THE DIRTY ONES

by JA Huss

  Contents

  The Dirty Ones

  DESCRIPTION

  CHAPTER ONE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TWO - KIERA

  CHAPTER THREE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER FOUR - KIERA

  CHAPTER FIVE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER SIX - KIERA

  CHAPTER SEVEN - CONNOR

  CHAPTER EIGHT - KIERA

  CHAPTER NINE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TEN - KIERA

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TWLEVE - KIERA

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - CONNOR

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - KIERA

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - CONNOR

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - KIERA

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - CONNOR

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - KIERA

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY - KIERA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - KIERA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - KIERA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - KIERA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - CONNOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - KIERA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - CONNOR

  CHAPTER THIRTY - KIERA

  EPILOGUE - CONNOR

  WHAT’S UP NEXT?

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  About the Author

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Design: JA Huss

  Copyright © 2018

  by J. A. Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-944475-63-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or resold in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Find Julie at her website www.JAHuss.com

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  DESCRIPTION

  They said write what you know so that’s what I did. I wrote dirty, I wrote erotic, I wrote the truth.

  And then they called me a liar. But it’s not me who’s lying, it’s them.

  Our story isn’t for everyone. It’s not even for us.

  So if you’re looking for the fairy tale and the stupid prince on his dumb white horse, move along. You’ve got a hold of the wrong book.

  This is not your story, this is not your life, and this is not your opportunity to dip your frightened little toe into the dark pool of water and “try new things” and then pull it out and decide… #NotForMe.

  When you go in with us you go all in. So make a decision before you turn this page.

  Because I’m making one promise with this book.

  Just one.

  We are The Dirty Ones and this is our truth.

  CHAPTER ONE - CONNOR

  I used to read to her.

  That’s the most prominent memory I have of Kiera Bonnaire. At the time it was anything available. Cereal boxes, magazines, instruction manuals, the dictionary. Ordinary, mundane things. She wasn’t particular. She didn’t need much. She just wanted to forget and the sound of my voice did that.

  It was enough back then.

  The stars aligned that night we all met up in the woods. That’s how someone explained it to me once. Things just… happened and then there was momentum. It became a living, breathing thing with a life of its own and there was no way to stop it.

  Me and Hayes. Sofia, Kiera, and Camille. Emily and Bennett. Louise and… no, she was alone, I think.

  People often assume that good things happen when the stars align, but that’s not always the case. Impossible events don’t always lead to positive outcomes.

  I think about this weird combination of aligned stars and reading to Kiera with a strange sense of invested detachment the entire drive down to Charlotte, Vermont from the Montreal airport. I used to think that Kiera and I had something special once. That it meant something more. That the stars lining up were a sign of what we could become. That if we just believed in our dreams our future together would materialize and the magic would take over.

  Didn’t quite work out that way.

  I used to wonder if it was my fault, or her fault, or their fault.

  But maybe it’s nobody’s fault?

  Maybe no matter what you do or how hard you try, your dream and your future have nothing in common?

  Maybe that’s just the way it is?

  I don’t know. All I do know is that my trip down to Kiera’s cottage today has nothing to do with the dream and everything to do with the nightmare that brought us together.

  I’d let go of that nightmare years back. Thought I was over it. Thought I’d moved on. But a wave of apprehension grows inside me as the GPS on my rental ticks off the miles until we meet again. Like a nervous lover, though lovers is not a word I’d have used to describe who and what we were to each other. We weren’t really friends either.

  We were something else. Something in between. Possibly more like partners in crime, though we didn’t do any crime, so that can’t be it either.

  I don’t think there’s a name for what Kiera and I were, but nonetheless, and for obvious reasons, she needs to be the first one I confront.

  I glance down at the book in the seat next to me. I can’t see it since it’s in a plain white paper bag from the airport bookstore I bought it from. But I don’t need to see it. I lived it.

  I just went in to buy gum, that’s all. Just some gum to chew on my flight back to New York. The snack store was crowded so I walked a few feet further to the bookstore, got my gum, stood in line, and then I made the mistake of looking to my left where two women were arguing over a book.

  I glanced at the guy standing just behind me and we rolled our eyes like men united.

  “Please,” one of the women said in French. “It’s the last copy. If you’re not going to buy it, just let me—”

  “I’m still deciding,” the other one replied.

  “I have to go. My flight is boarding right now. Please—”

  “Will you just back off? Jesus. I had it first and it’s--”

  But that’s when I stopped listening. Because that’s when I saw the cover. It wasn’t the image. The picture is some couple kissing or maybe just moaning in each other’s general direction.

  It wasn’t the picture. It was the font. It was the title. It was—

  —me, saying, “Excuse me,” in French, as I opened up my wallet, pulled out cash, fanning it so I could calculate how much I had. “I’ll give you three hundred and seventy-four dollars if you hand that book over to me.”

  “What the hell?” the begging girl snapped. “I want that book!”

  I ignored her and concentrated on the one with possession. She squinted her eyes at me. They were small eyes. Not attractive in any way. Kinda beady and forgettable—except that’s the only thing I remember about her now. “Why?” she asked.

  “Because my girlfriend wrote it,” I said. Smooth, like whiskey. Confident, like my father.

  “What?” they both asked. In English.

  “You’re fucking with us.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious. Please, I’m on my way to visit her and I didn’t buy a copy. I don’t have time to stop and—”

  “It’s written anonymously, d
umbass,” begging girl said.

  I ignored her. Kept my attention on the one still holding the book. “What’s her name?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you,” I said.

  “Then I can’t sell it to you,” she said.

  “Look, if you give me your address”—I glanced at the snappy one too—“I’ll have her send you both signed copies. But if I don’t have this book in my possession when I see her in a few hours, she’s gonna think I’m not supportive and break up with me. But—”

  “He’s lying,” Begging said, switching back to French.

  “Maybe,” I said, still eyeing the one who actually had the book. “But you’re not out anything if you give me the book. You’re getting three hundred and seventy-four dollars for doing nothing.”

  Begging girl looked like she might blow, so I quickly got out my business card and pen, then held it out for her. “Write down your address.”

  She inhaled deeply. Eyed me. Then took the pen and card, wrote down her address, and dropped the pen in her purse. “She gets money, I get the pen.”

  “Fine,” I said, leaning into the forgettable one. “You gonna take this deal or not?”

  She snatched the cash from my hand, shoved the book into my chest, and then walked out of the bookstore without a second thought about that signed copy.

  The begging one left too so I just paid for the book, walked out of the terminal, forgetting about my return flight to New York, got a rental car, and started driving south towards Vermont.

  Now the GPS on my phone tells me to turn left in one mile and I begin to get nervous.

  I read the inside cover of the book while I was waiting to cross the border into the US and felt an urge to vomit. But it’s not a good idea to look sick while you wait to cross the US border, so I swallowed down the past that was trying to come up, and just put the book back in the bag.

  How could she fucking do this to us?

  We made a pact. We promised to never speak of it again. So how could she do this?

  That’s the question I ask myself over and over again during the two-hour drive down to Charlotte.

  What the fuck was she thinking?

  Does she need money? Is she sending us a message?

  The roads are perilously icy after I pass through Burlington and by the time I arrive in Charlotte it’s clear there was a major snowstorm recently. Maybe as recently as this morning. Glancing up at the late afternoon sky, I wonder if it’s gonna snow again.

  Snow plows are out in force, but when I finally find her house it’s clear no one has plowed her long, winding driveway. Not after this most recent storm and probably not the last one either. There’s no way my rental is gonna make it down to her cottage, so I just pull over as far as I can, hoping that the rental doesn’t get hit by a plow while I’m gone, and step out in the slushy street.

  Only a small corner of the quaint white cottage is visible through the forest of bare trees from where I stand and the thought of trudging through two and a half feet of snow to get there just makes me want to get back in that rental, drive to Burlington, and take the next flight back to New York.

  But that book.

  I stare at the white paper bag in my hand and sigh, moving forward on the exhale. By the time I reach her porch I’m freezing, soaking wet all the way up to my knees, and wondering if she still lives here. Because she hasn’t shoveled her walk or the porch stairs either.

  But that’s so typical of her, right, Connor? Kiera was the outsider back in college. The one who didn’t want to follow the rules. The kind of girl who never plows her driveway or shovels her walk. That’s why you liked her.

  I like her a lot less now. And it’s not just the snow or the trek down the driveway.

  If she wrote this book I’ll…

  I’ll what? What can I possibly do?

  I don’t know. Something to make her stop, I guess. Except I don’t have a clue what that might be. I hardly knew her back then and don’t know her at all right now.

  Why didn’t I keep in touch with her?

  I sorta kept track of everyone else after graduation. Kinda. I saw most of them occasionally and Bennett I see or talk to pretty much every day.

  But last spring marked our tenth year out of undergrad. I figured it was over after graduation and Kiera was never really one of us, anyway. So I let Kiera go her own way.

  Big mistake.

  Because this book… this book is unconscionable.

  I stand there looking up at the frosted windows of her cottage for a moment as the wind does its best to steal my breath away, wondering if she’ll be happy to see me or just tell me to get the fuck off her property and never come back.

  That’s something Kiera would do and I have a moment of regret that I didn’t come better prepared with flowers, or candy, or jewelry… or an apology.

  “Jesus Christ. Get a hold of yourself, Connor,” I mutter under my breath. But it’s not a secret mutter because the words come out in a small blast of steam.

  I high-step my way towards the cottage and with each step more and more snow packs down into the crevice between my foot and my shoe. I carefully climb her porch steps, gripping the railing to pull myself through the snow, and stand in front of the door.

  Music comes from within. Opera. Something I recognize, but can’t name. Something that takes me back to those days and confirms what I already knew the moment I saw that book.

  She is stuck in the past.

  I should’ve kept better track of her.

  I raise my fist to bang on the door, but it opens a crack before I can do that.

  And there she is. Kiera Bonnaire in the flesh. Long, unruly blonde hair still one of the most striking things about her. Eyes a color that cannot be described. Are they the lightest green? Or the lightest blue? Or the lightest yellow?

  No one is sure.

  No one is sure about anything when it comes to Kiera, except that they can be sure of nothing.

  She is one of us, but not one of us.

  She squints her eyes in recognition. Draws in a deep breath. Then says, “Connor Arlington. What brings you to my front door on this cold winter afternoon?”

  The music is still playing. The title of the song comes to me now. Because I’m back. One look at her and I’ve been thrown back in the past. I am up in that tower. Playing those games. Watching her as she scribbles things down as fast as she can.

  “Barbiere Di Siviglia,” I say, the name of the song coming to me now.

  She huffs out what could be a laugh or could be contempt, then says, “That’s all we ever had between us, Con. Memories,” as she opens the door wider. “You must really have something to say to me if you walked all the way up here from the street.”

  Oh, fuck, yeah, I have shit to say to you, Miss Bonnaire.

  CHAPTER TWO - KIERA

  I don’t normally look out the window. I’m not one of those writers who require inspiration. It’s a fucking job, OK? And besides, there are more words inside me begging to get out than I could ever hope to write down. I don’t need any prodding to put them down on paper. They flow out of me like water down a mountainside.

  But I do have a nice forest view in the front of the house and a lake view out back, so every once in a while I’ll just enjoy it a little as I do my thing.

  Tonight I was looking outside, wondering how bad this next storm is gonna get, when I saw a man doing his best to trudge through the almost impassable barrier of snow to reach my house.

  I even heard him cursing a few times. Goddamn this. Goddamn her. Who the fuck lives in a forest and doesn’t plow their driveway? Why the hell am I doing this?

  Never in a million years did I think the dumbass outside my cottage would be Connor Arlington.

  He looks good though. His suit pants are covered in snow from the trek up to my door, but it’s not enough to mar the memory or the image he creates for me now. His hair isn’t as blond as it used to be back in college and his eyes looked dark when he was stand
ing in the shadows under my porch, but now, under the soft light of my front room, they’re the same brown-green as always.

  Even though our campus was tiny compared to state universities, and small even for a private liberal arts college, we didn’t travel in the same circles. Not until the night we both ended up in the tower, anyway.

  Not that we didn’t have things in common. Obviously we did. But I came on scholarship and he didn’t. His great-grandfather’s name was on a plaque outside the theatre. His father went there. Hell, I’m pretty sure everyone who went to Essex College was a legacy.

  Including me.

  At least… everyone in our little group was like that. Sofia’s grandmother donated the eating hall. Camille’s great-grandmother donated the land surrounding the college. Bennett’s whole family took pre-law at Essex, so they regularly add to the library. Hayes’ family donated the health center, and Connor’s great-great-grandfather was the fucking founder. Some self-righteous pastor who owned the church next door and had a dream of elite education for a select few.

  I got in because my grandmother applied for a scholarship the day I was born. She went there on scholarship, as did my mother. I don’t really understand that, and was never curious enough to ask, but I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with sex.

  My grandmother probably had an affair with someone important and this legacy of free college education was just the hush money.

  Or not.

  My mind works in mysterious ways, so I’m never sure if my intuition is true or just a byproduct of being a writer and constantly making up stories about fake people.

  But sex is almost always the reason weird things happen, I do believe that much. That’s been my experience, anyway. So I’m pretty sure that’s why I got into Essex.

  Because we are not poor. We’re not Arlington rich—not even close—but we were certainly not needy enough to qualify for financial aid at any other school and so, hey, if sixty-thousand-dollar-a-year Essex College wants to pay my way for free, why not, right?