’re going over to our friend’s place to watch the Bears game. You should come.”

  “Oh, thank you, but I’m not a football fan.” American football wasn’t rugby, but it was close, and I didn’t want the reminder.

  “I don’t watch the ‘sports ball’ either,” he said with a grin. “I usually end up playing Beerio Kart with the other people who got dragged there by their partners.”

  I gave a dubious look. “Beerio Kart?”

  “Mario Kart with beer,” Hector said, reading the dust jacket of one of the books.

  Brad shrugged off his partner’s flat tone. “Everyone has a can of beer, and you have to be done with it before you cross the finish line. But drinking and driving is illegal, so you can’t race while you’re drinking.”

  “Yes,” Hector said, “he’s in his forties and still plays drinking games.”

  Brad scoffed. “Whatever. He’s just mad because I always beat him.”

  Hanging out with Hector and Brad’s friends was better than being alone. “That sounds fun,” I said. “You’ve convinced me.”

  “Awesome. I’ll text Shawn and let him—”

  The knock on my front door sucked the warmth from the room.

  I was standing near the dining table, and as Brad got up to answer th
e door, Hector moved beside me. I couldn’t tell if it was protective, or supportive, or both. I curled my hands around the back of a chair, using it to keep me steady.

  Grant looked like hell.

  There were dark circles beneath his eyes, announcing he’d probably gotten as much sleep as I had. He hadn’t shaved. He’d showered and changed clothes, but he couldn’t wash off what he’d done. He was coated in guilt and misery.

  He’d been expecting me to answer the door, and when he came face to face with Brad, the first thing he did was check the number on my apartment. Slow realization dawned in him as he understood I didn’t want to be alone with him.

  It hurt to see him looking so distraught, but then there was my journal in his hands, and that made everything hurt. Needles stabbed at my eyes, filling them with tears. A hive of angry bees swarmed in my stomach. I couldn’t stand to look at him and turned my head away.

  “Tara.” Hearing my name in his broken, defeated voice was a punch to my gut.

  Brad’s tone was firm. “You have something for her? I’ll take it, and you can go.”

  “What? No, I’m not giving this to you.” He sounded horrified. “I need to talk to her.”

  “No, man. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Tara,” Grant pleaded. “Please. Look at me.”

  I squeezed the chairback so hard, my hands ached. Don’t do it. Do not look at him.

  His eyes were wild. He was a mess, and while the angry part of me took pleasure in that, the rest of me suffered along with him.

  “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t mean to take it. If we could just talk, I can explain.”

  I went down to the place inside myself where I was safe from emotion. Cut off completely from feeling anything. It wasn’t subspace—the euphoric place I could reach sometimes while doing a scene—but a disconnected void.

  I didn’t recognize my own voice. “Did you read it?”