Dirty Little Secrets

by Kierney Scott

  “No, I’m going to pretend it never happened.”

  “That bad?”

  No, that good. Megan said nothing. She did not want to think about it. She did not want to remember the way he felt or the way he smelled. She certainly did not want to remember the way her stomach went into free fall when he kissed her. She was going to curl into her soft warm bed and sleep for the entire weekend. On Monday she would worry about things like gorgeous journalists, and domestic violence cases that were never as straightforward as they should be.

  Chapter Six

  Megan was going to firebomb the cherry tree in front of her window. She folded her down pillow in half and pressed it into her ears, but it still did not drown out the incessant chirping of the birds. The tree was going to have to go. It was harbouring auditory terrorists in the form of small winged creatures.

  “It’s Sunday!” she shouted into the darkness. The sun had not even risen enough to give her room any light, but yet the avian choir was practising. She knew from experience that once she was up she was up for good. There was no point in even trying to go back to sleep. So much for her weekend of relaxation, she may as well make a start on her closing arguments. They weren’t going to write themselves, and she still had to make an effort even though Dixon would be walking on the rape and battery charges. She wasn’t even angry about it any more because she was going to make sure he did a good long time for his assault on James Emerson.

  Megan closed her eyes and groaned as she collapsed back into her bed. She needed to stop beating herself up for Friday night; no harm no foul, and it wasn’t like she ever had to see James again, other than in a strictly professional capacity. She would have to see him when she prepped him for trial, if it came to that. In a perfect world Dixon would plead guilty and Megan could move swiftly on to the next wife-beating rapist.

  Megan slipped into her fluffy pink dressing gown and went downstairs to make coffee. She turned on the coffee maker and went for the paper. There was a crossword with her name on it. Possibly the only part about getting up at the crack of dawn was getting to the paper before Ben had the chance to pull it apart and scatter it across the kitchen table. She loved him dearly, but that was an annoying habit.

  Megan stifled a yawn as she opened the front door. She was momentarily stunned by a flash. She blinked her eyes and then there was another, and another, and then seemingly out of nowhere, people began calling her name. Their voices were loud and shrill as they shouted out questions.

  She squinted to see through the bright flashes. Her heart jumped into her mouth. She had to remind herself to breathe. There was an army of people on her front lawn. No, that wasn’t the right word, they were journalists. It was an insult to the rest of the population to call them people.

  Dozens of cameras were trained on her. Instinctively, her hands flew to the opening of her robe, gathering it tight around her neck.

  She closed her eyes and took in a slow calming breath. She stared directly into the crowd, her back straight, her gaze never faltering. She could not make out what they were shouting at her, past her name and “Is it true?” Is what true? She counted to five, allowing the photographers to snap away. She was not going to run, that would give them the power.

  She forced a smile. Her muscles rebelled against the simple action, but she was determined not to show any emotion. Her feelings were not for public consumption. Slowly she bent down and picked up the newspaper and then closed the door behind her.

  Her fingers shook as she bolted the door. She pressed her back against the cold wooden panel and slid to the floor, her breath leaving her in a quick whoosh. She closed her eyes and concentrated on slowly filling her lungs. If everything went to plan, this time next year, she would be married to the Vice President of the United States of America. She needed to get used to journalists on her doorstop. But did prey ever become comfortable with their predators?

  Several minutes passed before her legs could support her. Megan stood up and walked back to the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down with the paper. She was not going to let anyone ruin what was left of her weekend. She was going to do the crossword like she did every Sunday before Ben got up and dragged her to church. Politicians had to be seen to go to church, even the closet atheist ones.

  She sat the paper down and began skimming the headlines. She blinked. That couldn’t be right. She read the headline again and then her eyes went to the picture of her house. Her heart stopped with a painful thud.

  She screamed. “Ben. Oh god, Ben wake up.” She put down her coffee and ran up the stairs to the master bedroom. Her heart was beating frantically against her ribs. “Ben, wake up!”

  Ben moaned before he rolled over. He opened one eye, the other still clinging to sleep.

  “Look at this.” She thrust the paper at his face. “Is that him?” she demanded as she pointed to the full-page picture of a thin blond man in front of her house. She had never seen Ben’s boyfriend before. She didn’t know what she expected him to look like, but this wasn’t it. He looked young and almost waiflike in his proportions, not a man she would pair with her husband.

  Ben sat up, rubbing his eyes. He took the paper from her and peered at the cover. His face went ashen. “Oh shit.” His voice was calm, frighteningly so.

  “Is that him?” she asked again.

  Ben ran a hand through his hair. “Yes.”

  “Someone took a picture of him leaving our house in the middle of the night. God, Ben. They’re going to figure it out.” She had been so worried about her blowing their cover that she had not considered the possibility that Ben would do it himself. He had always been so careful, only ever meeting out of state, far away from the media spotlight of DC. Until last night…

  Ben’s jaw tightened, the muscles along his neck growing taut under his tan skin. His eyes narrowed. He was calm, too calm, and it was scaring her. Wordlessly he reached over for his smartphone on the bedside table and dialled. “Booker, we have a problem.”

  Ben was silent as he listened to the presidential candidate on the other end of the phone. “Yes. Correct…I see…today?...fine…yes…no, I’ll tell her.”

  Megan held her breath as she listened.

  “What? What’s going on?” Megan demanded when he put down the phone. Ben was too calm. Something was wrong. She could feel it. The other shoe had yet to drop.

  “Megan, I need your help,” Ben said. He stood up and slipped into a pair of black suit trousers. His body was perfectly groomed, the hair on his chest, trimmed. He looked so different to James.

  The thought of James brought her crashing back to reality.

  She nodded at Ben. Anything, she would do anything for him.

  “Yes, that’s Chad.” The name sounded odd on his lips. Ben usually only referred to his lover as his friend. It was almost like giving him a name made it real. Ben held her hands in his, his deep brown eyes focused on her. She could not contain her anxiety but Ben was cool, sanguine, and even confident. Something wasn’t right, things were not adding up. Did he not realise this was the end for him? His career was in tatters. There was no way the ultrareligious right wing was going to stand by him through this.

  “I need you to say he is your lover,” Ben said. His voice was calm and utterly devoid of any of the despair she had coursing through her.

  She shook her head. Ben didn’t understand. It was over, the jig was up. “No one will believe that,” she said softly. It was time for Ben to except the truth about his career…and himself.

  “Why wouldn’t they? It’s not like you have always honoured our marriage vows now is it?” Ben asked pointedly. “I think there is a certain James Emerson who can attest to that.”

  Megan shook her head. “There is one small problem. Chad is gay.” Ben had lost the plot. There was no way they could pull it off.

  Ben visually cringed at the word. “No one knows that. He’s just a civil servant with a keen interest in politics. No one will ever put this back on me
. Unless you tell them,” Ben said pointedly. The gaze from his dark brown eyes pinned her in place. “It makes sense that he was here to see you. Given your history with men…” He left the rest unsaid. He was using her past against her, the secrets she had told him, the confidences they had shared. They both knew what he was implying: once a slut always a slut.

  Confusion slammed up against anger as pieces began to slide into place. He was prepared to use her past against her. Megan’s hands began to shake. She clenched them into angry fists to control the jerky movement. “Have you always intended to use me as a scapegoat if you were caught?” She already knew the answer but she needed to hear it from his mouth. She willed him to tell her she was wrong.

  “It’s not like that, Megan. It’s not like I planned on getting caught. I’ve always been so careful. You know that.”

  “But you planned for the eventuality?” She pulled her hands away.

  “It’s not like that.”

  Something in her snapped, but instead of getting angry and screaming, she closed down, went impossibly numb. “Yes or no? Answer my question.”

  For a long time silence reigned but eventually Ben nodded.

  “Say it.” Megan’s voice cracked as the betrayal bit into her. “Say the words.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at me. Say the whole thing. I need to hear it all.”

  Ben covered his face with his hand. He looked so boyish and handsome. “Yes, I always knew I would blame you if anyone ever found out about Chad. I don’t want to hurt you, Megan. I had no intention of anyone finding out. I will be more careful in the future. I promise.”

  The words should have stung, but she was ready for them. She had already closed herself down. No one was getting in, nothing could touch her. The only sadness she had was from the knowledge that Ben was just another man. Her anger turned on herself for thinking Ben was any different. It was her fault for trusting him. He could not use her past against her had she not been stupid enough to confide in him. Shame on her for thinking he was different, that what they had was special. “You did not mean to hurt me but I was the contingency plan. If anything happened, you would throw me under the bus. Megan did it. She slept with plenty of men. What’s one more to add to the tally?” A cold realisation dawned on her. “And Booker knows about it. That’s why you called him. Did you have a plan? Does he know everything?”

  Ben ran a hand through his short dark hair. He crossed the room to her and tried again to reach for her hands, but she pulled them away.

  “Answer me!” she screamed. She did not care who heard her. She would give every bloody journalist on her lawn the story of the year.

  “Yes, Booker knows about my friendship with Chad. And he knows about you. It was his idea to use you as a cover.”

  Megan let out a stream of air. “Fantastic. This story just keeps getting better and better.” Megan backed up and collapsed on the leather wingback chair in the corner of the room. She closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands. She felt so alone. She had not felt so betrayed since she had left Mississippi. That time it had been another man who had let her down. When would she learn her lesson? No one was to be trusted. If she could not rely on Ben, there was no one.

  She wished she could be normal and just cry. This would be a bloody great time to do it. A normal person would cry. Every week she saw men and women on the witness stand dissolving into tears, crying and whimpering. Maybe she should work on learning how to do that, because she needed something to soothe the dull ache she felt in her chest.

  She shook her head. She was not going to feel sorry for herself or wish that she was weaker. She had made her choices. She had benefited from her relationship with Ben in many ways, even if he had just proved he was like every other man she had ever known, taking when there was nothing left to give. She could choke back her righteous indignation. She could play her role.

  “So what now?” Megan asked.

  Ben squeezed in beside her, his arms closing around her. She felt dirty and used, more than any one night stand could ever measure up to. James had not made her feel like this, sad and broken.

  “We are going to issue a statement and then you will go into a residential treatment facility to address your sex addiction issues.”

  Megan’s head shot up.“That seems a bit drastic. All I allegedly did was cheat on my husband. That’s hardly behaviour worthy of treatment. I admit it and then we move on.”

  Ben shook his head. “All the polls indicate that the public respond well to a proper grovelling mea culpa. It will have to be a grand gesture if we are going to ride this thing out. And given your history, it is best that we address it now.”

  “What history?” She needed to hear him say it out loud, let there be no question that he was using her past against her. She shuddered when she remembered every secret she had told Ben. He had been her safe person, the only one who would never hurt her. She shook her head. She never thought that Ben would make her feel ashamed of where she had come from and the choices she had made.

  “Don’t be like that. We both know you have a history. We think it is best to face it head on.”

  We. There was no we in this. This was about Ben and Booker insuring their future. They had really thought it through. Megan shook her head and laughed bitterly. Oh the irony. She had gone over five years without sex and could happily go another five before she had it again, but if she needed to wear the Scarlet Letter she would. She had been publically humiliated before and she had come through the other side, stronger. She could face this. “How long?”

  “A week’s intensive treatment and then outpatient therapy through the church.”

  “Wow. You really have thought this through. Was it you or Booker who came up with all the details?” She didn’t know what answer she would prefer, but if it was her husband screwing her over, at least she could console herself with the knowledge that he had been there for her when no one else had. Perhaps this was just her time to pay him what was due. That is the way life worked, after all, every kindness has a price.

  “We have discussed all eventualities. We have to have all our bases covered.”

  Megan made a tut sound. She loved Ben, but sometimes she was amazed that Booker Colley would even consider him as a running mate. Few people had as many skeletons as Ben, but then again, very few politicians had his approval rating. People loved Ben McCoy, men, woman, republican, democrat, young and old. Ben had a way of making everyone feel important, feel special. Over the years she had watched him and learned how he did it: frequent use of a person’s name, compliments, asking questions that made him appear interested, and the occasional touch of his hand on theirs, just like he was doing with her now. Ben was very skilled as a politician, there was no denying that. Booker Colley would win the election with Ben on the ticket. Nothing in life was certain, but it was one of the few things she would bet on.

  ***

  James scrutinised the photo in front of him. His jaw clenched until his teeth hurt. He had not stopped thinking about her since she left. He had never had a more bizarre, yet utterly fulfilling night. An anger burned in him as he examined the cover of the broadsheet. He could not believe he had wasted any time feeling guilty about Friday night. Even more annoying was his desire to see her again. Why he wanted to, was beyond him. He was not remotely attracted to her—well, he shouldn’t be, she was too short, too plain, too aggressive—yet his body had a strange reaction to her, almost like it was seeing something different or responding to something else.

  The way the night ended had been utterly bizarre. Shit, the whole night had been bizarre, a complete train wreck. And yet it had ended with one of the hottest sexual experiences he had ever had. That too perplexed him; they had a hurried shag, no preludes, no kink, and yet it was as satisfying as anything he had ever had, and he wanted more. Even though she was far from his type, he would have gladly spent the rest of the night in bed with her. In arguments and in bed, she gave as good as she got. W
ho was Megan McCoy?

  James dialled the number of his top investigative journalist. Originally he thought the only story was Ben McCoy, but there was something with Megan too. He felt it.

  Chapter Seven

  There were few things people could not discover, given adequate time and money.

  James put his sunglasses back on and walked through the lobby of New Hope clinic. A stint in here would cost $30,000. The Centre looked more like a five-star hotel than a treatment facility. The building was set on three acres in suburban Virginia, just outside Washington DC. He reminded himself to check and see if the senator was paying for his wife’s treatment with campaign contributions. James would not put it past him.

  James stopped when he spotted her. Megan was sitting under the shade of an oak tree, legs crossed, a laptop across her knees. Her blonde hair was fastened with a loose braid. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to say to her. To say it was awkward to see her again in this situation was an understatement.

  “Hi.”

  Megan’s head shot up. Her eyes widened before they quickly narrowed to a defiant stare. “There is no press allowed in here.”

  James closed the distance between them and sat down facing her, the afternoon sun hot on his back. “Lucky I’m not here as a journalist.”

  “Why are you here? I have nothing to say to you. I think you should leave.” She glared at him. It was the same look she had given Dixon. She was standing her ground.

  Physically she was small, but her confidence would have suited a man twice her size. She was fearless. Despite his annoyance, he admired that about her. She could hold her own. “I’m here as a friend.”

  “Really? Who are you visiting? Certainly not me, because we’re not friends. I wouldn’t even class you as an acquaintance.”

  “What would you class us as then?”

  “A mistake.” Her tone was icy, cutting.