Dangerous Love: Bertoli Crime Family Box Set

by Landish, Lauren

  "Of course," she finally said after three attempts. "Yes, I will marry you."

  The production assistant turned back, calling, "You're on."

  I stood and took my life partner's hand. "Come on. Let's dance, not for a title, not for the people watching . . . just us. Let's go dance for us."

  Carmen nodded and wiped under her eye, carefully not smearing her makeup. "For us."

  The lights were dazzling again, but I didn't care as Carmen and I walked out, taking our positions on opposite ends of the dance floor. Before turning around, I saw her smile and mouth, I love you.

  I love you too, I mouthed back, and I turned, taking my opening position.

  The music started, and my new life began.

  Carmen - Four Years Later

  "A party at the mansion?" I asked, shaking my head as Mariana and her 'little sister', Isabella, danced around the room. Practice was over, and I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I watched the two play. "You know, every time someone has a birthday party here, strange stuff happens."

  "Oh, come on, Carmencita, you only turn thirty once," Adriana said as she watched her niece and my daughter play. She was ferrying Mariana while Luisa was busy working. "You know, I kinda feel bad that Johnny lost interest in this."

  "He's like his father," I said with a laugh. "That boy fell in love with martial arts from the first time he got on the mat. It's okay though. I'm still holding out hope for Bobby."

  "I'm amazed you bounced back from having another baby so quickly," Adriana said. "I mean, it's been what, two months since you had him? And yet you're already back to dancing again. How do you do it?"

  "The same way you did,” I replied. "You're looking pretty slim for two months postpartum yourself. I guess having husbands who constantly rev our motors into overdrive helps."

  "Why does Uncle Dante rev your car into overdrive?" Mariana asked, stopping and tilting her head. "Your car is old. It's going to break."

  Adriana and I exchanged barely swallowed laughs and a choked comment. Mariana had very good ears. "Never mind, Mari. You ready to go see Mommy and Daddy?"

  "Can we go too, Mommy?" Isabella asked. "I wanna swim in the pool!"

  "I think we can arrange that, Bella," I said. "You two go get changed, though. I’m not taking you to see Carlo in dance tights. Now hurry, before you find out I'm still a mean dance teacher!"

  The girls disappeared into the back, toward the new changing room, running past the picture that hung on the wall. It was of the Dreamstyle Dance children's team, doing a show at a Mariners game during the seventh-inning stretch. Mariana was near the middle, a huge grin on her face as the camera caught her in perfect mid-jump, her feet curled behind her until they nearly touched her head. She wouldn't be a competitive dancer for much longer. She was growing like a weed and would be tall like her mother, but she loved to dance, regardless of whether she was built for a career in ballet or not. In some ways, she was a lot like her teacher.

  "So are you going to defend your title?" Adriana asked quietly as the girls left. "You know, being three-time AADP champions would pretty much engrave your legacy in stone around there."

  I shook my head, smiling. "Nah. It's time to turn the competition work over to the kids and help the others reach their dreams. Besides, I'm not going to be eligible anyway, and Dante’s so busy with Daniel at the security company."

  "That they are," Adriana admitted, chuckling. "Admit it, you were geeking out as much as I was when our husbands worked security for Leo DiCaprio."

  "A bit," I admitted. “And he's why I'm not going to be eligible for the AADP anymore though."

  "Oh? Come on, spill the beans. If not, I'm going to bug you the entire party until you do, or until Luisa throws me in the pool."

  "Not with that belly of hers. She looks like she's got a basketball under that shirt nowadays. Two for her and Tommy now too. But you asked, so I'll tell. He's got a project coming up, one of his period pieces, and there's a scene where he has to dance with Margot Robbie. So guess who got hired to be not only their coach, but also the dance choreographer?"

  Adriana thumped the table and laughed. "That's amazing! When is it?"

  "Three months from now. I got the contracts in the mail yesterday. With that, I was thinking of maybe relocating Dreamstyle. Still in Seattle, but a bigger building with better locker rooms—a place that actually has a shower."

  Adriana shook her head. "Are you crazy? This little spot has heart and history. How'd we be able to recreate all that in a new place?"

  "Well, Dante and I could have sex on the dance floor in the new place too. It's worked twice for kids."

  Adriana laughed and shook her head. "Yeah, well if you do that, we're all going to be in trouble. There are enough little ones running around here already. So you'll be there Friday for the party?"

  I chuckled and nodded. "Okay, I'll be there. Just tell Luisa her brother isn't invited. But yeah, I'll be there."

  Adriana smiled and left, and I called to the back. "Ready to go, girls? If you hurry, maybe we can talk Grandma Margaret into some ice cream."

  The cheer from the back was unanimous, and I heard a rustle of bags. Before they burst out, I turned and looked at the two nearly identical trophies that backed my front desk. Two-time national champions, ballroom division. The only differences were the years and the names on the trophies, with the first one saying, Carmen Esperanza and Dante Degrassi, while the second said, Carmen & Dante Degrassi.

  A small difference, but all the difference in the world.

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  Read on for a preview of Dirty Talk, the first book in my “Get Dirty” Series.

  Excerpt: Dirty Talk

  by Lauren Landish

  Get Dirty Series (Interconnecting standalones):

  Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds

  Katrina

  “Checkmate, bitch,” I exclaim as I do a victory dance that’s comprised of fist pumps and ass wiggles in my chair while my best friend Elise laughs at me. I turn in my seat and start doing a little half-stepping Rockettes dance. “Can-can, I just kicked some can-can, I so am the wo-man, and I rule this place!”

  Elise does a little finger dance herself, cheering along with me. “You go, girl. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Now let’s eat!”

  I laugh with her, joyful in celebrating my new promotion at work, regardless of the dirty looks the snooty ladies at the next table are shooting our way. I get their looks. I mean, we are in the best restaurant in the city. While East Robinsville isn’t New York or Miami, we’re more of a Northeastern suburb of . . . well, everything in between. This just isn’t the sort of restaurant where five-foot-two-inch women in work clothes go shaking their ass while chanting something akin to a high school cheer.

  But right now, I give exactly zero fucks. “Damn right, we can eat! I’m the youngest person in the company to ever be promoted to Senior Developer and the first woman at that level. Glass ceiling? Boom, busting through! Boys’ club? Infiltrated.” I mime like I’m sneaking in, shoulders hunched and hands pressed tightly in front of me before splaying my arms wide with a huge grin. “Before they know it, I’m gonna have that boys’ club watching chick flicks and the whole damn office is going to be painted pink!”

  Elise snorts, shaking her head again. “I still don’t have a fucking clue what you actually do, but even I understand the words promotion and raise. So huge congrats, honey.”

  She’s right, no one really understands when I talk about my job. My brain has a tendency to talk in streams of binary zeroes and ones that make perfect sense to me, but not so much to the average person. When I was in high school, I even dreamed in Java.

  And even I don’t really understand what my promotion means. Senior Developer? Other than the fact that I get updated business cards with my fancy new title next week, I’m not sure what’s changed. I’m still doing my own coding
and my own work, just with a slightly higher pay grade. And when I say slightly, I mean barely a bump after taxes. Just enough for a bonus cocktail at a swanky club on Friday maybe. Maybe more at year end, they’d said. Ah, well, I’m excited anyway. It’s a first step and an acknowledgement of my work.

  The part people do get is when my company turns my strings of code into apps that go viral. After my last app went number one, they were forced to give me a promotion or risk losing my skills to another development company. They might not understand the zeroes and ones, but everyone can grasp dollars and cents, and that’s what my apps bring in.

  I might be young at only twenty-six, and female, as evidenced by my long honey-blonde hair and curvy figure, but as much as I don’t fit the stereotypical profile of a computer nerd, they had to respect that my brain creates things that no one else does. I think it’s my female point of view that really helps. While a chunk of the other people in the programming field fit the stereotype of being slightly repressed geeks who are more comfortable watching animated ‘girlfriends’ than talking to an actual woman, I’m different. I understand that merely slapping a pink font on things or adding sparkly shit and giving more pre-loaded shopping options doesn’t make technology more ‘female-friendly.’

  It’s insulting, honestly. But it gives me an edge in that I know how to actually create apps that women like and want to use. Not just women, either, based on sales. I’m getting a lot of men downloading my apps too, especially men who aren’t into tech-geeking out every damn thing they own.

  And so I celebrate with Elise, holding up our glasses of wine and clinking them together in a toast. Elise sips her wine and nods in appreciation, making me glad we went with the waiter’s recommendation. “So you’re killing it on the job front. What else is going on? How are things with you and Kevin?”

  Elise has been my best friend since we met at a college recruiting event. She’s all knockout looks and sass, and I’m short, nervous, and shy in professional situations, but we clicked. She knows I’ve been through the wringer with some previous boyfriends, and even though Kevin is fine—well-mannered, ambitious, and treats me right—she just doesn’t care for him for some reason. So my joyful buzz is instantly dulled, knowing that she doesn’t like Kevin.

  “He’s fine,” I reply, knowing it’s not a great answer, but I also know she’s going to roast me anyway. “He’s been working a lot of hours so I haven’t even seen him in a few days, but he texts me every morning and night. We’re supposed to go out for dinner this weekend to celebrate.”

  Elise sighs, giving me that look that makes her normally very cute face look sort of like a sarcastic basset hound. “I’m glad, I guess. Not to beat a dead horse,” —too late— “but you really can do better. Kevin is just so . . . meh. There’s no spark, no fire between you two. It’s like you’re friends who fuck.”

  I duck my chin, not wanting her to read on my face the woeful lack of fucking that has been happening, but I’m too transparent.

  “Wait . . . you two do fuck, right?” Elise asks, flabbergasted. “I figured that was why you were staying with him. I was sure he must be great in the sack or you’d have dumped his boring ass a long time ago.”

  I bite my lip, not wanting to get into this with her . . . again. But one of Elise’s greatest strengths is also one of her most annoying traits as well. She’s like a dog with a bone and isn’t going to let this go.

  “Look, he’s fine,” I finally reply, trying to figure out how much I need to feed Elise before she gives me a measure of peace. “He’s handsome, treats me well, and when we have sex, it’s good . . . I guess. I don’t believe in some Prince Charming who is going to sweep me off my feet to a castle where we’ll have romantic candlelit dinners, brilliant conversation, and bed-breaking sexcapades. I just want someone to share the good and bad times with, some companionship.”

  Elise holds back as long as she can before she explodes, her snort and guffaw of derision getting even more looks in our direction. “Then get a fucking Golden Retriever and a rabbit. The buzzing kind that uses rechargeable batteries.”

  One of the ladies at the next table huffs, seemingly aghast at Elise’s outburst, and they stand to move toward the bar on the other side of the restaurant, far away from us. “Well, if this is the sort of trash that passes for dinner conversation,” the older one says as she sticks her nose far enough into the air I wonder if it’s going to be clipped by the ceiling fans, “no wonder the country’s going to hell under these Millennials!”

  She storms off before Elise or I can respond, but the second lady pauses slightly and talks out of the side of her mouth. “Sweetie, you do deserve more than fine.”

  With a wink, she scurries off after her friend, leaving behind a grinning Elise. “See? Even snooty old biddies know that you deserve more than meh.”

  “I know. We’ve had this conversation on more than one occasion, so can we drop it?” I plead between clenched teeth before calming slightly. “I want to celebrate and catch up, not argue about my love life.”

  Always needing the last word, Elise drops her voice, muttering under her breath. “What love life?”

  “That’s low.”

  Elise holds her hands up, and I know I’ve at least gotten a temporary reprieve. “Okay then, if we’re sticking to work, I got a new scoop that I’m running with. I’m writing a piece about a certain famous someone who got caught sending dick pics to a social media princess. Don’t ask me who because I can’t divulge that yet. But it’ll be all there in black and white by next week’s column.”

  Elise is an investigative journalist, a rather fantastic one whose talents are largely being wasted on celebrity news gossip for the tabloid paper she writes for. I can’t even call it a paper, really. With the downfall of actual print news, most of her stuff ends up in cyberspace, where it’s digested, Tweeted, hashtagged, and churned out for the two-minute attention span types to gloat over for a moment before they move on to . . . well, whatever the next sound bite happens to be.

  Every once in awhile, she’ll get to do something much more newsworthy, but mostly it’s fact-checking and ass-covering before the paper publishes stories celebrities would rather see disappear. I know what burns her ass even more is when she has to cover the stories where some downward-trending celebrity manufactures a scandal just to get some social media buzz going before their latest attempt at rejuvenating a career that peaked about five years ago.

  This one at least sounds halfway interesting, and frankly, better than my love life, so I laugh. “Why would he send a dick pic to someone on social media? Wouldn’t he assume she’d post it? What a dumbass!”

  “No, it’s usually close-ups and they’re posted anonymously,” Elise says with a snort. “Of course, she knows because she sees the user name on their direct message, but she cuts it out so that it’s posted to her page as an anonymous flash of flesh. Look.”

  She pulls out her phone, clicking around to open an app, one I didn’t design but damn sure wish I had. It’s got one hell of a sweet interface, and Elise is using it to organize her web pages better than anything the normal apps have. It takes Elise only a moment to find the page she wants.

  “See?” she says, showing me her phone. “People send her messages with dick pics, tit pics, whatever. If she deems them sexy enough, she posts them with little blurbs and people can comment. She also does Q-and-As with followers, shows faceless pics of herself, and gives little shows sometimes. Kinda like porn but more ‘real people’ instead of silicone-stuffed, pump-sucked, fake moan scenes.”

  She scrolls through, showing me one image after another of body part close-ups. Some of them . . . well damn, I gotta say that while they might not be professionals or anything, it’s a hell of a lot hotter than anything I’m getting right now. “Wow. That’s uhh . . . quite something. I don’t get it, but I guess lots of folks are into it. Wait.”

  She stops scrolling at my near-shout, smirking. “What? See something you like?”

/>   My mouth feels dry and my voice papery. “Go back up a couple.”

  She scrolls back up and I read the blurb above a collage of pics. Little titty fuck with my new boy toy today. Look at my hungry tits and his thick cock. After this, things got a little deeper, if you know what I mean. Sorry, no pics of that, but I’ll just say that he was insatiable and I definitely had a very good morning. ;)

  The pictures show a close-up of her full cleavage, a guy’s dick from above, and then a few pictures of him stroking in and out of her pressed-together breasts. I’m not afraid to say the girl’s got a nice rack that would probably have most of my co-workers drooling and the blood rushing from their brains to their dicks, but that’s not what’s causing my stomach to drop through the floor.

  I know that dick.

  It’s the same, thick with a little curve to the right, and I can even see a sort of donut-shaped mole high on the man’s thigh, right above the shaved area above the base of his cock.

  Yes, that mole seals it.

  That’s Kevin.

  His cock with another woman, fucking her for social media, thinking I’d probably never even know. He has barely touched me lately, but he’s willing to do it almost publicly with some social media slut?

  I realize Elise is staring at me, her previous good-natured look long gone to be replaced by an expression of concern. “Kat, are you okay? You look pale.”

  I point at her phone, trying my best to keep my voice level. “That post? The one right there?”

  “Oh, Titty Fuck Girl?” Elise asks. “She’s on here at least once a month with a new set of pics. Apparently, she loves her rack. I still think they’re fake. Why?”

  “She’s talking about Kevin. That’s him.”

  She gasps, turning the phone to look closer. “Holy shit, honey. Are you sure?”

  I nod, tears already pooling in my eyes. “I’m sure.”