Dangerous Exes (Liars, Inc. Book 2)

by Rachel Van Dyken

“So, he’s your boyfriend.” Goo-Poh took the seat across from me and rubbed her hands together. “He seems . . . muscular.”

  The noodles revolted in my stomach and then danced around as if saying, Hell yeah, he’s muscular, let’s touch him!

  I shrugged and kept eating. Ducking my head closer to the bowl.

  “Isla,” Goo-Poh tsked. “Why did you not tell me about him?”

  Oh you know, because he was my mortal enemy. “It’s kind of new.”

  She gasped. “And you’ve already given him your treasure chest!”

  I groaned. “Not this again. Aunt Betsy, I’m thirty-three years old, the treasure’s been discovered—”

  “That Aiden boy never did deserve it first.” She sniffed.

  I leaned back in my chair. “Not this again.”

  “He had small hands.” She said it so factually I was at a loss about whether I was supposed to agree or just wait for her to keep talking. I chose the latter. “And he looked his nose down at our bowls.”

  “He asked for a plate. Hardly a crime,” I grumbled.

  “And then laughed when I said we didn’t have any!”

  I sighed. “Goo-Poh, I came to relax and talk about anything not personal or work related, can we do that?”

  She slid the bowl away from me and then handed me a cup of hot spiced tea that made my tongue burn. I choked it down anyway. “What’s this have in it? Whiskey?”

  Her eyes twinkled.

  “Just add day drinking to my list of new things to try.” I lifted the cup into the air and sighed.

  “You’re not happy,” she pointed out. “How is that male god not pleasing you? Does he not know how to . . .” She leaned in. Oh hell, her whisper was more of a yell when she said, “Pleasure your treasure?”

  “Okay, first off”—I set the cup down—“stop referring to my girly bits as treasure, it’s weird, second, he’s . . . fine.”

  She gasped. “Fine!”

  “No, no, Goo-Poh—”

  It was too late.

  She was already up.

  Halfway to the door.

  My stilettos against her brown Hush Puppies.

  I was out of breath by the time I made it back into the activity center. Jessie was still in the crowd of men when my aunt approached.

  I briefly contemplated punching an old person in the face just to distract everyone from the upcoming disaster.

  Instead, I stood rooted to the floor while Goo-Poh poked Jessie in the chest with her finger and started talking so fast I couldn’t catch every word.

  But the words I did hear . . .

  “Tongue, patience, squeeze—”

  It was enough for me to have nightmares for life.

  Jessie turned redder by the minute.

  And oddly enough, rather than get more embarrassed, I felt empowered as I sauntered over to them and winked while Goo-Poh finished with “I’ve drawn diagrams before, you just let me know, I email you.” She elbowed him. “You aren’t the first to experience this, you know, not the last either. I’ve had my fair share of sexual letdowns too.”

  I nodded in agreement while Jessie’s jaw went slack.

  She patted him on the back and yawned, then turned to me and kissed both cheeks. “Exhausted. I go to nap now, honey.”

  She left with a group of her little friends while the men around us coughed uncomfortably before filtering out of the room, leaving the buzz of the TV on around us and the tension of a thousand awkward moments.

  “So.” I rocked back on my heels. “You learn anything?”

  “More than I’d like to, yes.” Jessie shuddered. “I’m almost afraid to ask what brought that on, because it sure as hell wasn’t my lack of performance, believe me.” He tilted my chin toward him. “If you were with me, you wouldn’t be able to walk for days.”

  He dropped my chin.

  Stepped back.

  And just.

  Left.

  I stared after him.

  Hating him more and more.

  Hating my body’s betrayal because it should have been completely on board with the mental daggers I sent sailing toward his body.

  And when my thighs clenched.

  I blamed the muscle spasms on trying to sprint in heels.

  It wasn’t him.

  Or any effect he had on me.

  This was war.

  And I was going to win.

  Chapter Seven

  JESSIE

  I sighed in contentment.

  My house was quiet.

  Everything had its place.

  From the alphabetized cereal to the white walls and perfectly designed art pieces I’d chosen myself.

  I hunted down a bottle of wine and let it breathe, just as the doorbell rang.

  Chinese takeout.

  It was the perfect ending to a day of warfare.

  Isla wouldn’t stand a chance in hell once I was through with her.

  My plan went like this: follow her, wreak havoc on her control-freak nature, and make sure she saw me in every area of her life until she woke up in a cold sweat.

  I wanted her to go to her local grocery store and look over her shoulder.

  To watch her favorite movies and wonder if I was watching too.

  I wanted her to be as consumed with paranoia as she made me.

  Perfect. Plan. I was going to throw her so far off her game that she’d be begging to go to the press and clear my name, which in turn would destroy hers.

  I cracked the door open and pulled out a few twenties, then looked up when I didn’t hear the total.

  “You,” I spat.

  Isla grinned and waltzed in right past me, a bag of Chinese food in her hand. She put it carefully on the table and started pulling out all the different tiny boxes.

  “So, how was your day?” She helped herself to a glass of wine and sat.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “What?” Isla asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  My stomach growled at the most inopportune moment.

  She grinned. “Sit.”

  “Are you poisoning me?”

  “Too easy.” She scrunched up her nose. “Besides, what makes you think I didn’t already succeed in doing that?”

  “Well, if that’s not terrifying,” I grumbled, moving to the other barstool and grabbing a fork.

  She slammed it out of my hand so fast that it clanged against the floor.

  She blushed and then gulped. “Sorry, old habits. Here.” A pair of chopsticks was placed in my hand. “Eat it right or don’t eat at all.”

  Good thing I actually knew how to use the bastards.

  I dug in with fervor, too exhausted to ask her why she was stalking me and eating my food, and too oddly content having someone to share a meal with to shatter the moment with my voice.

  “So.” She wiped her mouth. “What do you think about red?”

  “Red,” I said dumbly. “Red what?”

  “Walls.”

  I choked on a piece of rice. “I don’t do color.”

  “Right, but if you have any chance of selling you’ll need to make the walls more interesting, maybe add in a few throw pillows.”

  “Not selling, don’t need paint, don’t need pillows. Sell your crazy elsewhere, Isla.”

  “Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “I guess I assumed wrong then.”

  With that, she got up, grabbed her purse, and slowly made her way to the door.

  Curiosity had me following her. “Are you drunk?”

  A bright smile spread across her face. I sucked in a breath, hating the way it made my body ache for things it had no business even thinking about wanting. “No, why?”

  “You’re acting crazier than normal.”

  “First off, never call a woman crazy, at least to her face, and is that all you have to say after I paid for your dinner?”

  “Why exactly would you do that again? We aren’t friends.” At least not anymore.

  She leaned up and kissed me
on the cheek, the scent of her citrus perfume filled my nostrils. “Just trying to be neighborly.”

  It didn’t click until I watched her walk out of my house and take a hard right. Directly into the guesthouse I’d agreed to rent out on a separate part of the property.

  The one I told my real estate agent to handle without me.

  The one that my ex used to live in.

  She turned on her heel and blew me a kiss, then let herself inside.

  “What the actual fuck.” I breathed out another curse for good measure and then lifted my head and smiled in her direction. “Well played, Isla, well played.”

  Chapter Eight

  ISLA

  My victory was short-lived when I realized that in all my hastiness I hadn’t thought to bring sheets or a pillow. I hadn’t even really planned on moving, but when I’d used my powers—my PI powers, that is—for evil . . .

  I’d discovered that this little beauty was on the market as a rental.

  It was like finding the holy grail.

  I’d made an offer the agent couldn’t refuse, thanks to the money I’d stockpiled over the years, and picked up the keys that afternoon.

  I hadn’t even moved out of my own apartment.

  Or given notice.

  Being this rash wasn’t like me—not even a little bit—but if I was going to win, I was going to have to drive him just as crazy as he was driving me.

  And that started with infiltrating his inner circle. Thankfully, I had all the dirt on him because of our investigation.

  He liked white.

  Alphabetized cereals and never ate them.

  Didn’t even like whiskey.

  Secretly co-owned a gym with his best friend.

  Liked roses in his garden, but only white ones—shocker!

  And volunteered as much as possible, only to come home to a solitary white yet modern house to watch Netflix, then wake up and do it all over again.

  He. Was. Predictable.

  He said red gave him hives.

  And the last time someone asked him what music he liked, he said he was confused by the question.

  Either his ex zapped all the interesting things out of his body in order to use him as her boring sex slave, or he really was just . . . average.

  In my mind, Jessie was a muted beige in a world full of magenta.

  And if that wasn’t tragic, what was?

  The only thing he had going for him was that he was the most attractive ex-football-player alive.

  I almost yawned just going over the data I’d grabbed from my office.

  I set up shop in the kitchen, thankful that he’d at least furnished the place with pots, pans, couch, flat-screen, and a coffee table that looked shiny enough to eat off.

  By the time midnight came, I had my battle plan ready.

  But still no pillow.

  The couch would probably be comfortable enough.

  But.

  I smiled.

  And then very hastily dressed in a pair of silk shorts, pulled off my bra, added my silk tank top, then made the trek back to Jessie’s house.

  I knocked.

  The lights were all off.

  I knocked again, this time harder.

  Jessie jerked the door open wearing nothing but low-slung Nike joggers and a smile made for sin.

  I gaped.

  His half-lidded gaze raked over me like I was a feast and he hadn’t eaten in days.

  I licked my lips and took a step forward, his chest rose and fell slowly.

  “Pillow,” I whispered.

  “Pillow,” he repeated. “One word. How the hell am I supposed to know what that means? You want to smother me with a pillow? Have pillow talk? Your pillow’s too flat? Help me out, Isla, because I have a meeting in six hours.”

  “Seven,” I corrected.

  He glared. “Got my schedule too, did you?”

  I just smiled. “May I please borrow a pillow, I forgot mine.”

  He groaned and opened the door wide, then stomped into a room I could only assume was his. I followed close on his heels as he grabbed a pillow from a large bed and chucked it at my face.

  I caught it with one hand, then squeezed with both arms as my breasts spilled over it.

  His eyes immediately lowered.

  It was all part of the plan.

  Why not drive him crazy in every way possible?

  I was passably attractive, with smooth skin, dark features, and good bone structure, according to Goo-Poh.

  I used to model.

  And I knew how to use my body to my advantage—any good PI knew how to.

  I could have sworn he muttered fuck under his breath when I looked down and shrugged. “Everything . . . on the up and up?” I dropped my gaze to his waist and then lowered as I bit my lip.

  He gripped me by the shoulders and turned me toward the door, then whispered gruffly against my neck, “This is a dangerous little game you’re playing, pumpkin.”

  For some reason I was okay with the nickname this time.

  “I think I can handle myself,” I said in a clear voice.

  He jerked me back against his rock-hard body, his rock-hard everything. Blood pounded between my ears as my body slacked against his. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

  I walked on wobbly legs all the way to the guesthouse and shut the door.

  Point, Jessie.

  Chapter Nine

  ISLA

  “You’re more high-strung than normal.” Blaire handed me a cup of coffee and waited for me to respond. My mind was reeling. I’d slept like crap again.

  Thanks to Jessie.

  And his body.

  And his . . . other, the other parts of his body. Damn it!

  “I’ve never seen that look on your face before,” Blaire said in wonder. “It’s like you want to take over the world but don’t know how. Who foiled your plans?”

  She was teasing.

  But there was truth to it. All of it.

  “I’m going to kill Jessie Beckett,” I announced to Blaire and our receptionist, Abby. I was still pissed that Abby hadn’t put two and two together and realized that Jessie wasn’t just another paying customer but a client scorned. Then again, he probably sweet-talked her. Abby was easy to please, all you had to say was “thank you” and she was putty in your hands. I glared at Penny, the other traitor by association. Didn’t cats hiss? Was that not a thing? Could she give a bit of a warning next time? Geez!

  I made a face at her.

  Penny meowed in agreement while the other two just stared at me blankly like it was normal to have stare-downs with cats. The phones kept ringing. Abby ignored them while Blaire grabbed another piece of licorice and made herself comfortable.

  “What?” I looked around nervously. “He followed me to my aunt’s retirement home! He sent them orphans!”

  “Whoa, back up, he sent orphans to a retirement home?” Blaire asked in a confused voice. “Is that legal?”

  “Keep up!” I thrust my coffee mug into the air. “So naturally my only option was to move into his rental!”

  Abby spit her coffee onto the newspaper, and Blaire’s licorice dropped out of her mouth.

  “That’s perfectly normal behavior,” I said defensively. “I’m a PI, sometimes we do the crazy things in an effort to get the cheater.”

  “You do realize Jessie isn’t a target anymore, right?” Blaire said softly, like she was seconds away from patting my hand and asking if I needed a good cry. “Besides, he’s pissed at us, that doesn’t mean you need to move in next to him and make his life a living hell.”

  I grinned. “He’s breaking into my circle of trust, I’m going to blow up his. It’s as simple as that.”

  The phone rang again.

  Abby finally answered it. “Yeah, I’ll get her.” She covered the phone with her hand. “Isla, line two.”

  I confidently marched over to my desk and shoved away all irritation with Jessie. “This is Isla Turner, how can I help you?”
r />   “I heard you’re the best.” The woman sounded troubled. “I need the best.”

  Back in my element, I took down all her information and tried to soothe her when she started crying about the state of her marriage. Apparently her husband had been cheating for at least a year, and she needed proof before she filed for divorce. Blood roared in my ears. This, this was why we started Dirty Exes! To protect those who needed it. To make sure that no woman was left with nothing postdivorce when she was the innocent party. I thought back to Wayne and shuddered. I was going to bring down her man and shove my success in Jessie’s face once and for all. Preferably in front of the world, on live TV, and if that didn’t work, at least, you know, in front of Penny.

  By the time I hung up I was refreshed beyond reason. “New client!”

  “Isla,” Blaire groaned, “we have to hire another investigator as it is, we can’t just take on a new client.”

  I sat and fired up my laptop. “Look, I have a feeling about her. This case should be an easy pop-in, pop-out, not full-scale Dirty Exes warfare.”

  “Okay, fine, but if anyone gets to be bait, it’s you.”

  “Deal.” I winked. “Now let’s get started!”

  See? Everything was looking up.

  I was going to drive Jessie absolutely crazy.

  He was eventually going to have to back off.

  And everything would return to normal.

  I ignored the hollow feeling the word normal brought to my body, like I didn’t want normal anymore, but that was ridiculous.

  I liked order in my life.

  Not the chaos that Jessie brought.

  I’d lived that life before, and I was in a better position now. Right? That was why I felt in control. Calm. Completely calm.

  Chapter Ten

  JESSIE

  I had her entire schedule.

  I visited her office with a box of donuts and charmed her office manager, Abby. When Abby told me about her long, hellish day, I sent her to Colin’s bar and told her that she and her husband should order anything they want, on me . . . but not before swiping the keys to the office.

  And boom.

  Schedule obtained.

  Life. Ruined.

  I grinned.

  I knew it all.

  Where she ate. Where she visited on Tuesdays.

  Her fucking routine was mine to memorize.