Wicked Dirty

by J. Kenner

  My fear is that by shutting him down once, I've shut him down forever.

  Go big or go home may have applied where amusement park rides were concerned. But I'd had a different kind of ride in mind last night, and he hadn't made the slightest bit of an overture.

  No big. No home. No nothing.

  Nothing physical, anyway. Hand-holding, sure. And a few kisses when we were in public, because you never know who might be watching, and we were there as a happily engaged couple.

  But none of that was real, as I very firmly reminded myself after each kiss. And after each time he gently wiped chocolate off my face, laughing at the way I succumbed to my love of frozen chocolate Mickey treats.

  And after every time he held my hand or looked at me tenderly or even did something gentlemanly like drying my seat before I sat down in the Splash Mountain flume, even though we both knew it was just going to get wet again.

  All of those moments felt real and romantic, but it was all a charade. Because when we were in the suite, all of that touching fell away.

  No contact. No overture. No advances of any kind.

  Which was expected, I suppose. Because I'd told him my terms. I'd pretend to be his fiancee in public, and that was as far as it went.

  But now I can't help but wonder if the attraction is one-sided. If he'd only wanted an easy lay the night of the opening, and all of the heat I feel between us now is nothing more than my own desire reflected back on me.

  I don't think so ... but I don't know. How can I know? He's an actor, after all. A damn good one.

  And now I'm afraid that the only way to find out if this attraction is one-sided is for me to make the first move. Which, considering how little experience I have in that department, is a hell of a lot scarier than the drop in the Guardians of the Galaxy ride.

  Even so, I draw a deep breath and plunge into what I hope will prove to be very warm and receptive water.

  "Do you want to come in?" I ask, feeling oddly shy considering how much time we've been spending together. "I can make you a cup of coffee for the road. Besides," I add, "we should sort out the souvenirs."

  "I'd love coffee," he says, and I consider that a good sign. It's almost midnight, after all, and I know he's tired, too.

  There's a pile of mail in the box that attaches to the inside of my gate, and I grab it on the way in, noticing that one large brown envelope came by courier and not regular mail. But I'm not interested in any of it right now, and I toss the whole batch on the kitchen table as I start to brew us both some coffee.

  Lyle's leaning against the counter, telling me something about the farewell party we're attending tomorrow night for his friend Noah, but I'm not listening. I'm gathering courage. And when the Keurig is finished brewing the first cup, I put it down on the counter beside him, then take his hand when he starts to reach for it.

  He stills, then looks down at my hand on his. When he looks back up, there's a question in his eyes. And, I think, an invitation.

  "I don't want this night to be over," I admit, barely able to hear my own words over the pounding of my heart.

  "Sugar..."

  I don't know where he's going with that thought, but I'm not letting him get there. I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him, and--thank God--he kisses me back. Gentle at first, but with enough heat that it sets off a riot of sensations inside me.

  I moan, my fingers twining in his hair as he draws me close, taking the kiss deeper. Wilder. Until he's claiming me with such intensity that I'm certain that this isn't one-sided at all. On the contrary, it's very, very two-sided. And, as my body clenches and my pulse quickens, I can't help but hope that it will be horizontal soon, too.

  His hands grip my shoulders, and he breaks the kiss long enough to look at my face. I know what he sees. My flushed skin. My swollen lips. My eyes wild with desire.

  "Please," I beg, and it's as if I've flipped a switch. I gasp as he presses me back against the refrigerator in one swift motion. He gives me no time to recover, instead taking full advantage of my surprise. His mouth closes brutally over mine. Teeth and tongue and heat and passion--a heady potion that's making me drunk. Making me wild. Eager.

  I'm craving him like a drug, my hands roaming his body. Seeking. Claiming. And when I slide my hand roughly down to stroke his erection, he practically growls as his teeth tug at my earlobe and his hands roughly cup my breasts.

  I stroke him, feeling him grow harder under my hand. All coherent thought has left me, replaced by basic, primitive emotions--want, need, have, take.

  * * *

  His hand slides down to cup me through my jeans, and I whimper, shamelessly stroking myself against his fingers, wishing he'd just open my fly and slide his hand inside my pants and touch me.

  Oh, God, how I want him to touch me...

  And he wants it, too. I'm certain of it.

  Which is why I'm so damn surprised when he gently pushes me away, looking at me with heated eyes, his desire held tightly at bay.

  "What?" I demand. "What's wrong?"

  "You don't want this," he says, and I curse myself for having stupidly shut this down that first time.

  "I do," I say. "Lyle, dammit, please."

  "Sugar, baby--"

  The frustration in his voice is palpable, and I know how hard he's working to hold back. And, dammit, I don't want him holding back.

  "Please," I say, as I peel off my T-shirt and toss it aside. I stand there in my simple cotton bra. "Please," I repeat, then reach back to unfasten the bra as well, then drop it to the floor. "No may mean no, but this is one of those times when yes really does mean yes."

  "Christ, Sugar..."

  I can hear the battle in his voice. Raw. Hard. As if it's taking all his strength to keep his hands off me.

  I'm going to break him.

  I take his hands and put them on my breasts, then tilt my head back and sigh as his fingers tighten around my nipples. "Yes," I whisper. And then, because I can't bear the thought that he'll stop again, I take one of his hands and slide it ever so slowly down my bare torso, teasing myself with this light touch until I reach the waistband of my jeans.

  I release his hand, and as his fingers brush my abdomen, I slowly unbutton my jeans. "Touch me," I demand, and since he still may not comply, I guide his hand all the way down, then moan when he finds me wet and aroused and so very ready.

  "Fuck, Sugar," he murmurs, then scoops me up and carries me to the bedroom.

  "Strip," he orders, but he doesn't wait for me to comply. Instead, he tugs down my jeans and underwear as I start to toe off my shoes. We're a tangle of arms and legs and desperation, and when he's managed to get me naked, he slides between my legs and closes his mouth over my pussy.

  I arch up, completely unprepared. I'd expected a trail of kisses up my thigh, but this--oh, God--this is incredible, and I writhe shamelessly against him. Wanting his mouth. His tongue.

  Small tremors cut through my body, precursors to the orgasm to come, and I grasp his hair in my fists, and shamelessly beg him to please, please fuck me.

  He shifts, and I whimper when he takes his mouth off me, his hands now on my hips as he holds me steady. He lifts his head, then meets my eyes.

  I'm breathing hard and so is he. And I want this so much. The feel of his body against mine, his cock deep inside me.

  "Lyle," I beg. "Please, now."

  But he doesn't move. And I watch, confused, as his eyes cloud and he sits up, then stands and grabs my robe. He tosses it to me, and I grab it automatically, pulling it up like a sheet to cover me as he shakes his head and says, "I'm so sorry, but we can't. Not like this. Not until you know everything."

  20

  "Everything," Laine repeated as she sat up beside him, her forehead creasing with worry as he got out of bed.

  He started pacing, trying to decide where to begin.

  "Lyle?"

  "I told you I ran away," he said, stopping only inches from her. "I didn't tell you from what. Or, at least, I didn't tell yo
u all of it."

  She nodded, apparently realizing that it would be easier for him to keep going without interruptions. Although, really, none of it was easy.

  "I grew up in a whorehouse," he finally said. "A rundown old farmhouse just outside of town. Everyone knew what went on out there, but no one ever tried to shut it down."

  "Your mom?"

  He nodded. "Worked there. Lived there. And God only knows which one of her customers was my dad."

  She scooted back on the bed until she was leaning against the headboard, then drew her knees up and hugged them. "I didn't even know places like that still existed," she said, and he was grateful she didn't offer empty condolences.

  "When she worked, I'd have to go to the basement. Those were the best times, actually, because usually Jenny was down there, too. And we used to act out stories. Mostly made up, but sometimes we'd read lines from plays we stole from the school library."

  "She was another kid?"

  "It was just the two of us. The only children in the house. We grew up together on that packed dirt floor. We were best friends. Hell, for a long time we were each other's only friend. We went to school, but the kids all knew where we lived and what went on in that house. We weren't exactly running in the cool crowd."

  "You loved her."

  He nodded. "Very much, but not like you mean. She was my first, but that was out of curiosity more than desire. Maybe even boredom. But it was sweet and I don't think either one of us regretted it. I think it made sense to both of us that we'd be each other's first."

  He closed his eyes, swallowing as he tried to gather up his emotions. He'd never loved Jenny romantically, but she'd been his best friend. Hell, his only friend until they met Riley when he was ten and Riley was thirteen.

  She knew him as well as he knew himself, and vice-versa. And even after all these years, the pain of losing her was palpable.

  "Did she die in a car wreck? Is that why you drive the Volvo?"

  He almost smiled. Instead, he got back on the bed, then sat facing her, his back to the footboard. "You're getting ahead of the story. That's act three. In act two, the bitch who owned the house decided that Jenny needed to either leave or work."

  "What about her mother?"

  "Her mom was a junkie. She would have flat out sold Jenny if she thought she'd score some crack."

  "Oh." She licked her lips. "And your mom?"

  "She was a wreck," he said, "but I loved her. And she thought she was doing her best by me. Thought that by working in that house she was feeding me and clothing me. Keeping me off the street. Shit."

  He winced as sharp-edged memories sliced through him.

  "Lyle--" Hearing his name with her sweet voice was like a balm, and when she scooted down the bed and took his hand, it just about shattered him.

  He closed his eyes, trying to block the memories. Of all the times he'd tried to convince his mother to leave that life. To tell her that they'd survive somehow.

  He knew they could; he'd met folks in the house who could help. It wasn't high class, and most of the johns had records as long as their arms. Even when Lyle was barely twelve, he knew who to go to if he needed a gun or a fake ID or drugs. Not that he did drugs--he saw too clearly what they did to Jenny's mom. But information was the only currency he had, and so he watched, and he soaked it all in.

  He drew a breath, then continued his story. "And then one of my mom's johns beat the shit out of her. I was fifteen, and I'd snuck up from the cellar to the kitchen. I heard her scream, and I ran to her room, but he knocked me back, and I hit my head. I didn't pass out, but I couldn't get up. All I could do was watch as he--"

  "He killed her?"

  He clenched his fists, willing words to return. "That would have been kind. Instead, he beat the shit out of her while I slumped there, totally useless."

  "You were hurt." Her words were a whisper, meant to soothe.

  It didn't work. He'd heard those words before, and they were always hollow.

  "She died three days later, and even though she was in a hospital, I saw the pain on her face. Even with a goddamn morphine drip, I know she suffered."

  He'd been looking at his hands, but now he lifted his head and saw the tears streaming down Laine's lovely face.

  "What did you do?" she whispered.

  "I stayed. I was so fucking pathetic that I earned my keep cleaning the damn house and doing minor repairs. Three long months, and then everything changed. Because that's when the bitch who owned the house said that it was time for Jenny to start working."

  "You ran. You both ran."

  He nodded. "Jenny dreamed of Hollywood, and I knew she could make it here. She wanted to be huge. Top billing. Tons of money. The world at her fingertips. And so, yeah, we ran. I stole some crack from her mom and traded it for fake ID's and records from one of the johns. And Riley helped us steal a car from the impound yard."

  "The impound yard?"

  "His dad was the sheriff. Riley's three years older than me, but he came around the house with his dad enough that we became friends. He's seen a lot, and he knew the score."

  "His dad came to arrest the women?"

  Lyle scoffed. "No one bothered enforcing prostitution laws. Hell, there would have been a riot. No one admitted going there, but for a place no one acknowledged, it was always full."

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, his dad--well, his dad was a good guy. He knew what Riley did for us, and he turned a blind eye."

  "Lucky break."

  "Maybe too lucky," Lyle said. "I was the one with the plan. I had the idea to steal the car. To get new identities. And when we finally took off down the highway in the dead of night, I hadn't slept in days, I'd been so hyped up on plans and fear and adrenaline."

  He sighed, remembering those few hours when he and Jenny had been free. When it had been good. Those few precious hours before he drove straight into hell.

  "It was my fault," he said, so low that he wasn't sure Laine could even hear him. "I drifted off. Just for a second, but that was enough. An eighteen-wheeler had crossed into our lane, and it was too late. I swerved, he hit the side of the car, and we went off the road and into a ravine."

  He could still hear the twisting metal. Smell the rubber burning on the asphalt.

  "Jenny?"

  "She died instantly." The words tasted bitter. "I didn't even get a scratch."

  "Lyle, I'm so--"

  But he just held up a hand. He had to get it out. Had to push past this one horrible memory.

  "The police came. I gave them my real name--it's John, by the way. My mother had an odd sense of humor. John Rivers. And the police decided it wasn't my fault. No charges, but they shoved me into foster care. I stayed for about a month--I was too numb to do much else--and then I ran away to LA, used my papers, and became Lyle Tarpin."

  "You wanted to come here for Jenny," she said, and he nodded, pleased she understood. "You wanted to make it in Hollywood for her."

  "Not at first. At first, it didn't even occur to me that acting was an option. But then it all started to fall into place. Almost like it was destiny."

  The corners of her mouth curved down. "And I was right--about the escorts, I mean. You are railing against something. That's where you go when the memories get too bad. Like the night we met. That was the anniversary of Jenny's death, wasn't it? You pretty much told me so at Wyatt's opening."

  "Yeah," he said. "It was."

  She nodded thoughtfully. "At Disneyland, when I asked you about why you went to the women, you never really answered me."

  "That was because I'd already told you--it's just sex. Because a relationship's hard when you live in a spotlight."

  "Right. You did tell me that."

  There was an emotion he couldn't place in her voice, but before he could ask, she continued.

  "Is that why you pay so well? Tip so well? Because of how you grew up? Because the women around you struggled so much?"

  He nodded. "It's not the same, I know
. And I don't sleep with streetwalkers, although I do donate to a half-dozen organizations that help with rehabilitation. But, yeah, I like to feel like maybe I'm helping them, even if just a little."

  He drew in a deep breath, surprised that he felt remarkable good, like he'd just gone a few rounds in the ring, but had quit before all his energy left him.

  "So that's who I am. That's the man you invited into your bed. A guy who ran away from home in search of some perfect pretty fantasy of a life, and in the process managed to get his best friend killed."

  "No, you didn't," she said gently. "But I can understand why it feels that way."

  She paused, her head tilted as she thought. "Did Jenny like Invictus? Because I was wondering why you had it with you that night. Why you gave it to me."

  "It was one of the books we kept in the basement. She used to read it aloud. She said it was our theme. That we were unconquerable."

  He ran his hand over his hair, as if combing away the memories. "I had it with me because I reread it every year on that day. And I gave it to you because it fit. I already told you that. You needed the money. You did something scary. You didn't let life defeat you."

  "So you didn't just pass out those thin little poetry books to every woman you hired."

  For the first time since they'd begun the conversation, he laughed. "No, not hardly. I have some of those thousand dollar bills that I use as tips, but not the book. Never that. In fact, until I actually put it in your hand, I wouldn't have believed that I had it in me to give it away. That little book's been with me a long time."

  "And yet you did."

  He eased toward her on the bed, then reached out to stroke her silky hair. "Yes," he said, hoping she understood what that meant. That he'd seen something special in her--in them--from the first moment he'd met her.

  "Thank you for telling me this. It means a lot that you trust me with the truth."

  "I trust you," he said, moving his hand from her hair to her temple. "It's late. I should go so you can sleep."

  "No." She grabbed his hand and tugged him closer. "Stay here? We can just sleep. That's fine. But it's too late for you to drive home."

  "Is that what you want?" he asked. "To just sleep?"

  She licked her lips. "I don't know. I thought--what with the heavy conversation--"

  "Do you know what I want?"