Dirty Exes

by Rachel Van Dyken

  I was having a shit day.

  Correction. I’d been having a shit day . . . until Blaire.

  When I smiled at her it had been my first real smile in a long time. It wasn’t for the cameras, it wasn’t for media appearances or the book tour, it had been a genuine reaction brought forth by a cute-as-hell woman with pieces of blonde hair sticking out of a messy bun, and what looked like red licorice hanging out of one of her pockets.

  Licorice.

  I groaned, imagining how it would taste on her lips.

  Right, because I had business wondering about her mouth? Those lips?

  I should be disgusted with myself.

  I wasn’t.

  Instead, I was so damn turned on that a cold shower was in order. Maybe after my “lunch” meeting.

  My fingers itched to text her.

  And yet a warning voice told me I shouldn’t be doing any of that.

  Not when my life was such a clusterfuck of insanity. It wouldn’t be right bringing her or anyone else into it.

  The desire was there.

  Is that what that feeling was?

  It had been so damn long.

  Too long since I’d wanted to kiss a woman, to hold her, to make her laugh.

  Guilt gnawed at me, but it wasn’t because I wanted to call a woman who was the exact opposite of my lunch date. No, the guilt of the past was knocking on my door.

  Her face.

  Blaire’s face.

  “I got traded.”

  She’d hugged me so tight.

  Three weeks in and I was already hooked.

  “No distractions,” my agent had said. “You’ve got one shot.”

  Her eyes were expectant.

  And as seconds ticked by, I watched the light fade from her gaze.

  Right before my eyes, I saw her become . . .

  Insecure.

  Heartbroken.

  And I hoped angry, angry that I was being a pussy and taking the easy way out, angry that I was choosing everything else, every stupid thing, over her.

  My fingers hovered over my cell again.

  I was lucky she hadn’t hit me over the head with her purse.

  Lucky she even smiled back at me like I was worth more than shit.

  Lucky.

  So. Damn. Lucky.

  I gritted my teeth and shoved my phone back into my pocket then motioned for the waiter. Vanessa chose that moment to slowly open the door to the restaurant and float in, like she was in a fucking parade.

  Her white dress was cut so low that when she bent to kiss my cheek I saw nipple. It didn’t have the effect I think she was going for. “Hope we’re eating soon, it’s been a long day. You?”

  “Yeah.” I shifted uneasily in my chair. “I’ve been looking forward to lunch all day.”

  Because of the alcohol.

  She reached for my hand.

  I took hers, squeezed, then pulled back and tossed my napkin on my lap.

  Blaire’s number may as well be a neon sign blazing in my head.

  A camera flashed.

  A few others followed.

  Smile, make them think it’s still real.

  Everything’s perfect.

  I have the perfect life.

  The perfect lie.

  I quickly blinked down at the table, and my jaw clenched involuntarily as more cameras clicked around us. “Should we order?”

  “Yup.” She sat straighter as another camera went off. “I’m starving.”

  I held my snort in.

  So exhausted with the lies we told ourselves, the lies we told each other. The lies we told the world, in order to what?

  “Yes, hi.” Vanessa crooked her finger at the waiter. “We’ve been waiting.”

  Actually, I’d been waiting.

  She’d deliberately been late.

  “I’d like the caprese salad, half the balsamic dressing, and a vodka soda.”

  Color me shocked, the woman actually was going to allow herself dressing this time. She must be feeling skinny. I held back the insane need to tell her otherwise just to see if she’d make a spectacle. God, I was an asshole.

  “And you, sir?” Recognition flashed across the waiter’s face as people whispered around us, dropping our names. He cleared his throat, hands shaking above the notepad. Sympathy shot through me as he tried not to let his expression betray his nervousness.

  “Whiskey on the rocks. Keep them coming.”

  He nodded briskly and left.

  Vanessa’s eyebrows arched as she tossed her silky blonde hair behind her shoulder, aiming her best angle toward the windows, where more paparazzi waited. “I thought you were hungry.”

  She wasn’t even looking at me but at her own damn reflection in the phone. I knew that trick well. She played it often, especially when she was having a good day.

  “I’ll eat your salad,” I barked.

  It wasn’t meant to come out as harsh as it did.

  Color pinked her high, doctor-enhanced cheekbones before she sniffed, tapped her pale pink fingernails on the table, and forced a smile. “Well, don’t hold your breath. You know their salads are my favorite.”

  No, they weren’t, but their vodka was.

  She scrunched up her nose like she was the damn cutest thing in the world.

  And the Academy Award goes to . . .

  When did this become my life? At what point did lunch turn into a photo op? I wanted to blame her—but I knew that if I blamed her, I had to accept my part in our farce of a marriage.

  She gave a finger wave to a nearby table.

  I didn’t need to look to know what was happening—her blinding white smile and cute next-door wink were once again putting people under the exact fucking spell I’d fallen for three years ago on our first date, when she told me she wanted to be a teacher and leave the limelight. She’d seemed so normal then, I should have listened to my best friend. Instead I’d trusted her, trusted the lie that she loved me—only to learn that she would always love herself more.

  She’d fed me so many lies.

  My mind flashed to a woman who wasn’t afraid to eat, who lived life, who didn’t think the world owed her anything just because she was pretty.

  Blaire and the damn licorice falling out of her pocket.

  God, I would do anything to be on that sidewalk with her again.

  With a person I barely knew anymore.

  Fuck, at this point I’d kill to be the licorice.

  My hand twitched.

  And when our drinks arrived, I grabbed my phone and slid it under the table in a desperate attempt to escape the reality I was living.

  Chapter Four

  BLAIRE

  “So?” Isla’s voice rasped in my earpiece, and I nearly staggered into a parked car. I quickly tapped down the volume on my phone. “What are you wearing?”

  “It’s too early for dirty talk,” I teased, shimmying my black dress up to my thighs to expose more skin. He’d get bait, alright! If this didn’t get the guy’s attention, I was a lost cause. The salesclerk had promised me the black Gucci would stop any man dead in his tracks, even the gay ones, and to prove it, she brought in another salesclerk. From his bleached blond hair to his nose ring and red leather jacket—he was everything that I wasn’t.

  Beautiful without trying too hard.

  And better at applying eyeliner than most makeup artists. Go figure.

  He’d circled me like a lion and then announced, “Electric-blue stiletto, the Pradas.” He’d held out his hand.

  And swear to the shoe gods, they appeared within seconds.

  And I felt just like Cinderella when my gay prince slipped the shoes on my feet and winked. “Perfect fit.”

  My heel caught, causing me to stumble, and I barely caught myself before a nicely dressed couple sauntered by and eyed me like I’d been day drinking.

  I wish.

  “What was that noise?” Isla hissed.

  “I fell.”

  “How?”

  “I tripped!�
��

  “On what? A pebble? You’re at the Four Seasons, right? There shouldn’t be much to trip on.” She sighed like I was a lost cause. Maybe I was. Focus, Blaire. Focus! “Did you get the location text?”

  “Yeah, yeah, my target’s at the bar.”

  “It says he prefers whiskey.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Blaire”—Isla’s voice had a warning edge—“remember you’re the bait, which means you have to shove that sarcasm up your ass and try to be . . . approachable.”

  “I’m approachable,” I argued with a hiss as one of the valets opened the door of the hotel, giving me a once-over. I barely held in a snarky comment and pasted a dumb smile on my face. His eyes narrowed before he looked away like I didn’t exist.

  Damn it.

  My game was off.

  Did I even have game to begin with?

  It’s not like I really needed it. The guys we caught were so desperate for something new and different, and so blindly willing to follow anyone who promised to take her skirt off, that all this effort wasn’t really needed.

  With this dress on, I could probably walk up to the client’s significant other, tap him on the shoulder, ask if he would help me change my tire, and end up in the parking lot, blinking up at him with wide innocent eyes while my voice dropped low and husky in my throat. “I don’t have a tire.”

  Naturally, that’s probably the point where I’d trip on my shoes again and fall against the car, he’d take it as a hint to roughly press me against his Benz and say, “I don’t care, I just want you.”

  I’d sneeze in his face out of nervous habit.

  He’d kiss me anyway—because he was desperate for something new.

  “Good,” I would fake moan. “Take me!”

  My dress would rip.

  His six-pack would give my boobs a high five.

  And I’d be spread-eagled over him within minutes.

  Easy.

  Piece of cake!

  I swiped under my eyes for any mascara splotches and nearly sailed right into a potted plant before righting myself on the heels.

  “You trip again?” Isla sounded like she was yawning.

  “Of course not,” I lied through clenched teeth. “I was just daydreaming about a guy with a six-pack.”

  “Oh, do tell.”

  “He threw me against the car and asked to make sweet love with me.”

  “I bet it was good.”

  “The imaginary ones always are.” I took a much-needed deep breath. “Now stop asking me questions, people are going to think I’m a schizo, and that’s not the best first impression if I’m going to be bait.”

  “Roger.”

  “Oh, Roger. Poor guy. I almost felt bad for him when we caught him with his pants down in the men’s bathroom at JCPenney.”

  Isla burst out laughing. “I think that cheating was the least of that couple’s issues. I mean JCPenney . . .” Isla popped a piece of gum. “Now stop getting distracted. Happy hunting.”

  My eyes roamed the bar, then I grabbed my cell and checked the text again for the description of our target.

  Rolled-up sleeves, crisp white shirt, no tie, third button undone, pin-stripe slacks, and socks with blue and white designs. He has dark hair, a dimple, and . . .

  My stomach did that little flip.

  He sounded hot.

  Focus!

  My job wasn’t to find cheaters attractive. Besides, it was underneath that counted, and I don’t mean underneath the clothes—I mean the heart.

  There wasn’t anyone at the bar who matched the description. I slowly walked to the opposite end.

  A tall, masculine god strode from the restroom, pulled out a chair, and sat.

  “Shit!” I hit the floor like a target at the carnival.

  Just breathe. Breathe. No big deal, it’s not him. It’s not him. He’s just wearing the same shirt as the target!

  There is a completely logical explanation as to why Jessie Beckett looks like my target.

  Completely logical.

  I peeked around the bar, becoming aware that I was on my hands and knees like I was trying to crawl my way toward the alcohol. Oh God, this couldn’t get any worse.

  He turned his head.

  I jerked back.

  A spicy-smelling body plopped down next to me.

  The cute bartender offered me a wicked smile. “Blind date?”

  “Something like that,” I mused, dragging my bottom lip with my teeth in an effort to look sexy or at least draw his attention to my mouth and away from the fact that I was on the ground like the worst spy in the known universe.

  He nodded, and his little man bun bobbed. A snake tattoo wrapped around his forearm, red beady eyes grazed his knuckles.

  That was . . . different.

  I gulped.

  “So what part do I get to play?” he said with a sexy smirk.

  “The one where you serve drinks,” I said slowly, “and let me do my job.”

  “So you want me to call the cops?”

  “I am the cops.” Great, I just had to say it in the plural sense. “Cop,” I quickly added. “I’m undercover.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Didn’t know cops dressed like that . . .”

  “What’s wrong with my dress?”

  “Nothing.” He held up his hands. “Alright, say for one second I believe you . . . what the hell are you doing on the floor?”

  “Spying.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Uh-huh.” His grin really was cute. If I ignored the creepy snake tattoo and the fact that he probably lived with his parents and wanted to be an actor, I could see potential. “Well, since you refuse to let me play a part, should I bring you a drink?”

  “Whiskey. Neat,” I said. “Thanks—” I eyed his nonexistent name tag.

  “Colin,” he offered with a wink. “Be right back.”

  I peered around the counter again. Jessie was sitting with cell phone in hand, and what looked like whiskey in a short tumbler.

  A woman approached him, kissed him on the cheek, and sat.

  Shit.

  Were all men like that? Just moving on from one woman to the next when it was convenient for them?

  Anger surged so boiling hot that I had to fight to keep myself from jumping to my feet and yelling something wholly inappropriate like You—you Jezebel!

  Wait, why was I angry with the girl?

  See, that’s what good-looking guys did—you immediately blamed the woman!

  Gah!

  Men. Hated them all.

  “Here you go.” Colin handed me a double.

  Except Colin. Colin and I were quickly becoming best friends, lucky him.

  He stood, then quickly ducked back down and whispered, “It’s not his girlfriend, that’s all I know.”

  “Well!” I started sipping my glass and then stopped and looked over at his sexy smile. “You gave me top shelf.”

  He tipped his head. “Only the best for my partner.”

  I rolled my eyes but didn’t look away, he was too pretty a distraction. “We aren’t partners. I have a partner.”

  “But does your partner serve you liquor?”

  My eyes narrowed.

  “The man has a good point.” I sipped again, and closed my eyes. “Knob Creek?”

  “Good mouth.” He licked his lips then sucked on the lower one like he was imagining it was mine. “I meant palate, sorry.”

  “Did you though?” What was I doing? Working! Job. Client. Cheater. Jessie. I cleared my throat and looked away. Stop flirting with the bartender, Blaire! “So, um, not his girlfriend.”

  “No. She has papers.”

  I peered around the corner again, a few empty leather barstools stood between me and their conversation. “I’ll leave a really big tip if you can find out what they are and lure her away from his trap.”

  “Be honest,” he whispered, leaning close so his lips brushed my right ear, “are you a stalker?”

  “Cop.” I said it more con
fidently this time and jerked away from his heat. “And do you want that tip or what?”

  “One date.”

  “I don’t date.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you should.”

  “I’m a lesbian.”

  “You’re wearing Prada shoes.”

  “So?” I hissed. “Okay, partner, go do the dirty work while I sip on this.” I tried to shove him away, but he was a solid rock of muscle. Damn, where did they grow them like this? Snake Tattoo was built!

  He grinned at me then stood like it was cute that I tried to shove him. I did not watch his ass as he walked away, and I completely ignored his forearms as he leaned against the bar.

  My body didn’t react.

  My heart did not start pattering against my chest like I’d been starving for any sort of male attention for the past year.

  And I definitely was not fantasizing about that damn snake tattoo.

  Creepy. It was creepy. Not hot.

  When I looked around the corner again, Jessie was gone.

  I frowned.

  Then looked behind me, then slowly moved into a crouch, before a deep husky voice whispered behind me, “Are you stalking me?”

  I jerked so hard part of my drink spilled onto the floor. I wasn’t quick on my feet.

  You’d think that being a PI would mean I was some sort of female chameleon blending into society like Jennifer Garner on Alias.

  I was like the anti–Jennifer Garner.

  Which made me horrible in situations like this.

  Except Jessie knew me, so . . .

  “There you are!” Colin coughed into his hand. “You scared me. I’m off break now if you want that date.”

  Jessie looked between us, his eyes narrowing. “You’re dating Colin?”

  “You know Colin?” That’s what I was going with?

  Jessie smirked. “He owns the hotel.”

  Colin wrapped an arm around me. “Hey, Jessie, you’re more than welcome to join us.”

  Jessie eyed me up and down and then nodded. “I’d love to have drinks with my best friend and the girl who got away.”

  And that, folks, is how I ended up having drinks with the only guy to ever kiss me and make me lose my mind, and his best friend, the only guy with a snake tattoo who doesn’t live with his parents.

  Chapter Five

  BLAIRE

  “So . . .” God, his forearms were so bronze I wanted to launch myself across the table and run my tongue along the muscle. Like a lunatic. Maybe that’s what one year without any sort of sex did to a person. I squirmed in my seat and cleared my throat. His white button-down shirt strained around his tight midsection, his dark hair and light eyes made it hard to look anywhere else. “What brings you here?”