Tell Me No Secrets: Secret Baby Romance Collection

by Jamie Knight

  In real life, I tap the vibrator again, shifting the low, gentle hum to a pulsing, aggressive rhythm - my favorite setting. I ease it in and out, just a few inches at a time, teasing and pleasing myself. Somewhere off beyond my closed eyelids, I can hear myself moaning loudly. Good…I deserve this, I think, returning to my fantasy.

  Wrapping his arms around me, he lifts me up, still inside me, and deposits me on my back on the desk. My legs are up in the air, ankles crossed behind his head as he thrusts, his hands reaching out to massage my breasts, tweaking my nipples. He pinches them both between his thumbs and forefingers at the same time he plunges deeper into me than ever before, and my orgasm begins to build.

  “Please… don’t stop,” I hear myself murmur. I press the vibrator even harder against my clit, feeling my muscles begin to contract around the shaft.

  In my fantasy, the speed of his strokes increases, and I can see in his eyes that he’s close too. My hands tighten their grip on his arms, feeling the muscles ripple under his skin as he moves. One of his thumbs finds the fleshy nub of my clit, massaging it as he thrusts - once - twice - three times - We both cry out together and…

  …in real life my orgasm erupts through my body, hips bucking, hands grasping at the sheets, toes curling, lungs gasping for air. I open my eyes and stare unseeing at the ceiling. My heart pounds.

  “Holy shit. Yeah. I needed that.”

  Chapter 8 - Mariah

  I’m feeling bold when my laundry timer goes off, so rather than putting my panties back on, I walk down the hall to the laundry room with just my long t-shirt on. It feels daring. Adventurous. Fun. Pulling my clothes out of the dryer, it hits me that those are the kind of feelings I’ve always loved having. I want to challenge people. Be daring, do things that they expect that I can’t.

  That’s why I could never be with Charles, or just go along with my father’s plan for my life. Charles may be slimy, but something tells me that if he’s smart enough to exert influence over Dad to the point where he wants to give the company to him, I’d spend the rest of my life sitting in a house knitting and wake up at sixty years old with nothing but a pile of ugly scarves to show for my life.

  “No fucking way.” I scoop the last of my clothes out of the dryer and into the motel hamper, then head back to my room.

  My head is spinning again, but in a good way this time. This time, I have resolve. I have a plan.

  Back in the room, I hang up my newly clean dress clothes, then turn my attention to my laptop. Even though the motel wifi sucks, I can still access Craigslist - so that’s what I do. Nestled in a pile of pillows (the only over-supplied item in this place), I start applying to any jobs I can find. Real estate office work comes first, but the truth is that so far, I may have been overestimating what my credentials can get me.

  Obviously, as the interview with the frowning S. Goodwyn has shown me, I can’t use my real last name anymore. The only way I’m going to make it is if I do it on my own terms, without the hangups of my father and his company around my neck.

  With that comes the realization that I’m probably going to have to start at the bottom. Landing a job as a full-fledged realtor isn’t easy, and even in my dad’s company, most employees worked their way up from the first floor, or even the basement, before they made names for themselves and made sales.

  So, there’s no way around it. I have to be in this for the long haul. And if I’m going to survive the long haul away from home, I can’t rely on the single credit card with a rapidly approaching credit limit to keep me on my feet. I need to work, and I need to work now.

  I visit the vending machine downstairs next to the hotel lobby, and return to the room with three cans of nice, cold Mountain Dew, which had always been my go-to when it came to putting in late nights at the office or in school.

  Cracking open the first can, I pull up Craigslist and start clicking. As I work, the refrain in my head slowly changes from Dad can’t be right, Dad can’t be right to I know I’m right. I can do this. I can do this.

  After a few hours, I’ve lost track of the number of jobs I’ve applied for: everything from coffee shop barista to secretary to typist and beyond. Anything is better than nothing to get started. I chide myself for not doing this two weeks ago, but my ambitions were larger than life, apparently. By the time I call it quits, it’s almost six o’clock in the morning, and two of my cans of Dew are empty.

  “Okay.” I close my laptop, trying to ignore the first glows of sunlight coming around my shades. “There’s being a workaholic, and there’s being psychotic. Let’s stay on the former side of that line for now.”

  Tossing my shirt on the floor, I curl up in the bed and, for the first time since I left home, am out almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  When I wake up, it’s to the ringing of my cell phone and the rumbling of my stomach. Based on plenty of experience in the real estate world and a lot of long work nights, even barely awake, I have enough awareness to take a moment and plug some fake focus into my voice when I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, hi, is this Mariah Young?”

  I sit up straight in bed, suddenly very much awake. Young is the fake last name I chose for my resume and cover letters last night. So, this call is obviously for a job.

  “Yes, this is she. May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  “Hi Mariah, this is Gary over at Gruber Realty. We received your application for our office assistant position, and you’re by far the most qualified candidate. We’re looking to hire immediately - how soon could you come in for an interview?”

  I take the phone away from my ear long enough to see that it’s 4:32 p.m. “Um, any time really. How late are you in the office? I could even come in today.”

  “Oh, fantastic! I’m here until six. Why don’t I end the day on a high note and have you come in to see me at 5:30?”

  “Fantastic!” He gives me the address and suite number, and I scrawl it down, pulse thundering in my ears. “Got it. I will see you there. And thank you!”

  The call clicks off, I fall back onto the pillow…and that’s when the enormity of what’s just happened actually hits me. My eyes fly open, and I bolt up in bed with a shout of joy somewhere between a pterodactyl victory screech and the cry of a toddler who’s just hit their mother in the face with a mouthful of mashed veggies.

  “I got an interview! An actual interview!” I know I’m just talking to myself, but so what? I’m the only one here. This thought’s punctuated with the realization that I have about twenty-four minutes to get myself presentable enough to interview for the job that could turn everything around in my life.

  Chapter 9 - Mariah

  Adrenaline hits me.

  “You got this,” I mutter to myself. And I do - until, moving to get up, the sheets tangle around my ankles and I crash to the floor. “Good start.”

  After pushing myself up on rug-burned elbows, I’m off to the shower.

  Once that’s done (in a hurry, which means foregoing my usual ritual of using the detachable showerhead for its God-given real purpose), I dig through my laundry, super thankful that I kicked myself into gear enough to clean some things last night. After some deliberation, I settle on one of my favorite pantsuits, a deep blue one paired with a white blouse underneath. It looks professional and serious – Dad would be proud. But not proud enough to not want to marry me off to some sleazeball.

  On the walk over to the offices, which happen to be just a few blocks from my motel, I try not to let myself think about the fact that Gruber Realty is the number two company in the area… in other words, my father’s biggest competitor. Sure, part of me desperately wants the job so I can shove it in his face - but I’m smart enough to know that I have to stick to the fake identity I drummed up, or I’ll never land work that’ll stick long enough for me to sell a house myself. No one wants to teach their insider secrets to the daughter of their competitor.

  “Okay. Suite 504
. 504… five-oh-four. Got it.” I stride from the office directory board across the lobby to the elevators. Not that it matters, because the entryway is deserted at this time of day. I feel like a runway model with no audience - until I make it to Suite 504.

  The office space is massive. A reception desk sits front and center when I exit the elevator, and comfortable chairs line either wall. Two hallways split off on either side of the reception area.

  One is filled with glass-walled conference rooms, a few of which are filled with men in suits. The second hallway is lined with closed office doors, each one labeled with a nameplate that I can’t read from this distance.

  The only other person in the lobby is a raven-haired woman who looks to be about five years older than me. Competition? Shit. She looks relaxed…and hot. She’s wearing a dark skirt with borderline “fuck me” heels, a red blouse, and lipstick to match.

  There’s no one behind the reception desk. So, I sit on the other side of the room, exchanging a slight nod and guarded smile with the dark-haired woman.

  We don’t have to wait long, as it turns out. A thirty-something guy in a suit with close-cropped, spiked hair breezes in a few minutes later. The hair almost sets off alarm bells in my head - it’s way too close to Charles’ greasy, sleazeball style. But those alarms are overwhelmed by the chant of “get a job” that’s been echoing around my brain for the past couple of weeks.

  “Ahh, you’re both early! That’s excellent.” The guy flashes a smile at us. “Mariah and… Kristy, right?” he points to each of us, correctly, in turn.

  Kristy nods and stands, so I do the same.

  “Great. I’m Robert. RJ to my friends, Mr. Thompson to my employees.” He gestures to us to join him. “Follow me this way, ladies. Thanks for coming in. There’s no need to be nervous; we don’t bite. Mostly.”

  He laughs at his own joke, and he’s the only one. That makes me feel a little better about Kristy as a person, at least.

  We head down the left hallway, past several of the conference rooms, until we reach one with a massive flat screen TV hanging on the wall. There are two more thirty-somethings in suits sitting inside, watching a basketball game on the screen.

  “Right in here, ladies.” He sits on one side of the conference table, with the two other suits. Kristy and I sit together on the other side. I had no idea we would both be interviewed at the same time. Talk about pressure.

  “This is the hiring committee. Myself, Mr. Matthews, and Mr. Benson. There are two of you, and one open position. This interview will determine which of you leaves the building alive.”

  “What?!” Kristy and I ask the same incredulous question at the same moment. The three men stare at us, then break into peals of laughter.

  “We’re sorry,” the one named Benson manages. “Just a little joke we like to play on new hires. There are actually two positions open, and you two seem like the perfect candidates. We decided to cut down time but having you both come in at once. You just need you to answer a few questions, chat with us a little bit - you know, make sure you’re the kind of people we want to see every day when we come in to work.”

  “You’re too hot to fight each other, anyway. What’re you gonna do, hit each other with your purses?” Matthews says, laughing.

  Geez. I can’t believe how openly sexist they’re being. But, I remind myself to stay quiet, since I really need a job – and a better place to wash my laundry.

  “Basically, we need a few extra hands around the office. Manning the reception desk, answering phones, delivering mail, that kind of thing.” RJ steers the conversation back towards actual work, which I’m grateful for. “It may not seem like much, but it’ll really help us out around here.”

  “Especially when our wives are too tired to - ” Benson starts to whisper, but a look from RJ cuts him off. I make a mental note to keep him at arm’s length (at least) if I start working here.

  “And there’s enough pay for both of us?” Kristy finally speaks up.

  “Of course there is!” Matthews chimes in. “Everyone in this room knows we’re one of the top firms in the city. We pay plenty… unless you’d rather be grinding beans at Starbucks.”

  This whole thing is starting to seem a little odd to me. But work is work, I remind myself. And somehow, we haven’t even really had to go through as intensive an interview process as I was expecting. That seems like a good thing… until it becomes clear why.

  “All right, ladies. We’ve looked over your resumes, and you both seem fit for the jobs, so let’s get started, why don’t we? Kristy, you’ll take over reception duties, and Mariah… you’ll be our floor girl. Deliveries, coffee, that sort of thing. Here are the required uniforms.” RJ reaches down to a plastic bag beside his chair and pulls out two outfits as the other guys try to hold back chuckles.

  The “uniforms” are less actual work outfits, and more “Naughty Catholic Schoolgirl” Halloween costumes. Short skirts, knee-high socks, and white, almost transparent blouses.

  “You’re kidding,” Kristy bursts out, thankfully beating me to it. I may be desperate for work, but I’m not stupid. This’ll be less a job, and more a glorified cocktail waitressing gig.

  “No, I’m not.” RJ smiles at her. “Company policy. Is that a problem?”

  For a second, it looks like it will be - but then Kristy deflates. “No.” she says thinly, taking the outfit. I do the same. I’m not any happier about it than she seems to be, but a job is a job is a job. At least for a little while.

  “Great!” Benson chimes in. “We’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow morning, then.”

  RJ stands, extending his hand. “Welcome to the company, girls. Looking forward to seeing more of you both.”

  “A lot more.” Matthews adds, smirking.

  Grabbing my uniform from the table, I follow Kristy out of the conference room.

  Well. This should be fun.

  Chapter 10 - Wesley

  “What do you mean, we’re at less than sixty percent?”

  I knew calling the office to check in was going to be a mistake before I picked up the phone, but I did it anyway. That’s the workaholic in me, I suppose. Sure enough, the news that I’m greeted with is less than ideal.

  “Sorry, Boss, those are the numbers.” The voice on the other end of the line belongs to my assistant, John Noto. “We’re close on a few deals that’ll start making up the difference - the Tyler property has half a dozen offers out, and we’re leveraging that into a bidding war; the Lindholm estate is nearly closed…”

  “And?” I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  John’s been my office assistant for years now, and I know better than to berate him for issues that he can’t control. Still, you’d think I could take one week off without everything grinding to a halt.

  “Well, that’s it on the estate side. You should know, though, a few of the senior sales guys…”

  “What about them?” My pulse quickens. Plenty of other companies spend way too much of their time trying to poach my top guys - and the last thing I need right now is for one of them to be successful.

  “They’ve hired two new assistants. For reception, and someone to do coffee rounds and things like that.”

  “You’re kidding.” I sit back in the suite’s desk chair, practically feeling my eyes wanting to roll back into my head. “We’re hemorrhaging money from a lack of sales, and the sales team has decided that the way to make up for that is by hiring new people? And for useless positions, at that. What, we can’t pour our own coffee? It’s a complete waste of money.”

  “That’s what I told them you’d say. But listening to me isn’t really something they’re all that interested in. Especially when the alternative is hiring two attractive young women.”

  “Ugh. All right. Thanks for the heads up, John.”

  I hang up the phone, lean back in my chair, and stare at the ceiling. I can’t even leave the office for a week witho
ut things going up in flames, apparently. And hiring a coffee girl? Really? Not only is it ridiculous, it smacks of desperation on their parts.

  Hiring a woman for a job that doesn’t really exist, just so they can try to find tail without leaving the office? Not only is it a gross misuse of power, but it’s also truly scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to dating techniques. Hearing about it is just making me more and more certain that I want something real, not some manufactured relationship or hookup that I grab onto just because it’s right there in front of me, in easy reach.

  I’d secretly been hoping that this little vacation would be the thing I needed to kickstart a relationship like that. New place, new people, no responsibilities… plenty of time to meet new women and get to know them, maybe even long enough to fall for one.

  As it turns out, though, this resort is the last place for that to happen. Every woman I’ve met in the last six days has had either a boyfriend on their arm or a ring on their finger. It’s been a total waste.

  “Maybe I should just give up,” I say to the empty room. “Just quit chasing some dream that doesn’t exist, and go back to focusing on what does.”

  By that, I mean my work. This is the first vacation I’ve taken in… God, I don’t even know how many years. And the second I left, things apparently started crumbling. If that’s not proof that I belong behind a desk managing my company, I don’t know what is.

  “That settles it then.” The remnants of last night’s cocktail are still sitting in a glass on the desk. I grab the drink and toss it back, in an attempt at a decisive gesture. This just results in a spit-take, as I realize that the sweet liquid doesn’t taste even remotely good after sitting out all night.

  I wipe my tongue on my sleeve, and stand up. “Back to work, Wesley.”

  Chapter 11 - Mariah