Dirty Exes

by Rachel Van Dyken

  She groaned into her hands. “Does it look like I’m wearing any panties?”

  Her fingers pointed to the slit in her dress, the one that rose well above her hips, and gave me a wide view of perfect touchable skin.

  I gulped and spread my hand across her silky thigh. “No.”

  “Not really a prostitute, Jessie.” She pulled away and my hand fell against the leather, mourning the loss of her warmth. “Thanks for the ride.”

  My body went rigid. She was hot and cold. Oil and water. Nothing really matched up. And I still had no idea what she was doing in LA, what she did as an occupation, or why the universe suddenly decided it was a good idea to torture me with her presence when I was supposed to be faking a working marriage with my wife.

  “I’ll wait until you get inside.” I nodded at the front door.

  She hung her head, causing her blonde hair to cascade around her creamy shoulders. I could count the breaths she took as she seemed to think about something before leaning back in the car and brushing a soft kiss against my cheek. “Thanks for the dance.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask to come in.

  Or ask her to stay.

  Shit, I was a bad person.

  I was still living with my wife.

  My love life was already complicated and suddenly I see a blast from the past and want to jump in with both feet?

  I watched as her hips sashayed all the way to the entrance of her apartment.

  I waited for her to change her mind.

  To turn around and at least give me a second glance.

  She didn’t.

  And rather than make me feel like she didn’t care.

  It just spurred my next decision.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed, hoping to get Ian, only to hang up before the phone could ring. What the hell was I doing? He knew my situation, at least what I told him. If I called him and asked about his sister, he’d ask questions.

  And the last thing I needed—was someone else asking me the truth.

  When I didn’t even know what it was anymore.

  Chapter Twelve

  BLAIRE

  “We need more intel.” Isla had pored over the notes from the night before and all she had was me ripping my dress, befriending a young waiter, dancing to Justin Bieber, and having a conversation about prostitution with Jessie.

  Not a horrible start.

  Not a great one either.

  I groaned into my hands as Isla put her boots up on her desk and waved a piece of licorice in my face. “It’s not you, Blaire, maybe the guy has nothing to hide.”

  I glared as I replayed the conversations we’d had over and over again in my head.

  “He evaded the question of whether or not he was cheating every time, Isla.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. I was such an idiot. A stupid dress-ruining idiot.

  I’d done the unthinkable.

  I’d grabbed my computer.

  Typed in his name.

  And done an online search that would make any PI proud, from credit reports, to criminal and civil suits, to all the little details in between that nobody thought about. I saw his electricity bill, and took note of the Google Earth cameras that had been on his house, I hacked his stupid camera system only to find out he’d just started recording a month ago, and nothing exciting happened in the garage except for parked cars. By the time I made it to gossip sites, I was ready to quit, and then ready to cry.

  What I found had me in fits of anger combined with gut-wrenching sadness.

  I wanted the anger to shred the sadness and disappointment to pieces.

  But maybe, just maybe, I was fresh out, or I’d been spending too much of it on Jason. Because all I managed to find was self-pity and sadness when I saw the proof right before my eyes.

  Isla eyed me. “Look, tabloids aren’t known for reporting cold hard facts.”

  “His wife”—I gritted my teeth—“the one looking for reconciliation, wrote a freaking tell-all about their perfect marriage. He arranges her towels! He does laundry! He cooks dinner! He gives her foot massages every night . . . he . . . he . . .”

  Abby glided into the room. “Blaire hyperventilating again?”

  I bit my tongue to keep from yelling any further.

  Isla placed a hand over mine. “His wife wants to find out if her perfect husband is cheating, and they’re separated, not divorced, because she wants to save the marriage.”

  Last night I’d wanted him to kiss me.

  Last night he’d touched my thigh like he never wanted to let go.

  Why did I always fall for the wrong guys?

  Why was I so attracted to them in the first place?

  I took a deep breath and swirled my chair to face Isla. “I need to get into his house.”

  Isla’s eyes bugged. “That’s not usually part of the bait stage.”

  “I know, but we have a meeting with Vanessa Beckett this afternoon! What am I supposed to do? Tell her that he touched my leg and he hates cats?”

  Penny hissed.

  “Sorry, old girl.” I patted her head. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  Isla shuddered. “Get that thing away from me.”

  “It’s not diseased!”

  “It’s missing a tail!”

  “Because it’s a rescue!” I pulled Penny into my lap and slouched. “Look, she’s going to be here in three hours, that’s more than enough time to find some evidence of cheating.”

  “Or you could just seduce him,” Abby said from her perfect little corner by her perfect little desk with her stupid coffee cup lifted midair. She shrugged a piece of silky hair behind her shoulder. “What? Then you’d have evidence.”

  Evidence that I was pretty sure would make me just as guilty as him, no way could I seduce, kiss, and/or see any part of him naked without bursting into song and asking if I could lick his six-pack until morning.

  “No,” I said, voice weak. “I-I don’t think that I can do that. It’s technically entrapment.”

  “He likes you. You could do it,” Isla said softly. “Just encourage a bit of kissing, pounce on his weakness.”

  “That’s the problem.” It felt like a betrayal of what we had years ago, of whatever odd stalker-like friendship we had now. Besides, we didn’t run that sort of business, we could get into trouble. “Either I find proof in the house or we’re going to have to tell her to go somewhere else.”

  “Hell no!” Isla stood. “If word gets out that she went to our competitors . . .” Her posture stiffened. Isla had a big beef with our closest competitors, probably because they were an all-guy team who thought women were useless creatures. It all made sense now, why she was willing to look the other way if I seduced him or hired someone else to do it: she didn’t want to lose a high-profile client, a first for all of us. She finally relented. “Just try not to get the cops involved.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve done it before.”

  “It was an apartment, and you flirted with the doorman,” Isla pointed out. “This guy’s loaded, he has cameras, security.” She winced. “If you get caught, just pretend you’re a crazy fan-slash-stalker and always have been, and maybe wear an ‘I Heart Jessie Beckett’ T-shirt or something as a disguise. Wipe your mascara down your eyes like being in his house is emotionally overwhelming, or just rip your shirt and start touching yourself.” She nodded like it was actually a viable plan.

  Abby nodded too.

  The cat purred.

  “You guys are insane!” I stood. “I’m not going to be caught looking like some stalker freak getting it off in his bathroom next to his soap on a rope.”

  “Soap on a rope?” Isla repeated.

  I waved her off. So what if I knew he was on a commercial for soap on a rope. Everyone did, right?

  Even if the commercial only aired in Japan.

  Last year.

  I played it twice in a vain attempt to see his V-taper.

  Maybe that stalker label wasn’t too far from the trut
h after all.

  I snatched my keys. “Guys, I’ve got this, if she gets here early, stall her, alright?”

  Both girls looked worried.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said again, trying to reassure them. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  JESSIE

  The house was quiet.

  It was the first time I felt like I could breathe in months.

  Probably because I couldn’t feel her presence there anymore—Vanessa had gone out for a few meetings and left a note on the counter like I actually cared where she went or what she did.

  Next to the note was a copy of her book. I think she liked to keep it on the kitchen counter in case seeing a picture of my own fake-ass smile was going to make me take her back.

  How to Make It Work. I looked heavenward in irritation. She’d fed them lie after lie on how we made our marriage work, how Instagram didn’t lie, those candids are all us, the real Beckett family. So. Fucking. Happy.

  I was smiling like a fool at the camera as if the woman at my side wasn’t the devil incarnate. I’d done it for her, because she’d done nothing but talk about helping other people since we were first married. And after she lost interest in teaching, early on in our relationship, I wanted to help her find a purpose, a hobby that didn’t involve flirting with my teammates.

  She’d said it was her dream to write a book.

  And I’d believed her.

  The book took up a lot of time. She wrote it during the first few months of our marriage when we were still in the honeymoon stage, and because of the publication cycle, it didn’t release for another year.

  When the shit had already hit the fan.

  When I discovered the woman behind the mask.

  I flipped it over so I couldn’t see our faces staring up at me over breakfast and went to grab a coffee.

  The house phone started ringing, and I frowned because I didn’t have any meetings until later that afternoon and wasn’t expecting anyone.

  “Sir, sorry to wake you up.” Bill, one of my security guys, cleared his throat.

  “I was already up.” I yawned behind my hand and took a sip of coffee. “Is everything alright?”

  “Of course, of course!” Bill said quickly. “There’s a young woman here who says she’s here to interview about being your new housekeeper?”

  We’d been broken into twice and, after an investigation, discovered our housekeeper had leaked information to a few friends and helped them get into the house. The break-ins had been all over the news. I hadn’t actually taken any steps to hire anyone, because I’d been so busy.

  And then I’d seen Blaire.

  And then I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Blaire.

  I groaned just as my cell lit up.

  “Yeah, um, get her information?” I was cautious after the last one. “We can do a background check later, but go ahead and conduct a security clearance interview in the courtyard.”

  “Perfect, sir!” He hung up.

  I grabbed my cell. “Dickface, how was it last night?”

  Colin’s husky laughter told me exactly how it had been . . . sleepless. The normal bolt of jealousy didn’t run through me because the minute I thought of orgasms . . . pleasure . . .

  I thought of Blaire.

  Of the rip in her dress.

  The pillowy softness of her lips.

  The way she licked them over and over when she was nervous.

  I gripped the countertop.

  “Last night was epic, I remember maybe half.”

  “Of the night?”

  “The women,” he corrected.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “We still lifting this morning?”

  Was I losing my mind? First the housekeeper and now Colin? “I thought we were taking Tuesday off?”

  “Nah, man, that was only last week.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure.” He chuckled. “You have exactly ten minutes to get your ass over to my gym.”

  “Our gym.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled. Colin and I owned an Olympic lifting gym that targeted celebrities who needed to bulk up for roles.

  It was exclusive.

  Secure.

  And no cameras were allowed.

  “Shit.” I checked my watch. “Let me grab my stuff and I’ll head over.”

  I heard a woman talking in the background and more laughter as Colin yelled out, “See you soon!”

  I could have sworn today was an active rest day.

  Was Blaire throwing me off my game that much?

  I frowned at the counter.

  It was barely nine in the morning and already I’d thought about her at least a dozen times. I needed to focus the fuck up or I was going to slip and do something I couldn’t take back.

  Like kiss her in public and get Vanessa’s talons deeper into my skin by saying I’m cheating and ruining her life.

  The last thing I needed was to be trapped even more than I already was.

  I swore and snatched my keys and the rest of my gear in the hall, then ran like hell to the Bentley and got in just as Bill opened the gates to let an Audi drive right through.

  Chapter Fourteen

  BLAIRE

  I was born too honest.

  That’s the first thing that occurred to me when I approached Jessie’s giant mansion in my outfit. After more research I discovered one thing: I couldn’t just pretend to be a fan girl. And I was a horrible liar. A crappy, crappy, crappy liar. That’s where my honesty got me, fighting with myself over how to get into his house and how to do it without giving myself away by a lie.

  I had to have a purpose other than fan-girling.

  Thankfully, I’d been keeping up with the tabloids, I knew all about Jessie’s housekeeper getting fired, and it only took a bit more research to discover that he was still in the market for one. Perfect.

  I knew how to clean house.

  So I showed up in a housekeeper’s uniform.

  Because that made so much more sense, right? I also decided that the only way to pull this off was to call in a favor.

  I’d left the office with one goal.

  Expose Jessie so we keep the client and all the money, then go feel sorry for myself by way of ice cream for proving yet again that all men were pigs.

  I quickly dialed Colin’s number and waited.

  “Hey.” His voice was groggy. “Spy Girl?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Hey, Basement Dweller, I need a favor.”

  “I like favors . . .” A woman’s laughter rippled through the background.

  I stopped walking. “If you could stop licking between her giant fake breasts for like one second and listen to me, that would be great.”

  “I wasn’t licking there.”

  “Colin—”

  “But I was licking, care to guess where?”

  “I need to find friends who don’t lick people,” I said out loud. “Better friends who don’t use women as sexual objects.”

  “We’re friends? I thought you threw my friendship back in my face because you want to taste my best friend’s face, which you refuse to admit even though you gave him puppy-dog eyes for at least ten minutes last night while I stood on the sidelines and watched.”

  “I did not.” I choked out the not. “Can you just focus?”

  “Fine,” he chuckled. “What do you need, buttercup?”

  I was having a hard time not chucking my phone against the cement sidewalk. “I need to break into Jessie’s house.”

  Colin was silent.

  I waited.

  And kept waiting. “Hello?”

  “Look, if you need money—”

  I burst out laughing. “You do know who my brother is, right?”

  “Right.” He sounded like he was thinking. “So why are we breaking into Jessie’s house?”

  “Not breaking, more like sneaking, and there is no we!” I slapped a hand over my forehead. “Wow, that sounded w
orse. Okay, remember when I was spying on him at the bar and you fed me alcohol?”

  “Top shelf.”

  “Yes, top shelf.” I nodded like he was standing in front of me. “So I need to prove to my boss”—slight white lie—“that I can get this job done, alright? I really do spy on people, it’s legal, I swear.” I paused, waited, then dropped the bomb. “I’m a PI.”

  Colin burst out laughing, and when my silence said it all, he choked out, “Oh shit, you’re serious?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, counted like I always did when I was stressed, and said, “Yes. Dead serious. His wife is having him investigated, and I’m meeting with her in a few hours, and I have no dirt on him. I need more info than what I currently have, which is that he hates cats and dances like the Biebs.”

  “The man has hips.”

  “Right?”

  “Your lack of focus is extremely disappointing, he can dance, so what?” Colin sounded like he was yawning. “Alright, what’s your plan?”

  I told him about the housekeeper getting fired, which I assumed he already knew since he cut me off by asking, “How are you getting him out of the house?”

  “You mean how are YOU getting him out of the house?”

  Colin laughed. “Yeah, I like it. I mean there’s no chance in hell you won’t get caught, but I did always want to be a spy.”

  “Was this before or after the snake tattoo and motorcycle gang?”

  “Before. Obviously,” he laughed. I ignored the way his laugh wrapped around me, causing my own smile to appear, and I wondered what it would feel like to have him laughing against my neck, even though I knew he was the type to sleep with a woman once and toss her out with a slap on the ass. I gave myself a good shake. That’s not the type of complicated I needed in my life, nor the heartache. “Alright, come to the hotel, take one of my cars so you aren’t driving up in whatever the hell a PI drives, and I’ll get him out of the house, but you need to get in and out fast, and I can’t help you with Bill.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This is my job, remember? I’m not an idiot. And Bill? Who the hell is Bill!”

  “His security guy, he’s like sixty, can’t run very fast, but knows things. He used to work for the CIA.”

  “Perfect!” I didn’t mean to yell it.