She shivers. Julian’s connections must run deep if he knows how to launder money through a legitimate charity.
“After tonight, we’ll never see or speak to each other again,” Julian says. “Your consent to move forward happens when you transfer the full amount. You won’t get details. You won’t know when. And remember, no refunds. Do you understand?”
It’s the only time tonight that he’s told her something twice. “I understand.”
“You have a bit of time to think about it. If the money isn’t wired by tomorrow morning, nine a.m., I’ll assume your decision is no.”
“What if I can’t decide that fast?”
He studies her, a small smile on his face. “You’ve already decided, Marin, or you wouldn’t be here. It’s a matter of whether or not you can pull the trigger.” His smile widens. “Bad joke. That’s my job, not yours.”
Nothing more is said for the next few minutes. Around them, the diner noise picks up. The bars on University Avenue are closing and college kids are piling in looking for cheap, greasy eats to soak up the Bud Lights they’ve been drinking.
The check arrives and Julian slaps down a hundred-dollar bill. It’s way too much, and Marin would have paid, but Bets pockets the money with a coral-toothed smile and doesn’t offer change.
“Stay as long as you like,” the waitress tells them.
The college girls at the next table are shrieking with laughter, and there’s a new group at the booth next to them, making bawdy jokes about whatever video they’re all watching on someone’s phone. At the table next to theirs, a homeless man is telling another homeless man a story about a third homeless man, loudly. She can smell them, the stink of the streets on their clothes, their unwashed skin reeking of stale sweat.
None of it bothers her. If anything, the noise is a welcome cushion. Nobody can hear this conversation. Nobody can be horrified by the words she’s said, and the thing that she has yet to say. The only person who might judge her is seated across from her, and it’s safe to say that his lack of moral compass renders his opinion of her moot.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Marin,” Julian says, and just like that, the meeting is over. “Get home safe.”
His tone is so light and unassuming. Marin can’t help but think how normal he looks, how utterly sane, how attractive.
Clutching her purse, she slides out of the booth and throws her jacket on. “How I do get in touch with you?”
“You don’t.” He looks up, but doesn’t stand, nor does he offer his hand for a parting handshake. “Everything from here on can go through Sal.”
Their goodbye is as brief as their hello.
It’s raining when she exits the diner, and she looks up at the black sky and pauses for a moment, letting the drops wet her face, smear her makeup, wash away her sins.
She can’t believe it’s come to this.
She has lost her fucking mind.
Chapter 13
In the beginning, Kenzie found it exciting. Affairs always are at first. But now, lying in the hotel bed listening to Derek snore beside her, the bloom is off the rose.
Married men are exhausting. They have a way of sucking all the oxygen out of the room when you’re with them. You’re always on their schedule, on guard for changes in locations and times to meet. There are only specific places you can go, and only for so long before there’s somewhere else they have to be. Their families are their priorities. And you’re not family.
You’re the side piece. You’re the one who’s there to fill in the holes. Your voice is less than.
It was a waste of time to come here. She should have left more time in between dates. Derek’s starting to get comfortable, and when he stops yearning for her, the relationship is as good as over. Unlike with his wife, he isn’t obligated to be with Kenzie. He’s not committed. They’re not building a life together. When he tires of her, he’ll end it. And she’s not ready.
She reaches for her phone, tempted to text J.R., see what he’s up to later. He was the only lover she ever had who didn’t also have a wife, but in the end, he didn’t want her. They stayed friends, and occasionally they still have sex, and sometimes it makes her feel better. Sometimes, though, it makes her feel worse, and there’s no way to predict which way it will go. She puts her phone down, not willing to find out today. At least with married men, you always know where you stand.
When they got to the room last night, Derek said he had some work to do , so Kenzie was left to pay-per-view a movie by herself while he caught up on emails. When the movie finished, she fell asleep. At some point, Derek must have as well, and he didn’t bother to wake her.
Why did he even invite her here, if not to have sex?
She slides out of bed and pads over to the window, opens the curtains a touch. The sun is coming up, and the view of the grounds is pretty. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass and is dismayed to see that her pink hair has dried flat. She’ll have to wash it again, and blow it dry this time. Mentally cursing, she heads to the bathroom to shower, stripping her clothes off as she goes.
She has no illusions about how she looks. She’s tall and thin and blessed with great muscle tone and fabulous legs. Her face, however, is just okay. She looks pretty when she puts makeup on, but other than mascara and bit of gloss, she mostly can’t be bothered. At least now that she’s in her twenties, her skin has finally cleared up.
Her biggest asset is that she’s exotic. Hawaiian father, French Canadian mother . . . men have always liked her. She’s not so beautiful that she intimidates them, but she’s attractive enough that she’s worth pursuing. She understands what she has. She figured it out a long time ago, with J.R., when she was seventeen. And then with Sean, when she was nineteen. Then came Erik. And then Paul, the one whose wife threatened to kill her. And now Derek.
They all start the same way, with what she calls “the spark.” The spark is the thing that puts her on their radar. If they hadn’t yet considered her as an option, then they will after the spark. Sometimes it’s a flirtatious comment—friendly, but full of innuendo—and sometimes it’s a lingering look. If the married man isn’t open to anything more, then nothing will happen, and the spark dies. No harm done. If he is open to something more, then it must be he who takes the next step.
The seduction can go on for weeks, with a slow build, as the married man fights his urges, only to lose the battle in the end (and they always do). It’s important they believe they’re the ones seducing her; it makes them feel powerful to know they can, that they’ve still got it, whatever “it” is. The first time they have sex has to be spectacular, and that only happens if the build-up is there. The chase is everything.
Once they get addicted to her, and to the high of being with her, she can start using the relationship to her advantage. It’s not as if she doesn’t like the men she dates—she’s genuinely attracted to all of them. She’s not a prostitute, for fuck’s sake. Professional girlfriend, maybe. And, like any relationship, you don’t want it to get boring.
This is where she is now with Derek. It’s been six months, her longest relationship yet, and she senses it’s starting to get stale. He’s becoming apathetic, and she’s not sure what to do about it. When they first met, he came alive around her. Now he’s retreating into the deep well of sadness she’s guessing he lives in when he’s around Marin, and it’s different than anything she’s ever dealt with before. Which means his time with Kenzie is less exciting, less worth it, and will morph into a complication he’ll soon decide he no longer wants.
She rinses the complimentary hotel conditioner out of her hair and moves all the little bottles to the ledge so she’ll remember to bring them home. It’s nicer stuff than what she can afford to buy, unless someone else is doing the buying.
When she’s out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, Derek’s awake and packing up his computer. The clothes she discarded on the floor have been folded and placed neatly on top of her overnight bag. It both annoy
s and amuses her that he feels the need to pick up after her.
“Feels like we just got here,” she says, attempting conversation. They’ve barely spoken since he picked her up yesterday.
He doesn’t look at her. “Done with the shower?”
He moves past her, and she hears the water running. She uses the hotel blow dryer and does her hair in front of the desk mirror, noting that the pink is fading once again and she’ll have to decide whether to recolor it. The box of hair dye she uses costs eight bucks a pop; it’s a luxury she can’t always afford after tuition, rent, food, cat care, utilities, and art supplies. With student loans and her hours at the Green Bean, it might have almost been manageable . . . but her mom’s assisted living facility costs almost three thousand a month, and the payout she received from Paul last year has nearly run out.
It’s why she needs to be really careful with Derek. She can’t afford to lose him. Timing is everything.
She uses her round brush to make loose waves; she doesn’t want another crack from Derek about her wet hair. Things have to go well today; he needs to leave here happy and wanting to see her again. She rifles through her small makeup bag, then strokes on a little mascara. A touch of blush. A bit of gloss. Then she slips on a black thong, clean leggings, and a loose top that falls off her shoulder. No bra. She doesn’t need one.
She likes what she sees when she’s finished: she looks like herself, but polished. She snaps several selfies in the mirror. She chooses the best one and posts it to Instagram with the hashtags #pinkhairdontcare and #hotellife. Out of the fifty thousand people who follow her on social media, there are only a half dozen she’d consider actual friends, who would know that she doesn’t stay in hotels all that much.
But it’s not about what’s real. It’s about what it looks like.
She refreshes the app, watching the likes roll in. Anything less than a thousand means her picture’s boring, or she didn’t hashtag correctly. She used a filter that made her hair seem pinker than it currently is, and it’s generating positive feedback, based on all the double taps.
Derek doesn’t like her pink hair. She changes her hair color often, and she was blond when they met. When she first went pink, he laughed. It was like he thought she was playing a prank on him, only doing it to get a reaction. How dismayed he was to find out it didn’t wash out overnight and that she, in fact, had every intention of maintaining it, because she’s an artist and it’s her fucking hair and she thinks it looks awesome.
Derek assumes a lot of things are about him. It’s a rich-guy thing—the more money they have, the more personally they take things, and the less they’re used to being told no. When she agreed to work five nights in a row last month, he thought it was because they had argued and she was mad at him and needed an excuse not to see him. That shit just plain insults her. She worked the extra hours because rent was due that week, and so was next semester’s tuition. Sorry/not sorry that her stupid coffee shop job ruined his plans.
Kenzie’s phone chimes and she winces. She has different sounds for different contacts, and this notification is assigned to Tyler. She did not tell her roommate that she was staying with Derek. She neglected to mention it on purpose; she wanted to avoid the fight that always ensues when they talk about him. Ty has never met Derek, but he doesn’t like him.
The bathroom door opens. “Who is it?’ Derek glances at her phone as he comes out, wearing nothing but his underwear. A blast of warm steam follows him.
She purposely doesn’t answer, because if she’s not allowed to ask who’s texting him, then he isn’t, either. She moves to the window. She reads Ty’s text and cringes again.
Where are u? Thought we were doing breakfast?
She doesn’t want to reply. But if she doesn’t answer, he’ll keep texting until she does. Better to get it over with.
I’m still with D, she types back. Back in a few hours but then I have to work. I picked up an extra shift. She hits send, and braces herself.
WTF??? His reply is fast. I could’ve slept in! I got in at 3 last night, u ass!! I didn’t even know u weren’t in ur room. Thought we were supposed to marathon Hill House this afternoon too?!!
He’s right, they were. Kenzie tried watching the first episode of The Haunting of Hill House by herself but realized she couldn’t because it was way too scary, so she talked Ty into watching it with her even though he hates watching anything that goes bump in the night. They got hooked, and the plan was to blitz through the last three episodes before Ty started work later tonight.
But she forgot about Ty when Derek texted. And forgot about him again when her coworker asked if she could cover a shift, which she agreed to do because she needs the money.
I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m a shitty friend, she texts him. A whole minute passes.
It’s fine, he finally replies, which is how she knows it’s absolutely not fine. Enjoy ur married old boyfriend.
I’ll make it up to you, she texts back. This weekend, I promise, after I get paid. Ezell’s chicken and Hill House and mango margaritas!!
Whatever, he replies.
She breathes a sigh of relief. Whatever is Ty speak for yes. Whatever is also Ty speak for If you let me down again, I’ll never fucking forgive you, so she knows she can’t mess up again. God, she misses feeling on top of things. She’s normally very organized with her schedule, but everything for the past six months has revolved around Derek. It’s not easy being in a married man’s orbit.
Frustrated, she closes her messaging app and tosses her phone on the bed. Derek opens his mouth like he wants to ask her again who she was texting, but then he changes gears. He comes over to her. Rubs her shoulders. Kisses her neck. She knows what this means, and where he wants it to lead. He’s rarely affectionate unless he wants sex, and she moves forward, closer to the window, out of his grasp.
As usual, he assumes her frustration is entirely about him. In this case, it is, so he’s going to have to work for it.
“Babe, I’m sorry I’ve been in such a shitty mood,” he says.
He moves up behind her, and she notices he hasn’t yet gotten dressed. He wraps his arms around her waist, the full length of his body pressed up against hers. He nuzzles his face into the back of her head and inhales, and she’s reminded how much she loves the length of him, and that he’s taller than her, even when she wears her highest heels. His cheek rests against her cheek, and he smells amazing. He’s wearing that cologne they found at Nordstrom, the expensive one that she picked out because the scent is sexy; he must have spritzed some on after his shower.
“I know I was a dick about the burger and that I made you feel like shit. I probably did order the Big Mac, because I was distracted and not paying attention, which is uncool all by itself. I’m really sorry.”
Already she can feel herself softening. He understands better than any guy she’s ever known how to apologize properly, and that a good apology involves an acknowledgment of the shitty thing he did, along with a clear understanding of how said shitty thing affected the other person.
“I’ve got a lot going on at work, and the backers are getting squirrelly. There are a lot of people demanding things from me that I have no control over at the moment, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He sounds genuinely upset, and it makes her feel better. “I’m sorry, Kenz.”
“It’s okay,” she says, and she finally allows herself to melt into him. His strong arms wrap around her tighter, and she feels his lips on her neck, his breath hot.
She’s starting to feel bad now that he feels bad, and she wants him to feel better. She hates that she cares so much, because normally she doesn’t. She hates that she’s getting attached. She knows so much about him, that he aches for his kid, that he’s sad all the time, and it bothers her now that she might in any way have added to his stress by buying him the wrong fucking burger. She knows he always gets Quarter Pounders. She knows that. She should have ordered him one, because she did suspect he’d misspoken. B
ut she was aggravated by his silence in the car, and how he’d snapped about her feet on the dashboard.
This is part of their pattern. He’s insensitive, which makes her feel bad, which then makes him feel bad, which then makes her feel worse, and then she’ll do anything to make him feel better. This is what they do, but she doesn’t know how not to do this with him. When it was just an affair, things were easy. But it’s starting to feel like a real relationship, which is adding a layer of complexity she isn’t prepared for. Her feelings are messing with her judgment, and she hasn’t allowed that to happen since J.R.
Derek’s hand moves down, past the waistband of her leggings, and he’s still kissing her neck and whispering that he’s sorry and then his hand is outside her crotch, stroking. Every part of her body is on fire and his thumb and his forefinger know exactly what do to, and the fabric of her leggings and panties is thin, and she can feel everything he’s doing, and she wants more. She leans back against him, pressing her ass to his erection, breathing harder, and he knows that means she’s not angry anymore and that she wants him to do everything to her.
Everything.
She tries to turn around to kiss him, but he won’t let her, and that turns her on even more. His hand slips down into her leggings and into her thong and he moans when he feels how wet she is, and she loves that he’s always surprised by it, always so delighted and grateful that he doesn’t have to work that hard to get her to this point, that she’s always ready for him. She knows it makes him feel like a god, and she loves that she can make him feel that way, and that he’ll do anything to keep making her feel this way, because he’s patient and undaunted by anything he might need to do to get her to orgasm.
His fingers are inside her and it feels incredible, but she still wants more, and so she tugs her leggings down, and bends forward, against the window, pressing her hands against the cold glass. She doesn’t care that any person walking the grounds below could look up and see them. His face is now where his hands used to be, his tongue is everywhere and tasting everything, and it’s so good and so kinky and he’s groaning with pleasure like she’s the one doing it to him.
Little Secrets (ARC) Page 13