Playing House: A Black Widow Novel (Dark Secrets Duet Book 1)

by Christa Simpson

  He smiles again. “Every Tuesday and Thursday.” He glances at the group of kids playing in the mulch. “Right on schedule.” He sighs, admitting his defeat.

  I check on the mother forming the other half of his playdate and then smile. She’s clearly more concerned about her own child, swatting his grubby hands and wiping his snot nose, than paying attention to me with Jase. She doesn’t even notice me sitting here with him, which is exactly what I bank on. I glance back at the kids.

  “Which ones are yours?”

  Jase turns to me and smiles—but not the tired smile he’d just given me, rather a devious one, like the one he’d served up at his wife’s party. “Let’s be honest here for a second. You don’t care about nap times, and you don’t care about my kids.”

  I don’t know where he’s going with this, but I’ve got nothing against being honest when it furthers my position. “Okay. Let’s say that’s true.”

  His smile widens, and I like what it does to me. “I don’t do this often,” he says.

  I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling too hard.

  He hunches forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Okay, I’ve never done this before. But I have to say it. You intrigue me.”

  He tilts his head up to look at me and smiles. I can’t tell whether it’s in a feisty way, or if he’s only squinting because the sun is really bright. Regardless, he raises his eyebrows and holds them there, the sun kissing his skin in places I intend to get familiar with very soon.

  “I intrigue you?” I ask.

  “Are you saying the feeling is mutual?”

  I love playing hard to get, but I’m ready to get while the getting is good. With a feminine shrug, I casually reach out and flick a lock of blond hair from his eyes.

  “You’re a very handsome man—obviously undervalued. Your wife doesn’t deserve you.”

  He sighs, smiling at the ground between his legs, and then glances up at me again. I lay my arm on the bench behind him and, when he sits all the way up, I play with the hair at the base of his neck. He doesn’t ask me to stop. A ripple of power passes through me. I can see he’s enjoying the attention. I give him a little more before standing to my feet to leave.

  “I have to get going, but it was nice talking to you, Jase.” I grab my sandals and walk away. I have to go because I want very much to take him home with me, but I know now is not the time and this is not the place after all. There’s the other half of his play date, and then there’s the kids.

  I guess I haven’t thought it all through.

  Still, this could be my only chance. I need him to know that I’m not just playing. I want him. So with a provocative smile, I turn back. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “Thursday,” he admits. “I actually have tomorrow off. The kids go to work with Marissa on Wednesdays.”

  I smile pointedly. “Tomorrow it is.”

  By noon the next day, we’re crashing into his front foyer and fighting with each other’s clothes, because we can’t get them off fast enough. One second, he’s rolling on a condom, and the next he’s lifting me onto his lap and thrusting into me like a deprived sailor.

  I’m not going to lie. It feels good. Okay, fine, it’s really fucking fantastic. Not only does this man have years of experience in the bedroom, but the mistress aspect makes it that much more mysterious and hot. For me, the fact that his wife has no idea ups the ante to an undeniably pleasant point. He gets me off, helps me pull myself back together, and lets me out the back door, kissing me like he means it.

  I walk home with a smile on my face, wondering when I’ll see him again.

  At first, I believe my revenge will cure me, but it only feeds my illness. I grow hungry for artificial love, lust—call it what you will. It keeps me alive. But after a few weeks, our violent quickies turn into a regular routine, and an all too familiar ache lodges in my chest. My fun has run its course.

  “Put a little effort into this, Clarisse. Will you, please?” Jase begs, knowing my mind is elsewhere.

  It truly is a shame that our little arrangement has to end so soon. Jase is a total dime, with the most attractive blond happy trail. I continue to bounce on top of his dick, but it’s half-hearted and we both know it.

  He pushes me aside. “What’s your problem today?”

  I think to keep quiet but decide that I’ve had enough of this already. “I’m trying to think of something to say that doesn’t start with fuck you.”

  He glares at me, and it’s as intense as his raging hard on. Then I hear a door click shut downstairs. He doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s standing there very naked with me is his marital bedroom. He makes no move to cover himself or to shoo me into hiding. He’s too caught up with my sudden attitude change to detect anything else.

  “You don’t mean that,” he states.

  “Not sorry,” I admit, and I kind of mean it. But, instead of pulling out my phone and snapping a video of Marissa’s fully erect husband walking toward me like I’d planned to, I decide to bend over the bed and steal Jase’s complete attention with the curve of my ass.

  “Are you coming over here to punish me?—to show me how bad of a girl I’m being today?”

  He laughs and playfully slaps my ass as soon as he can reach it.

  I know he wants to.

  “Harder,” I beg, knowing it will turn him on even more.

  I’m not the least bit surprised when I hear the slap of his hand on my soft skin. Once. Twice. Three times. He spanks my ass so hard the sound surely carries down the hall, and it turns me on so much I moan, because I know this is it—the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  Jase climbs between my spread legs, massages my tender skin, and grabs a hold of my scarred hips. This next bit is the best kind of shocking. He fucks me. With his pelvis slapping against my upturned ass, and me moaning with undeniably the best pleasure of my life, he fucks me. That’s right about when his wife enters the room. I see her out of the corner of my eye, but act like I don’t, making her witness the way her husband’s dick takes my orgasm.

  I scream as Jase comes hard, and continues to pump into me, before noticing our little visitor at the door. He’s so caught up in the moment that he doesn’t even pull out when he turns to face his wife. I smile as he pulses inside me and then slowly eases out.

  See, Marissa? It still works. If you don’t put it to good use, someone else will.

  I roll aside, finally acknowledging the woman in the room. The fact that she has yet to say anything tells me she enjoys watching.

  “I should go.” I quickly yank on my underwear and pull my dress over my head, rather giddy with how this turned out. I carefully hide my smile.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” she finally asks her husband with a dramatic whisper.

  As I pass the bitch, she finally recognizes me. “You!”

  Of course she’d recognize me now, with my hair a wild mess, the mascara smeared under my eyes, and the straight face I stick her with. “Yeah. I’m the one who you widowed, bitch.”

  I wait for her reaction to my select words, but she has no idea what I’m talking about—not a fucking clue. It’s clear to me now that she only recognizes me from her snooty little party. My anger fuels the fire raging in my heart.

  “Clarita?”

  “Clarisse Blackwell.” I reach my hand out for a shake, knowing she won’t take it. “Does that name ring a bell? How about Zayne Varela? Maybe that will jog a few memories.” I steal my hand back as my face turns into a dark scowl. “It should. You murdered my husband, you dumb bitch.” I glance back at Jase. “See you around.”

  25: Clean House

  Rumors of the Black Widow striking again fill the streets. Weeks of tactless maneuvers to comfort myself only drive me deeper into a depression that threatens to consume me. To ease the pain, I cause pain to others—make them see how it feels to be me.

  Nice, huh?

  I recognize who I have become while staring at myself in the mirror. It’s time to
go. I need to get out of New York City, away from all the finger pointers and name callers. I need to find a new place to call home and create a new identity for myself, just like I did when I came to this godforsaken place. There’s nothing left for me in Forest Hills.

  I sell what furniture I can for cash and leave Zayne’s car behind, since I can’t afford the payments anymore. I leave his overdrawn bank account, pack my bags, and abandon our beautiful house. Receiving the foreclosure notice from the bank speeds up my plans, and I’m shacked up in a cheap motel with a one-way ticket to the other end of the country before the last of my insurance proceeds even reaches my wallet.

  The bus ride to San Francisco is a long one—seventy-five hours in all, with thirty-one unique stops and five transfers—but the price is right, and it is all I can afford on my limited budget. I ignore the bumps in the road and the dude decked out in a weathered jean jacket and pony tail. Instead of making a new friend or two, I mind my own business and stare out my window.

  I plug my ears with music and sink into my thoughts. I need a plan and a good one. What the hell am I going to do with myself now? I thought that two wrongs would make a right, but I don’t feel right. On the final leg of my trip, I close my eyes to fend off the dizziness, pop a sleeping pill, and slip under. I don’t awaken until I’m tapped on the shoulder by the homeless drifter sitting next to me.

  “Is this you?” She points a finger across the bus.

  My eyes flutter forward where I see my destination printed clearly across the building we’re parked next to. “Oh! Thank you.”

  “A safe trip to you, my dear,” she shouts after me as I hustle up to the crowd of others already exiting the bus.

  Carrying all of the belongings to my name strapped over my shoulder in an oversized backpack, I arrive at my new home on foot: a filthy motel room with a name as raunchy as the room itself. With a key dangling from the greasy silver doorknob, I scrunch my nose, and let myself in the retched place. I kick the door shut and drop my bag on the few feet of ceramic tiles at the door, noticing the way everything is covered in a ground-in layer of dirt. It’s pretty sad that the dirty grey tiles are the cleanest spot in the place.

  I assess the beige carpet that can be best described as filthy. I feel dirty just standing on it, and I’m wearing shoes. Years of wear and tear show from the quantity of rips and stains on the brown-plaid furniture. Deplorable things have gone down in this room. The smell is strong enough to gag a maggot. I try to avoid what I’ll call a coffee stain in the middle of the room; the truth is, I fear it’s not coffee at all.

  I feel like I’ve walked into an undiscovered crime scene.

  Knowing I won’t last in here very long, I dig through my bag for some clean clothes. Even though I’m not feeling very cheeky, I go for a mini skirt that makes me look younger than I am and pair it with a fashionable shirt. As I pull off my socks and step right into my one-and-only pair of strappy sandals, an unrecognizable scratching noise on the floor makes me freeze in place.

  Oh shit. Something is under the bed.

  It smells like someone has hidden a dead body under there, after defecating in the bathtub. I don’t want to do it, but not knowing is worse. I cross the room toward the dingy queen-sized bed, cautiously getting to my knees and reaching for the sheet. I lift the stale bed covering hesitantly, leaning closer to the stench to get a better look. There’s a single stream of light that hits a very small area of the floor under the bed. The rest of the space is flooded by darkness.

  I squint into the shadows under the bed and find my worst nightmare hiding there—Finlay’s angry face staring back at me.

  I tell myself no—it’s not possible!—but he looks so real. My wide eyes burn, but I can’t blink. I remind myself to breathe, but I can’t do that either.

  “Is this real?” I whisper with the last of my breath.

  Finlay’s face moves quickly toward me and I scream, banging my head on the bed frame and falling backwards onto my ass. I notice something skittering across the floor and fumble, like a crab walking backwards, to get away from the critter. It’s a mouse—only a fucking mouse.

  My first breath is a gasp that doesn’t quite reach my lungs. I slam my fisted hand against my chest three times before a cough leaves my mouth. What starts out as a cough, turns into a gag, and I know if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to leave another stain on the floor. I kick my bag as I pass it, and it hits the wall near the door. Why didn’t I splurge for the slightly nicer, if only clean, motel across the street? Oh yeah, because I’m nearly broke.

  As I yank open the door, a piece of paper floats to the floor like a feather falling from the sky. It lands in a stream of late afternoon sunshine peeking through the thick, grey clouds, like a signal that encourages me to scoop it up. I bend over and read the large printed letters: MYSTERY TOUR. The date on the mini-flyer says it’s tonight. I pick it up and flip it over, but there’s no further information on the back.

  I slap it across my other hand a few times, debating whether I’m ready to go out in public again so soon. This paper didn’t just magically land there; someone put it there. I look one way and then the other. There’s a woman dressed like a hooker entering a room a few doors down from mine, but other than that I seem to be alone.

  I glance back into my new home and make a quick decision, slamming the door between us. I can’t go back in there, where I’ll surely drive myself insane. This tour sounds like exactly what I need to reinvent myself. I don’t care how I’ve come to learn about it. I need the breather. It will be good for me.

  With a smile, I fold the page up, stuff it in my purse, and walk up the street to the nearest diner to kill some time and grab a quick bite to eat. When I settle into a shit brown booth seat, I pull out my old cell phone and check the message using the free Wi-Fi. Fucking lawyers. Apparently they can’t wire my insurance proceeds to me because my claim is being audited. Fucking ridiculous, is what it is. So much for dinner.

  I consider leaving, but I’ve already come this far. I’ll have to settle for a coffee. With thirty-two dollars left in my wallet, I dial a local cab company.

  A ditsy waitress sidles up next to me, ignoring my unavailability. She cocks her hip out and props her hand prominently atop it. “You can’t sit here.”

  I glance around the room. She can’t possibly be talking to me. There are three similar tables in our immediate vicinity, and they’re all vacant. “Like fuck I can’t,” I answer her, just as the cab company answers my call.

  “This table is reserved. See the sign?” She picks up one of the rectangular cards from the table next to mine and drops it on my table. “Reserved.”

  I hear a foreign man shouting questions in my ear.

  “Can you excuse me for one minute, please?” I say into the phone as I place it face down on the table. I pick up the card she’s just dropped there and show it to her. “Oh, you mean this card?” Then I fling it across the room. It conveniently lands on another table, which happens to be empty. “There. Problem solved.”

  I smirk as she stomps off and returns with another card. “You have to move. You can’t sit here,” she squawks, just as a young gentleman walks up behind her.

  She spins around to greet him, smartening up her tone. “Oh! Mr. Decker, I’m so sorry about the inconvenience. I’m just trying to get this...” She pauses for dramatic effect. “...woman to move.”

  I have a few names I’d like to call her, too. I step out of the booth but not to leave. The guy can see this confrontation is only turning hotter and steps in between us, smiling at the witch before turning to face me.

  “Are you here alone?”

  I look around. What does it look like? I nod without breathing a word to him.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  A smile breaks out on my face. I can’t even hide it. I nod my head again, and he wastes no time sliding up next to me when I retake my seat in the booth. He then drapes his arm around the back of the bench and waits a few sec
onds for the waitress to pick her jaw up off the floor.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve taken Miss...”

  “Blackwell,” I add.

  “Miss Blackwell’s order, have you?” he asks her.

  “Well, no,” she answers sheepishly.

  “What are you getting?” he asks me, gazing intently into my eyes. When I hesitate, he adds, “It’s on me.”

  “Oh, in that case.” I whip open the menu.

  He chuckles as I order a number of things. I am absolutely starving. My stomach has been grumbling for at least three hours now, and I don’t think I’ve eaten more than a couple of grapes I scammed off an old lady today on the bus, and a kid’s slobbered-on penguin cracker.

  The waitress continues to stare at us, waiting for who knows what.

  “Run along,” Decker tells her, shooing her with a couple flicks of his wrist. “We’ll need a minute.”

  “Oh shit!” I pick up my phone and answer it. “Hello? Hello?” But no one’s there. It’s no surprise the taxi company hung up on me.

  Decker looks curious. “Who were you calling?”

  “A cab?” I don’t even know why I pose it as a question—probably because Decker makes me feel surprisingly welcome in a very unwelcoming neighborhood.

  “Where are you heading?”

  I think twice before giving up any more information to him. I’ve already said too much. “Well, I, uh—”

  “I’m happy to give you a ride. I have a stop to make, but my driver will take you anywhere within the city limits after that. What did you say your name was again?”

  “It’s Clarisse.”

  “Well, Clarisse, if you’re worried that I might be a convict, don’t. Every person in this city knows who I am. In fact, I would bet on it that you’re the only one here who doesn’t.”

  Although intrigued, I leave it alone and take his word for it. “Okay.” I rummage through my purse, pull out the crumpled paper, and flatten it on the table. I point at the address of the starting point for the Mystery Tour but get distracted by the smile that has spread across his face. “What?”