The Face of Scandal

by Helena Maeve

  “You’re driving me mad, woman,” Ward growled in her ear, tearing his mouth free. Hot breath fanned across her cheek.

  Hazel laughed shakily. “Good.”

  She didn’t mean to mock him, but Ward pulled back, holding her down with a hand around her neck when she made to follow. He didn’t squeeze, he wouldn’t, but the pressure was enough to remind her of her place. A shiver of want raced up Hazel’s spine.

  Yes. Yes, use me, do with me what you like.

  Dylan’s footsteps echoed not too far off.

  Ward eased his hand free to press slick fingers to her mouth. “Get them nice and wet for me.” It wasn’t a request.

  Nearly orgasmic from the pitiless yearning in his voice, Hazel couldn’t comply fast enough. She barely tasted herself on his digits, too greedy for the bizarrely reassuring sentiment of bringing him—them—satisfaction. A few seconds was all the window of opportunity she was permitted before Ward retrieved his hand at Dylan’s behest.

  Short for breath and feeling slightly untethered from her physical form, Hazel watched Dylan squirt a healthy dollop of translucent lubricant and seize Ward’s wrist. The slow glide of their sheened fingers in the pale blue moonlight made for a hypnotic spectacle—so much so that Hazel almost forgot their purpose until Ward traced her slit with his fingertips.

  “Sure you want this?” Dylan asked, all but nonchalantly drying his hands on a towel.

  Hazel nodded frantically. She was glad they didn’t ask if she was ready. No amount of self-directed pep-talks could prevent her from feeling at once aroused and terrified as Ward slipped two fingers inside her. A third joined them in short order, barely felt. The fourth hurt less with lubricant to ease the way, but Hazel still tensed up, apprehensive.

  To his credit, Ward waited her out. “This is the toughest part,” he murmured, lightly raking his teeth over the jut of her knee.

  “How would you know?” Hazel huffed.

  “He’s done it before,” Dylan’s answer reached her as though from miles away on a faulty phone line.

  She turned her head against the couch cushion, bewildered. To whom?

  Dylan cocked an eyebrow. Who do you think?

  Her face hot, Hazel gasped as the stretch intensified, a sharp burn kindling where before there had been only a dormant ache. But just as soon as she thought she could take no more, the ache was promptly alleviated.

  The sense of fullness lingered, overwhelming. Hazel had only ever felt anything remotely like it with the anal plug Dylan had used on her. The same rigid pressure, the same urge to fidget and twist against the ruthless awareness of flesh and sinew being pushed to the limit of what it could handle. But this was different, too, more intense. She was afraid to look down her own body, yet at the same time couldn’t resist.

  “Breathe,” Dylan whispered, sliding his forearm under her nape to help her up. “I know it’s a lot to take…”

  To put it mildly. Perspiration slicking down her brow, Hazel reached for him, for Ward, fumbling for purchase or the nearest anchor. Ward’s wrist was a glistening, rosy shaft, thicker than any cock, tapered abruptly where it disappeared inside her. The visual was too much.

  Hazel clenched around his fist with a pitiful whimper, muscles spasming as the tight ball of pleasure at the base of her spine violently unfurled. She was dimly aware of Dylan and Ward speaking to her in soft, urgent voices, but it was already too late. If they were warning her off coming, that ship had already sailed. Hazel dug her heels into the couch cushion and climaxed with a ragged sob, rutting into the unbearable, exquisite heft of Ward’s fist inside her.

  Pleasure rode her in violent, crashing waves, one tremor fading just as another snagged hold. She cried out with each one, the slightest twitch of movement in her body enough to trigger an avalanche of sensations too turbulent to resist.

  It might have gone on for a minute or ten. Hazel lost track of time as her whole body began to quake with exhaustion, thighs shaking on either side of Ward’s shoulders.

  “That’s it,” Dylan murmured soothingly in her ear. “That’s right, let it go… Hazel, look at me.”

  She tried, but he had to palm her cheek to help her out a little. It surprised her to discover his features slightly blurry. She hadn’t realized she was crying.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  Tired. Achy. Amazing. Hazel shot him a dizzy smile. “Can we stop now?”

  “Definitely, but you have to help us out. Can you relax a little? Breathe out for me?”

  “Oh…” It took conscious thought to lessen the hold of her inner muscles enough so that Ward could pry out his fist. The expression on his face was more bewildered than wary, but Hazel couldn’t figure out why.

  She toed his shoulder with a lax foot. “Hey… You okay?” Don’t go angsty on me now.

  Ward nodded. Blond hair stuck out over his ears and a faint sheen of sweat gleamed on his upper lip. “I haven’t come in my pants since I was in high school.”

  The tension that had threatened to build up between them dissipated at once.

  Hazel blew out a worn-out guffaw. She ached and she was drenched in slick lube and her own liquid arousal, but there was nothing in what they’d done that made her feel anything but pleased. Euphoria lingered as she came down from her high, moored to the certainty that Ward and Dylan would never hold it against her.

  Grappling with how much she had enjoyed it could happen later, once she cleaned up and got some shut-eye. This was worth keeping secrets for.

  Chapter Eight

  “That,” Hazel murmured into the phone, “was amazing.”

  Dylan’s laughter rippled like a caress. “I’m very glad to hear that’s how you feel about it.”

  “How else should I feel?”

  “Used, exhausted—”

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely exhausted,” she replied, mindful of keeping her voice low, “but you two sure know how to show a girl a good time.” And take care of her, after. It was rare for Hazel to enjoy coddling in the aftermath of a scene, but since last night’s events didn’t technically qualify as her usual brand of kink, she didn’t think it was a matter of turning corners.

  “In that case,” said Dylan, “maybe we can do it again. Say, tonight?”

  Hazel’s stomach flipped at the sheer proposition, images of Dylan holding her down while Ward toyed with her cunt eliciting a small, eager smile. Then she remembered, she couldn’t. “I’m spoken for tonight,” she confessed.

  “Work?”

  Hazel winced. “Yeah, I offered to keep Sadie company.” A better friend would’ve done as much.

  “Oh. How…how is she?” It wasn’t the first time he’d asked since Sadie had moved back out of the loft. He seemed hesitant to broach the subject.

  “She’s fine,” Hazel replied, trying to clamp down on the sudden geyser of aggravation slowly disgorging poison into her belly. This was paranoia. This was foolish.

  A minute ago, she’d been squeezing her thighs and reminiscing about the wonderful sex life that she and Dylan—and Ward—enjoyed.

  Dylan hummed under his breath. Hazel pictured him in a sleek, modern office, surrounded by pantsuit-wearing powerhouses and elegant furniture, keyboards click-clacking in the background of their conversation. “You should spend time with her,” he agreed, “we’ll find another time.”

  “Do I need to ask your assistant to pencil me into your agenda?” Hazel quipped.

  “Sadly, I don’t have one.”

  “Oh, no… Well, why didn’t you say so sooner? You know how I enjoy assisting you… Sir.”

  She fervently hoped she didn’t make up the swift intake of breath that echoed down the line.

  “Hazel—”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “You’re giving me a hard-on at work.”

  She giggled.

  “Think that’s funny, do you?” Dylan huffed out a breath. “We’ll see.”

  There was such dark promise in his voice that Hazel had to grip the door frame to h
old herself upright. “Yes, we will.” Her imagination already churned out scenarios of how he might exact punishment for her naughty behavior. She favored those that involved the flat of his palm swatting her square across her buttocks, or Ward’s hands in her hair, around her throat.

  The door that separated diner and staffroom opened with a creak.

  “Hazel, you in here?”

  “Shit, gotta go.”

  “All right,” Dylan replied, “love you.”

  The line went dead before Hazel could be sure she’d really heard that parting volley.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Travis asked.

  “Nothing,” she lied, cheeks numb. Love you? Her mind stuck on those two little words like a record needle pulled violently over a beloved LP.

  Travis scoffed, “Then do you think you could maybe get your ass out here? It’s just me and Marco, and we’re kind of drowning while you phone sex with your—”

  “What happened to Sadie? I thought she was working this morning.”

  “She didn’t show,” Travis answered with a shrug. “I ain’t her keeper.”

  “You seemed to be getting along pretty well the other day.” Hazel slotted her phone into the pocket of her uniform skirt. She hated admitting that she’d noticed. She hated that she had allowed herself to feel left out, replaced.

  “Is that how you white girls think? Guy does something decent for you and now he’s your bitch?”

  “I was thinking friend, but…” Hazel shrugged, struggling to play off the sudden thrum of annoyance that kindled at Travis’ needling. Ever since she had accused him of harassing her—unfairly, as it turned out—their working relationship had been more than slightly strained. “’Case you haven’t noticed, Sadie ain’t white.”

  He waved a hand. “Spare me. You two’re as small town as it gets. Alabama, right?”

  “Missouri,” Hazel corrected, rounding on him. Travis had a head on her in height and weighed about twice as much, most of it in the muscles bulging under the sleeves of his black T-shirt. “You got a problem with that?”

  Travis smirked down at her. “Spoilin’ for a fight, are we? Guess some of that Parrish shithead must be rubbing off.”

  A flush of heat choked off the retort Hazel wanted to deliver. She inched back. “You’re a jerk.”

  “And you’re an idiot,” Travis said, as though it was self-evident. “This why you turned down my offer? You figured you’d make your extra cash screwin’ him instead? Damn, I knew you weren’t the brightest but that’s pretty fucking dumb, Tinkerbell.”

  “I turned you down because I’m not like that,” Hazel snapped. I can’t be.

  Her porn career had begun and ended with that leaked home video. She had no desire to revive it. If that made her a prude, so be it.

  She made to push past Travis, but he caught her elbow. For such a large man, he was surprisingly gentle. Firm, but not to the point of bruising her. Unfortunately, Hazel had been grabbed one too many times before.

  She swung out with her fist, aiming for his nose but catching his chin instead.

  Travis staggered to the side, righting himself with a groan.

  “Fuck!” Hazel shook out her wrist. It was as if her hand had been thrust through a meat grinder.

  Not so long ago, she’d scolded Ward for hitting a man with a closed fist. To her surprise, failing to tuck her thumb didn’t make it hurt any less.

  “You crazy bitch,” Travis huffed, rubbing his jaw. “Hell was that for?”

  If she could’ve strung words together, Hazel might have said something about being touched when she didn’t want to be and men who thought they could do to her as they pleased out of some bizarre sense of entitlement.

  That frustration paled in the face of the very real ache arcing up her elbow.

  Travis sighed and took her wrist in a massive hand. “Don’t slug me again,” he warned.

  “Is…is it broken?” Hazel gasped, blinking back hot tears. After the sudden jolt of fear and the burn of humiliation, came shame—shame of resorting to violence when she should’ve known better, shame of lashing out against someone who hadn’t struck first. Horror, too, because this wasn’t who she was.

  Nothing less feminine than a young lady who goes around hitting boys, Mrs. Whitley’s rebuke rang in her ears. It had stung when she was seven and already bigger than most kids on the school playground and it stung now, as Travis checked her fingers with a meticulous touch.

  “Not broken,” he ruled, “but it could swell. Best ice it fast.”

  “Marco’ll love that,” Hazel sniffed.

  Travis shrugged. “Tell him I called you a slut. Seems to be the way to give him an apoplectic fit.”

  Hazel retrieved her hand. The thought of letting him take the fall stung as bitterly as her knuckles. “Why—why would you say those things?” she sniffled, adding one more layer of pathetic. “About Ward. You made him sound like some kind of creep who’s using me for sex. You don’t know him.” You don’t know me.

  Something in Travis’ almond black eyes told her otherwise. “You ever wonder how people like him get as rich as they do?”

  “He inherited his company. He’s not Tony-fucking-Soprano.”

  Travis snorted. “I don’t know if you’re naive or you’re just protecting your cushy retirement from this life of luxury…” With a jerk of the head, he indicated the unpainted, rust-bitten lockers and bare floors. Indelible spatter stained the cement, there since before Hazel had begun working for Marco. “But he ain’t Prince Charming.”

  Slurs were easier to deflect than the strange certainty in Travis’ voice.

  “And I’m no Cinderella,” Hazel said and brushed past him on her way into the diner. She had a job to do. The last thing she wanted was to second-guess everything she knew about her not-really-but-maybe, sort-of boyfriend.

  The cacophony of bad muzak crackling from the ceiling speakers and two dozen voices trading mid-morning chatter over empty coffee cups instantly wrapped itself around Hazel. She tried not to think of what Ward had told her last night—company hasn’t been doing well since Dad died, we owe more than you think. Money I didn’t earn.

  She pretended she couldn’t feel Travis’ eyes on her back as she started her rounds.

  * * * *

  Unlike what she had told Dylan, it wasn’t Sadie that kept Hazel from heading straight back to the loft after she finished her shift. For all that Hazel knew, Sadie was enjoying a night of debauchery in some club—as she had been wont to do before she got involved with Frank. Truth be told, she had no idea.

  Hazel had checked her phone periodically throughout the day in case Sadie decided to reach out, but since their argument, their relationship had been as strained as it was distant.

  She pushed her cell up the small wooden desk and tried to focus on the lecture. It was only her first since Mizzou and though she had expected something considerably easier, she was fast becoming aware of the hard work she would have to put into catching up. Had she chosen English Lit, the terminology might have been familiar, but management was an entirely different language. Hazel strained her mind to focus.

  At the front of the room, the professor barely looked older than the youngest of his students—a bracket in which Hazel was surprised to count herself. He seemed more nervous than anyone else in the room, tripping over his words every couple of sentences and trailing off on tangents when he started reading from the slides. She wondered if this was his first time teaching.

  As surreptitiously as she could, Hazel glanced at the faces around her. Men and women of all ages sat at single desks, some with plastic bags around them, as if they’d stopped in for class on their way home from a grocery run, others with English-to-Spanish dictionaries piled beside them.

  Come to think of it, she would’ve been intimidated, too.

  Despite the frequent stammer and stumble, the lecture moved apace. Hazel did her best to copy everything on the board, including the reading assignment, and hastened to pac
k up when the professor wished them a good night. She thought of stopping by the lectern to ask if there was any material she should have read before enrolling, but paranoia held her back.

  What if he realized she was too dim to take his course and demoted her to Math 101? What if he laughed her out of the room?

  Wary, Hazel thought better of it.

  The night was warm, a sticky breeze blowing through the city streets as she stepped out of the stuffy, concrete hall. The deserted sidewalks of East LA did not inspire her to linger, no matter how mild the weather.

  Hazel spurred her steps, chasing her shadow under the dim glow of yellowish streetlights. The neighborhood was no more frightening than the one she lived in. The same graffiti dotted overflowing trashcans and festooned bus shelters in garish shades of green and purple. Here and there Hazel saw the same free-hand motif repeated on telephone poles and rolled down metal doors. Gang sign. There were a few all over town, as easily recognizable and ubiquitous in the poorer areas as mushrooms after rain.

  The Volvo was just a few feet away. Hazel blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Next time she would have to find a parking spot closer to the college entrance, for her own peace of mind.

  In her haste, Hazel didn’t notice the sleek silver BMW conspicuously parked behind hers until the headlights switched on, blinding her with their glare. She dropped her car keys on the pavement. “What the hell—”

  The driver’s side door opened with a click.

  For a short, bewildering instant, Hazel mistook the man stepping out for Ward and nearly launched into a stream of complaints about the fright he’d caused.

  Then she registered his voice and confusion gave way to panic.

  “Can I carry your books?” Malcolm.

  Hazel rooted her sneakers to the cement underfoot. There was nothing to be done about her juddering heartbeat, but she could at least try to fight the urge to flee. He’d chase her. She knew that no one would come to her aid—not in this neighborhood, not when any argument between them, no matter how violent, might look like a domestic.