“You can’t rush love. Sometimes it just comes out of nowhere and smacks you in the face.”
“I’ve messed up royally, and Kade is the only person who can help me.”
My name is Alix Nova, and I’m a successful model. That is, until my ex threatens to leak my nude photos. My filthy rich stepbrother is the only person with enough cash that I can turn to, but he isn’t buying my pathetic lies on why I need the money. He’s determined to get to the bottom of it. I just hope that when he learns the truth, he doesn’t abandon me like every other man in my life has.
“All of the dark fantasies I’d lied to myself about, all of the ways that I’d wanted to bend her over, to engage in those violent passions that tore at my soul. All those images from my dreams that I never told anyone about came to mind as my lips touched hers for the first time.”
No one associates my name, Kade Prescott, with my rich father anymore. I’m just a defense attorney, scum of the earth. I’m also the only one who’ll help my stepsister, Alix. I know that my desire for her is mutual, I’m just not sure how she’ll react to the real me. How she’ll react to the RED ROOM.
***Dirty Little Secrets is dirty, bad and wrong! Includes light BDSM and spankings. Do you dare turn the page?***
Full length novel with a HEA.
CHAPTER 1
ALIX
M y feet were aching, and what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to sit down with a light drink and relax. But I was working, so I had a happy and engaged look on my face as I made my way across the concrete poolside. I hate these types of events. You’re supposed to look glamorous, sexy, and seductive while at the same time somehow come off as wholesomely approachable.
I mean, think about it for a second. Do you really think those Sports Illustrated swimsuit models are happy to be wearing a bikini while frolicking around in the snow? Even worse, realize that those shoots normally take place in mid to late winter, and you’d wonder why anyone would find that sexy at all. But, the bottom line rule in modeling is if the customers buy it, you do it. Luckily, while I’d done some uncomfortable shoots, I’d never had to wear swimwear in a snowstorm.
At least my discomfort was related more to my footwear than anything else. I was wearing a bikini, but the event was taking place in summer, so I wasn’t inwardly shivering the whole time. We were even in Malibu, which is one of my favorite places to hang out most of the time. Best of all, I didn’t have to feel out of place, as almost everyone else was wearing swimwear or something of the sort.
The problem was my shoes. I’m five ten, and as you’d expect with a woman my height, I have quite large feet. In casual shoes I wear a women’s size ten, which is close to the size of an average man’s foot. That’s not too bad when you consider that I’m taller than the average man as well, but for some reason fashion designers and runway reps think that they can get away with being lazy and bringing nothing but size eight shoes. Eights are good for some, mostly the pinup girls who don’t do the runway, but for us tall girls . . . painful. Pure pain.
Still, I was a professional, and I made sure to keep my face as happy as possible as I jammed my feet into the undersized shoes. I couldn’t knock the pay—I was getting fifty thousand dollars for two days’ work. It was a unique opportunity. The UFC was having an ‘all big men’ event, with every fight being either light heavyweights or heavyweights. But that presented a lot of problems, the main being that most of the fighters were giants. Seriously, most of the light heavyweight and heavyweight fighters were six-three to six-eight, so to not make them look like NBA-style freaks, the UFC wanted the models for this press event to be tall as well. The only normal UFC girl in attendance was Arianny, who I got to meet for the first time. She was pretty nice, a lot nicer than I thought she would be. She gave us a few pointers on how to interact with the fighters and gave me and the other girls working the party the rundown on the schedule of the evening.
Still, regardless of how nice Arianny was, the UFC’s marketing deal with Reebok meant I was wearing brand-new, out-of-the-box, black leather, size eight tennis shoes. I‘d quickly ditched my socks to gain me a little bit of wiggle room, but still, an hour into the two-hour event, my feet were screaming at me. I‘d lost feeling in my little toes, however, so I was at least holding out hope that by the end of the event I‘d have numbed up the rest of the way.
While there were certain various photo ops, video blurbs, and other things that I had to do, my primary job for the night was to mingle at the pool party, held two nights before the main event, which was taking place in Los Angeles. I didn‘t even need to work the actual Pay Per View, as the UFC wanted more of their name-brand girls to do the actual card holding for the event. I would do the pool party and the weigh-ins the next day and walk out with a nice paycheck in my bank account, supposedly more than a lot of the fighters earned, surprisingly enough.
“Hey, how‘re you holding up?” one of the fighters, a heavyweight who was fighting on the undercard, asked. We‘d chatted at the press conference earlier in the day, where he‘d been accompanied by his wife and two kids. He was a total family man and looked a bit embarrassed to be at this press event slash pool party. It obviously catered to the single male demographic the UFC was aiming for. I could understand his feelings. I’m not one for this sort of action on my own either. I’d rather spend my time by myself or with the few people that were allowed into my life. It’s not that I’m arrogant, I just don’t feel comfortable hanging out with a bunch of strangers.
“I’m doing okay,” I said, still giving my best smile. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s weigh-in, though. It’s going to be my first.”
“Well, enjoy it, it’s a lot less stressful than the fight cards full of the little guys,” he replied. He looked around the party, pointing out the one fight that was at a lighter weight, two guys who were fighting at one hundred and eighty-five pounds for the number one contendership. “They look and act like rabid zombies during these events, they’re so drained from cutting weight. Half of us are big boys, we don’t have to cut weight at all. All I need to do is eat clean and I drop below the two seventy weight limit.”
I nodded in understanding on both of his points. The man was a giant, easily six foot six, not an ounce of fat on his body. On the other hand, like any model who had to do photo shoots in swimwear and lingerie, I knew the temporary advantages of wringing out some water from under my skin right before going in front of the camera. I guessed the same idea applied to the fighters who were mostly worried about making a weight limit. “So how’s your weight looking?”
“I did well this camp,” he replied casually, taking a drink from his flute of what looked like champagne. “This morning I was an easy two sixty, so I’ll be able to relax tonight and make weight just fine. It’s actually easier on my body than when I was in college and playing football. Then we had to try and pack on weight as well as stay high-impact athletes.”
“Never had that problem,” I replied, chuckling. “My father was always worried about me keeping weight on. Just the way my metabolism was back in my childhood years, I guess.”
“And now?” the fighter asked, curious. “What does he think of your modeling?”
I shook my head sadly. “My father died years ago. I hadn’t seen him in years, so I doubt he ever got a chance to see me do any modeling at all.”
The man looked apologetic, so I smiled despite the emotional pain. I was there to make the party more enjoyable, not rain on someone’s day. “You didn’t know when you asked, so don’t feel bad. Good luck with your fight.”
“Thanks,” he said, and I drifted off, keeping to the rule the UFC executives told us, which was to not monopolize our time with any one fighter. We were eye candy, and if we spent all of our time with one person, that could lead to not only a poor event, but rumors on Twitter that the UFC didn’t want to have. For the rest of the party, I tried my best to enjoy myself, chatting with the fighters who said something or waving, posing for phot
os, and even getting in on the planned “spontaneous” water fight, which ended with the girls throwing the president of the UFC into the pool.
The party was just starting to break up when I saw my boyfriend, Sydney, on the fringes of the pool area near the drink table. He had finagled a deal with the UFC to get a press pass for the event, ostensibly as a photographer. He had a reputation among the glamour industry, especially for his sexy shoots. While I didn’t approve, he’d even done some shoots for Playboy and Penthouse, earning a reputation for being able to walk that fine line between sexy and slutty that aroused readers and increased sales. How that translated over to being able to photograph two men beat the hell out of each other inside a fenced octagon I didn’t know, but Sydney loved the UFC and he had the ability to talk people into almost anything. I knew from personal experience.
I resisted the urge to wave to Syd, knowing I couldn’t be seen with my boyfriend as I worked. As I looked closer, I felt my heart break. He was standing with some woman, a pretty half-Chinese, half-Brazilian girl who I thought was there as one of the fighter’s girlfriends or sisters or something. They were sipping drinks and chatting when she started laughing and giving him the look. I’m pretty innocent, but I could read the signs in her face. What was even worse was how Sydney nodded and leaned in, whispering in her ear in such a way that I knew his lips were doing more than just forming words. The woman pushed her body up against him and nodded. They walked off, his arm resting far too low on her waist for my comfort, heading inside the mansion that the UFC had rented for the party.
Ignoring the looks and waves of some of the people at the party who wondered why one of the paid models was walking away without an explanation, I followed Syd and the girl. I had to work my way through the crowd, my smile going from professional to forced as I went. There was something that spoke in my head, something that I just couldn’t dismiss.
It took me nearly seven minutes to find them in a bedroom. The mansion, unique to California in that it seemed to follow no particular architecture style, was one of those big places with a seemingly endless collection of hallways, rooms, and corridors, and I seemed to keep getting stopped by people who were either in my way or just wanted to chat me up. Sydney and the girl were upstairs, his pants around his ankles with her head between his legs, him leaning against a nightstand with most of his back to me. I had seen all I could take.
“You son of a bitch,” I said, my voice surprisingly dead and lifeless as I watched. “How could you?”
Syd’s head whipped around and he stared at me in open shock. The girl, who’d paused her cock-sucking long enough to at least see who was speaking, smiled and said something in Portuguese that I didn’t have the mental focus to translate from the little bit I had picked up. Instead, my eyes were locked on Syd, who stammered an excuse I didn’t care to listen to. Ignoring his lies, I turned on my heel and stalked my way back downstairs, ducking into a bathroom to let the tears flow before dabbing at my eyes. I had a job to finish, regardless of what this asshole had just done to me.
CHAPTER 2
KADE
“So as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, the evidence is quite clear. My client entered into a business relationship with Mr. Talmadge under totally false understandings. Imagine if you were in my client’s shoes. You trust your best friend, the guy you’ve known since high school, on a business deal, and he lies to you. He lies to you, and you end up losing all of your retirement funds and more. Your house is now mortgaged, your kids are facing college without the funds you’ve been setting aside since before they were born. Now, how would you feel?”
“I know that some of you are saying to yourselves, ‘Who cares? That’s Greg Maxwell, the guy’s got a contract that gets him millions of dollars a year. He’s got shoe deals and more.’ And, you’d be right. My client is Greg Maxwell. And yes, he makes a lot of money for his ability to play basketball. But that doesn’t mean what Mr. Talmadge did to him is right. Mr. Maxwell isn’t trying to be vindictive. Notice that all he’s asking for is for Mr. Talmadge to pay him back the money he invested under false pretenses. That’s all. Thank you.”
I sat down next to my client and watched the jury. These civil cases are the riskiest part of my job, but also the part I looked forward to the most. First off, if anyone can afford to hire a lawyer of my caliber, it means that they’ve already got a lot of money. I don’t come cheap, and that right off the bat loses you a lot of sympathy points with any jury.
You must understand that nowadays, most juries are made up of people who fall into one of three categories. You have the people who are too broke, either retirees or unemployed people, that are more interested in getting the pitiful jury duty stipend along with the fact that the court will pay for lunch if the trial goes on long enough. The second group are the ones who are too lazy, as in they can’t even bother to come up with a decent enough excuse to get out of jury duty. The final group are the ones deemed too unimportant by the court to be dismissed. Let’s face it, if your job is running the register down at the local supermarket, the court isn’t going to buy an argument that you are so indispensable to your job as to make jury duty onerous.
In a case like Greg Maxwell vs. Bryan Talmadge, I’d have loved to have a trial filled with female millionaire entrepreneurs who also happened to love basketball and were all mothers with kids in college. Instead, I had three retirees, two stay-at-home moms whose kids were in elementary school, four men whose jobs meant they couldn’t even pay my client’s income taxes, and three unemployed people. Eight men, four women. Men were harder to convince in these cases than women, who tend to have a greater sense of fairness than their testicle-bearing counterparts. And, not to put too fine a point on it, my looks helped me sway female jurors to my side more often than not.
“Thanks, Kade,” Greg whispered to me as I sat down. I was tempted to tell him that since he was paying me a lot of money, not just for this case, but also in regards to being his legal agent, I didn’t deserve his thanks. Besides that, part of me agreed with the defense. Greg hadn’t understood the risks involved with the investment, not so much because Talmadge had totally misrepresented them, but because Greg Maxwell was a four-time NBA All-Star who had the reading comprehension level of a ten-year-old kid whose favorite reading material probably consisted of X-Men comic books.
However, specifically because Greg paid me well over two hundred thousand dollars a year, a flat percentage of his contract and a cut of his endorsement contracts that I negotiated on his behalf, I avoided saying anything that would annoy him. Instead, I waited while the defense got their lasties, as is tradition in American court cases, and the jury filed out. I had a good feeling that we’d win, but I’ve been in the law game long enough to know that in civil cases, you’re often better off just taking your money to Vegas instead.
* * *
“So what’s going on, Dad?” I was back at the office, listening as my Dad talked. I love my Dad a lot, he’s a great guy, but he does have the tendency to ramble on and on without getting to the point.
“I just wanted to see how your case went, son,” Dad replied. Like me, Derek Prescott was a lawyer, a named partner in a big firm out in Los Angeles that specialized in real estate and admiralty law. He had tended more toward community outreach in the last decade, however, and I suspected that he was trying to buff his image toward making a turn to politics. Dad had always been a bit of a crusader, if you know what I mean.
“We got the win, Dad. Maxwell’s happy, the jury gave us about ninety percent of what we wanted. I was able to convince him that it was a good win, and the defense isn’t looking at appealing.”
“They never do against you, my boy,” Dad replied. It was one of the best things about him. I knew a few other lawyers whose fathers were also in the legal profession, and each of them had anticipated their child going into the family firm. It caused a lot of friction if they didn’t.
Dad, on the other hand, was a self-made millionaire whose father
had been a high school chemistry teacher. He knew that going out on your own and making your own path made you a stronger person, so when I told him coming out of Stanford Law that I wanted to hang out my own shingle and that I was moving to Portland to boot, he hadn’t batted an eye. He supported me without a moment’s hesitation.
Now, we still talked two or three times a week, sometimes about work, sometimes not. “Thanks, Dad. But I doubt you called me just because you wanted to see how my case went. That may have flown a year or so ago, but I’ve been in court enough since then that I think you don’t have the nervous jitters for me any longer.”
Dad chuckled and I could hear the acceptance in his voice. “You’re right, of course. That’s what makes you so damn good of a lawyer, Kade. Actually, I wanted to call to see if you’re free next week? It’s my anniversary with Layla, and I was kind of hoping we could all get together to celebrate.”
I thought about it, then smiled. It’d been a long time since I’d been down to Los Angeles, too long in fact. “That sounds great, Dad. But, only on one condition.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“You take Layla out for at least one night of just the two of you. I’m not letting you turn your anniversary into a family trip to Disneyland just because you want to ride Space Mountain.”
“Hey there, buddy, oldest ride, longest line,” Dad quipped. “But yes, I promise. Just the four of us, and I was going to have a family weekend before taking Layla up to Big Sur for the actual anniversary week.”
“Wow, that’s pretty big. Quite a lot for a five year anniversary.” I knew from the first time I met Layla Nova that she was the woman meant for my father. After my mother had walked out back when I was only three while in the process of taking Dad for quite a lot of money, he’d spent over a decade in a funk. Oh, he was a devoted father, and a hell of an attorney, but that was it. He never dated, he never had a girlfriend, he just worked or spent time with me. By the time I was an upperclassman in high school, I thought that perhaps Dad was going to be a bachelor for life.
Off Limits: A Bad Boy Romance Page 21
