Dirtiest Secret

by J. Kenner

  I let out a little moan as I think about all the possibilities that go with "and."

  The King of Fuck, indeed.

  I stand, determined to get myself and my errant thoughts under control. I take a deep breath, run a hand over my clothes to smooth them, and then head out of the cabana.

  No one even looks my way. Why would they? I'm his sister, after all, as he so conveniently announced so that everyone in the vicinity could look past my drab clothes and recognize me from the frequent media shots and TV talk show appearances.

  If I'd been any other female, all eyes would be on me. Looking for clothing askew. For smudged lipstick.

  There would have been winks and nudges, and probably even a secret handshake to mark my entry into the already massive Fucked by Dallas Club.

  I should be grateful not to have the attention.

  But I'm not grateful at all. Instead I'm frustrated. And I'm pissed. And that reaction just pisses me off more. Because I shouldn't care. I shouldn't want to be part of that club.

  I don't want to be a pastime. I don't want to be a casual fuck. Just one more woman in a never-ending stream.

  Not that it matters.

  Because when you're in love with your brother, how many women he screws is really the least of your problems.

  Jane West couldn't sleep. Her arm ached too much. And all the memories from the day kept jumping out at her when she closed her eyes.

  She was going to have nightmares, she knew it. A broken arm and nightmares and a daddy who was getting erased. No, terminated. That was the word. Only not like the cyborg in those movies.

  It was her eleventh birthday, and it was probably the worst day of her life.

  It wasn't fair.

  She heard the light tapping at her door, but ignored it, thinking it was one of the staff making noise in the hallway. When it came again, though, it was louder, and she sat up in bed, smiling for the first time that day. "Come in!"

  The door opened right away, and Dallas hurried in, then shut the door quickly behind him.

  "I had to wait until everyone was asleep," he said. "And I couldn't get Liam. The grown-ups are talking in the kitchen, so he's stuck back there in his rooms with his mom."

  Jane just nodded. Liam was one of her best friends, too, but right then she really only wanted Dallas.

  He climbed onto the bed, a lanky boy of eleven, taller and leaner than most of the other boys in school. His hair was short, and right now it was spiky, probably 'cause he ran his fingers through it when he was worried. Jane knew he'd been worried about her. She could see it on his face, and in the green eyes that had always seemed magical to her.

  He had Mr. Fluffles with him, and he passed the bunny to her. "Here," he said. "I figured he'd help."

  "He's yours." For some reason, it was really important to her that he keep the bunny.

  "Well, duh. But just for tonight I thought you'd need him."

  "Oh." She smiled at him, and when he smiled back she forgot a little bit how much she hurt all over.

  "So what happened? Nobody's saying anything."

  She shrugged. "Daddy called Mom and wanted to take me out today because it's my birthday. Mom and Eli didn't want him to but they let me go anyway because I haven't seen him so much lately."

  For the last year, Colin had been serving his second prison sentence, this one for tax fraud, and he'd only gotten out a few weeks ago. Her mom, Lisa, had gotten a divorce after the first time he'd been locked up for something called insider trading, and then she'd married Eli right after Jane's seventh birthday.

  "So what happened when you were out with him?" Dallas pressed.

  She bit her lower lip, then pulled her knees out from under the covers so that she could hug them to her, along with Mr. Fluffles. "He took me to dinner and that was nice, and then he said he had to see a friend on the way home."

  "Were you in the city?"

  She nodded. "For dinner. But then we went over into New Jersey. He said he needed to pick up a package and move it somewhere else. So we ended up in this warehouse by the river filled with boxes and crates and stuff."

  "Cool."

  Maybe on another day she'd think so, but not today. She shook her head. "We got the package, but as we were leaving these guys in suits came in. Daddy started to pull me back, but one of the guys grabbed me by the arm and yanked me toward him, and--and he had a gun."

  Dallas's eyes went wide, and he reached for her hand. "Who was he?"

  She clutched his hand as she told the rest, not really wanting to talk about it, but wanting him to know. "I don't know. But the guy standing next to him said my daddy owed him money, and if he didn't pay up, he'd be sorry."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know. Not really. But Daddy walked with that man to a corner and I could hear them shouting. And then they came back and the guy told the one with the gun to let me go. And he shoved me toward Daddy, but I fell and I heard a crack and it hurt so bad. I think I fainted because then we were in the car and we were almost to the hospital."

  "Whoa."

  She nodded. Now that it was over, she had to admit it was a pretty good story. She couldn't wait to tell Liam. He'd be impressed, too.

  "So what did Mom say to him at the hospital?"

  "To him? Nothing. He left while they were putting my arm in the cast. And he didn't even give me my birthday present."

  "Oh!" Dallas dug into the pocket of his robe. "I got you one."

  She took the little box he passed her and ripped off the paper, then opened it to reveal a shiny golden locket. She looked up at him, delighted. "It's so pretty. And it's a heart."

  He lifted a shoulder. "Yeah, well. That's all they had." He didn't quite look at her face. "So open it."

  She did, and found two tiny pictures inside. One of her, and one of him. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she gazed at the little images. "It's the best present ever."

  "Really?"

  She looked at him, and felt weirdly shy when she smiled. "I promise."

  "So what happened next? What did Mom do?"

  "Well, she couldn't yell at Daddy, but she sure yelled at Eli. Big-time."

  "At him? Why?"

  "Well, to him, I guess. Said it was the last straw and she wanted Eli to file the papers. She didn't care if it cost them everything, it needed to be done."

  "What?"

  "That's what I asked. And she said that she was going to have a court terminate Daddy's parental rights. She's gonna sue so that he's not my dad anymore."

  "Wow."

  She nodded, then swiped away a tear. "And then Eli came to the bed I was in and told me not to worry. Everything would be just fine, because he would adopt me, and I'd have a mother and a father again, all living in the same house."

  "Just like that?" he asked.

  "I guess so."

  "Then that means we'll be brother and sister."

  She frowned. "We already are."

  "Nope. You're my stepsister. Because Eli and Lisa adopted me after they got married, so I'm their kid."

  "I know that," Jane said. She remembered when the drugged-up lady who was Dallas's birth mother had been found dead, and Eli had said that it was sad, but good, because it would make the adoption process go easier.

  "And Lisa already had you before she married Eli," Dallas continued. "So we're steps. Eli's your stepfather and I'm your stepbrother."

  Jane rolled her eyes. "I know that, dummy. So what?"

  "So, if Eli adopts you, then we'll have the same two parents for real. Eli will be your real dad, I'll be your real brother, and you'll be my real sister. Wild, huh?"

  Her eyes went wide as she thought about it. "Yeah." She wrinkled her nose. "Is that good?"

  He frowned, considering. "I don't know. I guess."

  After a second, he shook it off. "You want me to stay with you tonight?"

  She nodded. "It's not scary anymore--I mean, I'm home and it's all over. But I think it will be scary in my dreams, and I don't w
ant to have nightmares."

  "Okay then." He sat up straight, looking every bit the determined bodyguard. "In that case, I have to stay. And you don't have to worry because I'll protect you. I'll always protect you."

  He dropped his robe on the floor and crawled up to the head of the bed in his version of pajamas--flannel sleep pants and a Tower of London T-shirt from his last trip overseas with his parents. Soon to be her parents, too.

  He slid under the covers and she scooted over to share her pillow. They both laid on their backs, and he held tight to her uninjured hand.

  "Do you think they can really do that? Make my daddy not be my daddy, I mean?"

  "I guess so."

  "I didn't know you could lose people like that. I mean, just all of a sudden, and then they're no longer who you thought they were."

  "Don't worry," Dallas said. "You'll never lose me."

  And then he pushed himself up, leaned over, and very sweetly--very awkwardly--kissed her cheek.

  My sexy little Vanquish Volante convertible can go from zero to sixty-two miles per hour in just over four seconds. But despite the fact that I want to put distance between me and the Meadow Lane house that I love--not to mention the man--I'm not taking advantage of all that power and speed.

  Instead, I'm parked on the shoulder, the engine still running and the radio blasting as I claw my way back from my memories. Sweet, wonderful memories, yes. But I don't need to linger in the past. That boy no longer exists, and the sooner I cement myself in reality, the better.

  But it's not even my feelings for Dallas that are the worst of it. No, the worst is that I gave in. That I lost control. Because after the kind of trauma I lived through, control is pretty much the holy grail. That's why I hate crowds. Why I drive too fast. Why I got married. And, yeah, why I got divorced.

  I know all of that because I have paid a shit ton of money over the years for a stream of therapists to tell me so. I crave control. I'm scared of the dark. I don't trust easily. I have survivor's guilt.

  I am, in other words, a therapist's wet dream. A walking, talking textbook illustrating the emotional damage that follows a kidnapping. So much so, that the storm in my head can provide enough challenge to support a shrink's entire career.

  And even if I'm not quite curable, at least the symptoms can be masked, and the chorus line of doctors can feel like they've accomplished something. Because whenever I get twitchy, I have a lovely little rainbow of pills that can take the edge off.

  I tap a yellow one into my palm right now--because god knows I lost control in a big way with Dallas.

  Big. Major. Huge.

  But all I do is stare at the pill, and then I drop it onto the ground beside the car.

  Fuck it, I think. I can handle this.

  And I really hope that I'm right about that.

  I'm just about to pull back out onto the road when my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID, and then eagerly push the button to talk.

  "Hey, sweetie." My mom's voice is soft, with just a hint of her Georgia roots, and the moment I hear it, I burst into tears. "Baby?" She sounds freaked, and I can hardly blame her. I love my mom--I talk with her all the time--and even though we sometimes disagree, her calls never drive me to blubbering.

  "Sorry--I'm just--" I cut myself off because I don't know what to say. I rub my hands under my eyes and suck in a calming breath. "I'm just having one of those days, and I'm really, really glad you called."

  It's true. I am. I'm almost thirty-two years old, and right at that moment, I don't think there's anything in the world that would make me feel better than talking with my mom.

  "I'm glad I called, too," she says. "You know you can always call me."

  "I know." My entire life, that's been my mother's motto. I can call her anytime. I can talk to her about anything.

  For the most part I have. My marriage and divorce. The Hollywood bullshit I've encountered in LA. My panic attacks before media appearances. My never-ending stream of self-defense classes. My frustration with therapists who don't help. And, of course, the nightmares and anxiety that have dogged me for the last seventeen years.

  But the one thing I've never talked to her about is the one thing I need to talk about the most--Dallas. What happened between us. How I feel about him. How much the distance we've kept between us now eats at me.

  How much I just plain want him, and how hard it is to know that I can't have him.

  Doesn't matter how open my mother is or how well we communicate. That is one conversation that is just not happening.

  "Why don't I come over?" she suggests, obviously concerned that I'm not elaborating on what's bugging me. "We could make cookies. Watch a bad movie."

  I glance at the clock. It's almost midnight. "Don't you think it's a little late?"

  "It's not even nine," she says. "And I'm just down the hill on Sunset. I'll ditch Sarah and be right over," she adds, referring to her lifelong bestie.

  "You're in LA," I say, as I realize that she believes I am, too. On any other day, the odds are that she'd be right. I've been living for the last four months in an adorable little rental house just off Mulholland Drive. I'd tried working on the screen adaptation of The Price of Ransom from New York, but there were so many meetings, it ended up being easier to just make the move.

  "We decided to do a girls spa and shopping weekend," Mom explains. "We arrived just in time for dinner, and we're on our way to after-dinner drinks and dessert, but I'm happy to change plans if you want me to come by."

  I smile, because that is so my mom, just going with the flow and looking cool and fabulous while she does it. I can imagine her in the back of their hired car, her golden blond hair perfect even after a day traveling, and her linen outfit not the slightest bit wrinkled. Lisa Sykes is always camera ready, always has a smile for reporters, and is pretty much the classiest lady around. I inherited my looks from her, but not her ability to make friends wherever she goes. Personally, I'm happy to fade into the background.

  "You can come by," I say, amused. "But since I'm not there, I don't see the point."

  "Well, maybe tomorrow then. If you want to join us for massages in the morning you can--wait." I can practically hear her playing back our conversation, including my comment about the late hour. "You're not in LA, are you?"

  "I'm in the Hamptons. I just got back to New York today, actually." I am, in fact, only about half an hour away from the house my parents now keep in East Hampton village.

  She laughs. "Well, isn't that a comedy of errors? Did you drive all the way out to see me and Daddy? No," she answers herself, "of course you didn't."

  She knows perfectly well that I never drive to see them unless I call first. My father is usually traveling--I happen to know that he's in Houston at the moment, working his way through a lineup of meetings relating to the new Sykes Pavilion, a massive, high-end retail, restaurant, and hotel destination that is scheduled to open in just under twenty-two months.

  "I came to see Dallas," I admit.

  "Dallas?"

  I understand the surprise in her voice. She knows Dallas and I have avoided each other ever since the kidnapping. Hell, I even went so far as to beg to go to a boarding school in California, near where my birth father was living at the time, just so that I could get away. Mom absolutely despises Colin now, and she trusts him not at all. Not only that, but she'd gone through a brutal battle to have his parental rights terminated when I was a little girl.

  Even so, she let me go. And that simple fact underscores how much she knew I needed distance from my brother after the ordeal was over.

  "Why on earth did you fly in to see Dallas?"

  "I had to talk to him," I admit. "I should have waited until tomorrow, though. He was occupied." I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice, and her almost inaudible little hmmm shows that she understands. How can she not? She sees the tabloids and gossip shows just like everyone else, and I know she's as disappointed as I am in what he's become.

  "Your brot
her has to deal with his issues in his own way," she says, which is exactly what I would expect a mom to say.

  "He's acting like an ass," I reply, which is exactly what a sister would say.

  "I guess being an ass is his way," she adds, and I remember all over again why I love my mom so much.

  "I wish he'd get over it," I grumble.

  "You miss him." Her voice is gentle. "You two used to be so close."

  She's right of course, but after what happened earlier, I really don't want to go there. So I shift the conversation, because she has as much of a right to my news as Dallas. "I came to see him because--oh, god, Mom--I came because Bill has one of the guys who snatched us in custody. And he wants to trade immunity for the identity of the man who was behind it all."

  Silence.

  There is nothing but silence on the other end of the line.

  "Mom? Mommy?"

  I hear the sharp intake of breath, and I realize that she is trying to talk, and that she can't through the tears.

  "Oh, god, I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have dropped it like that. I didn't mean to--"

  "No." Her voice is raspy. "No, baby, of course I want to know. Of course you can tell me. I was just--after so much time--"

  "I know. I can't believe it."

  "What did Dallas say?"

  I think back to his reaction--his guilt that I'd been caught up in his kidnapping. My guilt that I couldn't save him. That I got out and he didn't. All of it. Every horrible bit of it. I don't know how to tell Mom any of that, though, and so I go with the simplest and truest answer. "I think he was a little shell-shocked. I get that. I am, too."

  "And Bill will keep us informed?"

  "Of course. He's going to call Daddy, too. He wants--well, he's going to want Dad to press charges."

  "Oh."

  I frown. I'd been hoping she'd say that Daddy would jump on the chance. But of course he won't. He kept the kidnapping secret back then, so I doubt he'll be keen on it going public now. "You'll talk to him, won't you? If they really do find whoever did that to us, I want to see him strung up by his balls." I wince. I may be an adult, but I'm usually not so vulgar when I talk to my mother.

  "I'd like that, too," she says, completely unperturbed. "But so much publicity on you after all this time--it's going to bring back the stress and anxiety."