Dirty Exes (Liars, Inc. Book 1)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Too much work for free champagne?”

  “You know me too well.”

  “Free. Champagne.” He said it again like I needed convincing when I was already mentally going through my closet and realizing I had nothing to wear to such a nice event. Crap, more shopping.

  “Sure, whatever, send it over, I’ll try to make it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ian laughed. “You’d make a blood sacrifice and shave part of your head for free champagne, but I like this new Zen routine. It’s great compared to the sadness I usually hear in your voice.”

  “Ian . . .” I sucked in a sharp breath.

  “And there it is.” His voice cracked.

  “I’m not sad,” I lied. “Not anymore, just . . . angry.”

  “You have a right to be.”

  “Can we go back to the champagne? That’s a safer topic.” Safer than opening all the boxes I nailed shut, safer than thinking of memories that had nothing to do with Jason and everything to do with my favorite mistake he’d ever made, a child who was mine for a few brief moments, something that gave me purpose beyond being at his beck and call every day of the week.

  “For who?”

  “I should go.”

  Another long, disappointed sigh. “I’ll overnight the invite, it’s Monday night.”

  I frowned. “Who throws a free champagne party on Monday night?”

  “People who don’t need to use the weekend as an excuse to drink—adults mainly, and some bigwigs from ESPN.”

  I gave him the finger in my head before saying good-bye.

  And then floated to my bed.

  My brother had just handed me the ideal opportunity to stalk—er, I mean watch—Jessie’s every movement. I had a logical reason to be there, which meant no hiding in sewers or ceilings.

  It was perfect.

  A ball filled with professional athletes who made it their job to eat clean and bench press unsuspecting girls like me.

  What a chore.

  Chapter Eight

  JESSIE

  “Do you have to go?” Vanessa whined in a nasally tone, one that I can only assume she thought was cute when all it did was remind me she had such bad allergies that she had an addiction to Afrin. Bottles of the nasal spray littered her side of the room, or they had. Until I forced her to move into the guesthouse.

  My house.

  My rules.

  I should have kicked her out when we separated, but the house she’d purchased needed renovations, so I allowed her to crash with me until it was ready. Even though Colin said it was a bad idea. But I couldn’t not help.

  She was gutting the entire thing.

  Long story short.

  It didn’t fit her image.

  And after a teary confession on her end and irrational anger on mine, I’d relented.

  We’d been married for two years.

  I could do the gentlemanly thing and give her a few more months—especially if that meant she’d stop crying. I’d never been able to handle or trust her tears.

  “Jessie!” She pouted harder, twirling her perfectly colored extensions around her fingers before leaning over the kitchen counter, her breasts smooshed against hard white granite. I could almost hear the smack of skin rubbing together. “I thought we could watch a movie or something, like old times.”

  Old. Times.

  I bit my tongue.

  Watching movies with Vanessa meant ninety minutes of her claiming she turned down whatever role was featured in the film and criticizing whatever poor soul actually earned the part rather than getting Daddy to buy it for her from a producer friend.

  “No.” My tone was clipped, stern, I grabbed my keys. “I promised my agent I’d make an appearance at the party.”

  She snorted. “But you don’t even play anymore, besides, you guys don’t really need to do anything except catch balls.”

  Don’t strangle soon-to-be-ex-wife, don’t strangle soon-to-be-ex-wife. “Right, Vanessa,” I said slowly, sarcasm dripping from every pore in my body. “I’m a retired quarterback, I don’t really catch them, I used to throw them.” I made a throwing motion with my arm.

  “Whatever.” She shrugged, not even looking at me.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Right, I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.”

  Try not to burn the house down by putting metal in the microwave!

  “Wait!” Vanessa called after me. “When will you be home?”

  I shrugged. “When I get home.”

  “But—”

  “Look.” My patience was running thin, maybe because I’d texted Blaire at least a dozen times and gotten nothing in return. And with the way we’d left things, I could have sworn there was . . . something between us. Then again I was living in the seventh circle of hell—maybe I was imagining things.

  Like a girl from my past. A very pretty girl who actually knew football stats, who could rescue me from my self-inflicted prison.

  “I told you that we’d keep up our relationship in public for appearances, I know how much it means to you.” Vanessa cared about her fans and didn’t want to devastate them over the loss of our relationship. It was really the only genuine thing about her—well, that and the fact that she’d just released a tell-all book about our love and how we made it work.

  Bad timing and all that.

  It was released a few months ago and was still on every bestseller list.

  Yeah, someone should fucking saint me for putting up with her shit for a few more months, for allowing her to eat my food and sleep in my guesthouse.

  “I know,” Vanessa said slowly, her eyes darting to her feet like she was embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t easy for you.” Her smile was back. “Have fun tonight, alright?”

  And there it was.

  The flicker of the girl I used to love.

  The one who used to put everyone before herself.

  Ladies and gentlemen, this is what happens to an innocent girl when fame takes hold.

  Tiny pieces of her humanity get chipped away.

  Until you’re left with nothing but your true, insecure self, the one who craves attention, the spotlight, money, anything that will make you feel better about your place in the world.

  I used to mourn that girl and the loss of our connection, but now I wondered if it was ever really there in the first place, if I imagined it because I wanted a normal, loving relationship just so fucking bad.

  Or maybe I never wanted her.

  And made her a pathetic replacement for someone else.

  Pain sliced through my chest.

  “Thanks,” I finally said, as we shared a look that said more than words ever could, a look that stretched a few seconds longer than what was socially comfortable.

  She licked her pouty lips, parted them, then closed them again and nodded.

  That. That look right there was the reason I’d let her stay with me.

  She didn’t even need to open her mouth.

  All she needed to do was give me a glimmer of the girl she once was, and I was gone, stuck in memories of a past that had consumed me. Memories of an easier time, times when we’d laugh together, get ice cream, and talk about the future. Children. That look was the one that gutted me. I hated that she used it against me almost as much as I hated the reminder of what we once were.

  Guilt churned inside my chest as I made my way to my Bentley. I always felt like the state of our marriage was my fault, for wanting her, for believing her lies, for thinking she wanted me for me . . . and not for the fame my name provided.

  The signs were there.

  But her words promised something different.

  She’d been well on her way to becoming a fame whore before I dated her—but then it spiraled out of control, this need to be wanted by the world at any cost.

  It made sense that her celebrity mogul dad kept her away from his own fame, why he kept his family life private.

  He knew she couldn’t handle it. At least not well.

&
nbsp; I just wish I had seen the signs sooner, actually I wish I had listened to Colin, but I was blinded by love and a great rack. I was blinded by lies.

  With a sigh, I opened the car door, and my phone pinged.

  I glanced at the screen.

  Blaire: Cat videos are overrated, that all you got up your sleeve?

  A smile spread across my face before I could stop it, quickly replacing the guilt that had taken hold.

  It wasn’t cheating.

  Vanessa and I were done.

  I just wish it felt like it. Because if it was done, I wouldn’t still feel guilt over texting another woman, I wouldn’t feel guilt every time I saw Vanessa’s broken face. I’d feel freedom.

  All I wanted was freedom.

  So I could finally move on.

  Chapter Nine

  BLAIRE

  “Stealth mode, I am stealth mode,” I repeated under my breath as I snatched a glass of champagne from one of the waiters and surveyed the glorious ballroom of the Taglyan Cultural Complex. The lighting was gorgeous, with white chandeliers decorating the blue-lit room and candles of every size gracing circular tables. The ceiling almost looked like it was painted with a gold paintbrush as it wrapped around the top of the dance floor. Its colored glass panels took my breath away. I gave a happy sigh and surveyed the rest of the room.

  “Right, maybe don’t say it out loud though,” Isla said in my ear.

  “Stop that!” I hissed, cupping my ear and adjusting the piece that buzzed with her voice as I stumbled toward the far right wall near the drinks. “It’s creepy.”

  “Oh please,” she sighed. “Alright, I’m setting the recorder on and giving you privacy to do your thing. Text me if anything sketchy happens, other than that have fun, and stop talking to yourself. You’re a grown-ass woman, channel your inner spy.”

  I blew out a breath and nodded. “Right.”

  “I thought I said to stop talking to yourself?”

  “Go away.” I clenched my teeth just as a waiter eyed me with terror and tried to turn around only to spin right into the wall and spill champagne all over the floor and himself.

  Whoops.

  “I’m so sorry.” My tight white ball gown was beautiful but impossible to do anything in. I’d had to get a size smaller since I didn’t have time to grab anything else, and I’d immediately fallen in love with the wraparound Grecian-style front and the short cape that fell down the back. It was hard as hell to bend over, so I hiked it up a bit and did a semisquat—with heels on, mind you—and started picking up the pieces of glass.

  The waiter flushed. “Uh, no need, miss, I’ve got this under control, enjoy the party and—”

  The sound of ripping fabric split the air between us.

  He blinked at my thigh.

  My eyes widened as I moved my left hand to the now naked skin beneath my fingertips. “How bad?”

  He whistled. His eyes darted from the rip, to my face, and back again. “It’s not bad.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “Absolutely.” He licked his lips. “I see your Spanx, you’re wearing white, why the hell are they black if you’re in a white dress?”

  “Do you mind?” I hissed, slamming my hand over the bare skin. Full-on panic set in as I slowly stood. The rip went from the ground all the way up my left leg, nearly to my hip.

  And yes, you could see Spanx.

  Which meant only one thing.

  I had to remove them.

  “Cover for me.” I pointed at him with my new diamond-studded white clutch like he was my partner in crime then moved behind a potted plant just as a few people walked by whom I recognized from late-night ESPN binge watching.

  The ladies’ bathroom was on the other side of the room.

  I’d need to walk through hundreds of celebrities to get there.

  Normal Blaire could walk through without turning heads.

  Spanx Blaire would end up in US Weekly under “What Were They Thinking?”

  “Shit.”

  “Ma’am.” The waiter moved toward me. “I have to get back to work.”

  “You”—I pointed again—“are going to stand there until I can get these things off.”

  He paled.

  “Do you have a knife?”

  “Do I look like I have a knife?” Shit-for-brains had the audacity to have attitude.

  I eyed him up and down. Guy couldn’t be any older than twenty-two—hell, he probably just got his braces off and discovered Proactiv.

  I took a deep breath and counted to seven so I wouldn’t rip his head off. Seven was a safe number, three wasn’t long enough, and ten just made people think you were senile and having a mild stroke. “If you’ve been opening wine bottles, you may have a corkscrew?”

  His eyes lit up like I’d asked him if he had any spare pot.

  Ah, there you go, kid, hand it over.

  He very slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a corkscrew.

  The “Hallelujah Chorus” played in my mind as I triumphantly grabbed the tool, thrust it in the air, flicked open the knife side, and started sawing through the chastity belt that was Spanx.

  Two minutes later, I was cramping in my forearm and well on my way to carpal tunnel.

  The waiter was bouncing on his feet like he had to pee and kept looking over his shoulder like I was going to shank him. “You done yet?”

  “Do you want me to slip and accidentally bleed out by way of hitting my carotid artery?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And stop calling me ma’am!” I ordered. “I’m only thirty-five.”

  His gasp said it all.

  “I’m not dying,” I felt the need to grumble. “But my hips do hurt sometimes and—” The right leg of my Spanx broke free now, all I needed to do was rip them up to the waist and tug the rest down.

  The dress was too tight to lift all the way up, meaning I could only shimmy out of the Spanx if I was naked.

  “Almost there.” My hand was almost completely numb as I tugged the band free. I used waiter boy as an anchor, stepped out of the Spanx, and stood.

  Sweat pooled on my lower back, but other than that, I was completely successful.

  “Can I get back to work now?” he asked in a bored tone.

  “Yes.” I licked the moisture from my lips. “And thanks for your aid.”

  Aid? Did I just say aid?

  “Er, yeah, whatever, hope your hip feels better.” He snatched the corkscrew out of my hand and walked off, leaving me a sweaty mess next to a fake potted plant and a wall that probably had permanent nightmares from having my ass pressed against it for a solid ten minutes while I smeared sweat against its surface.

  I balled up the Spanx and shoved them into my clutch, making my once chic purse look like it had eaten a giant burrito that it was having trouble digesting. Great. So far? The night wasn’t really going as planned and I’d yet to even see Jessie.

  Total bust.

  At least I got free champagne out of the deal.

  And made a friend.

  Was I really considering the waiter my friend now?

  I waved at him across the room.

  He gave me the wave that embarrassed kids give their moms when the moms scream too loud on the soccer field.

  I immediately flushed.

  My dress was ruined on one side, so I was having to press my burrito purse against my left thigh to keep from flashing the other guests.

  “Fancy seeing you here.” The smooth-as-silk voice reached into my body and winked at my heart before floating around me like expensive cologne, causing my body to shiver.

  “Do people still say things that like?” I countered before turning around, careful not to flash Jessie my goodies.

  “Depends.” He crossed his bulky arms over his chest, his perfectly tailored suit glistened with the promise of a thread count so high my sheets would be jealous. His dark eyebrows framed his light eyes, and his smile promised a wicked night or two if I was lucky. He was all white teeth a
nd muscles.

  “On?” My eyebrow arched.

  “This is an invite-only event . . . and since we’ve already been over the whole stalking scenario . . . I can only imagine you’re here with someone, thus the fancy seeing you here. So where’s Ian?”

  I let out a shaky breath. Saved by the brother. “He couldn’t make it, and since he knows how much I love free champagne, I got the ticket.”

  Jessie’s eyes narrowed. “How is it that I’ve been back in town for a year, never seen you, and now I’ve seen you three times in the past few days?”

  I almost said four. But counting seeing him on a talk show seemed sort of stalkerish.

  I gave him my most confident grin. “The universe is a confusing place.” I bit down on my lower lip, hoping to draw his attention even more. His eyes drilled into me, and I set my trap by slowly backing away and whispering, “I guess I’ll see you around.”

  Translation: I guess I’ll be taking notes furiously while you talk to every person in attendance and hopefully get wasted enough to slip up.

  One finger.

  One perfect finger touched my elbow, as if he was beckoning me to stay. “Dance with me.”

  Oh no. My body went rigid. If I danced with him, if I moved too fast, I was going to be flashing everyone. “I don’t dance.”

  His eyes raked over my body. “And I don’t believe you.”

  I tried ungracefully to pull away.

  He just gripped me harder.

  I would not hyperventilate over the fact that I was going to be in his arms on a dance floor in front of hundreds of people with a rip in my skirt.

  The music changed.

  Justin Bieber, really?

  “Despacito” pulsed over the sound system.

  “No slow songs.” I gave him a helpless shrug, thinking he’d steer us toward the buffet table or more champagne.

  Instead, he pried my clutch from my death grip and tossed it onto the table.

  “What’s in there? A person?” he teased, his eyes twinkling with the sort of amusement that had my lips parting a bit too wide, like I was having an asthma attack and needed more air.