Wicked Dirty

  The moment the word's out of my mouth, I wince.

  "Oh, hell. Don't take that the wrong way," I say. "I'm sure being with you would be mind-blowingly special. I just mean that I want it to be real. I want there to be at least the possibility of a future. Maybe not an engagement ring, but I want it to be with someone I'm in a relationship with.

  "And like I said," I continue, stumbling over my words, "I really like you. But being your fake girlfriend isn't what I had in mind."

  I bite my lip as I glance up at him. "I didn't mean to lead you on tonight, truly. And I have no philosophical problems with, um, doing pretty much everything else. But I guess I want to pretend like I didn't make a huge mistake giving my virginity to some random guy."

  I lean back and shrug. "So that's it. Like I said, I'm sorry."

  "You don't have anything to be sorry about." He slides closer, then pulls me gently against him, letting me rest my head on his chest.

  "Thanks," I whisper as he strokes my hair.

  "I was right about the poem," he says. "You do have an unconquerable soul."

  I close my eyes, nodding as a single tear spills out.

  He holds me like that for a few minutes longer, then gently releases me as he moves toward the edge of the bed. "I should go."

  I reach for him, my fingers twining with his. "You don't have to go," I say. "It's late, I mean."

  He stays still for a moment, then he lifts the sheet and slides under, holding out an arm for me to join him. "Just sleep," he says, as he pulls me close. "I'll be right here."

  14

  The morning sun filtered in through the gaps in her curtains as Lyle stood by the bed watching Sugar sleep, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed with her and stay locked in this bungalow for the rest of the day.

  Not happening.

  He should never have stayed the night. That was why he had his routine, after all. That was why he'd set up his life the way he had, with Marjorie on speed dial. So that he never ran the risk of getting too close.

  And yet as he watched her clutch the pillow, her breathing so soft and steady, he knew that if she opened her eyes and asked him to, he'd pull her back into his arms and stay.

  Why?

  Why did this woman affect him so much? Why was it so easy to be around her?

  Was it the show they were putting on? The fact that he was playing a role? Or was there truly a deeper connection between them?

  He didn't know. All he was certain of was that somehow Sugar had snuck in around the edges. He might not know how she managed to do it, but he couldn't deny that she had. And that simple fact scared the shit out of him.

  Didn't he know better than anyone that connections meant pain and loss? Hadn't he seen that his whole life? His mother? Jenny?

  Which meant that he didn't get involved. He just didn't. It was too messy. Too complicated. Trying to build a relationship at the same time he built a career was a recipe for failure on both counts.

  All he wanted--all he needed--was to keep his career on track. Last night, Sugar had helped serve that purpose. But she wasn't really his girlfriend--they both knew that.

  And he shouldn't feel any guilt at all for leaving this morning. The job was done, after all. Clean. Simple. Time to move on.

  At least that's what he told himself.

  But as he went into the kitchen to write her a note, he couldn't deny the lump in his stomach. And as he got in his car, he had to actually take a moment to hold onto the steering wheel and do nothing but breathe as a storm of emotion roiled inside him. Loss and guilt, longing and shame.

  He was a goddamned asshole.

  Yeah, well, maybe he was. But as he started the car and pulled out onto the street, he also knew that he had no choice. Not if he wanted to keep his life sane and his career on track.

  Not if he wanted to keep his all his secrets.

  * * *

  Usually, Lyle hated organized media events, especially when they ate into his weekend. Today, however, he was happy for anything that took his mind off of Laine. Even a series of costume screen tests to which the media had been invited.

  Even if that meant that he had to wear tights.

  Lyle had already had his turn in the iconic M. Sterious costume as well as the tux he'd wear to an action-filled party scene. Now, he was just waiting for the wrap-up so that he and the other cast members could field questions and pose for a few additional shots.

  That should be soon, thank God. At the moment, Frannie was preening in front of the camera in a black skin suit with neon blue accents. A cluster of reporters and social media influencers were gathered around, snapping pics and shouting questions between shots.

  Most of them he'd seen before. The tall, thin guy who ran a particularly snarky blog. The bubbly woman who worked for one of the glossy entertainment magazines. A leggy blonde who hosted one of the local morning shows. And then there was the athletic guy in jeans and a denim jacket who was sporting a goatee and a baseball cap worn low over his eyes. Lyle couldn't get a good look at him, but something about him seemed so damn familiar.

  It didn't matter, of course, but the question tugged at his mind anyway.

  "Time to quit daydreaming," Evelyn said, taking his elbow and steering him to a corner. "The contracts for the next installments came in. I've got the legal team looking over them, but the bottom line is what we talked about. They want you for three more Blue Zenith movies after this one, with an option for another."

  "And the pay?"

  "Step increases with every film, plus significant back-end. One of the best deals I've ever negotiated, if I do say so myself. And I think you'd be a fool to take it."

  He exhaled, frustrated. "Dammit, Evelyn."

  "Yeah, yeah. You want to make it big, I know. A huge splash in the giant cesspool that's Hollywood. Trust me, I get it. Because believe me, that's a story I've heard before. And I'm all for fame and fortune, but in your case, I don't see this making you happy, Iowa. Being a superhero isn't your jam, and we both know it."

  "I'm not signing on for Arizona Spring. An indie film with no upfront payday and very little chance of making it on the back-end? Is that really the direction you think I should go?"

  "I think if you sign on for the franchise it's going to be like wearing golden chains. And I think Spring is one of the best scripts I've ever read. You did amazing work in the sitcom, and you'll be great as M. But if your goal is for the world to see your acting chops, you need to do a drama. Not comedy. Not comic book. Drama."

  "Fine," he said sharply, because he just wanted to end this conversation. "I'll think about it." Except there was no thinking to be done. He and Jenny had come to Hollywood so that she could explode onto the silver screen. And while he may have destroyed Jenny, he hadn't destroyed the dream. And so long as he was able, he intended to see that dream become reality. That was his goal.

  It had to be.

  He started to walk toward the reporters, because even that was better than going another round with his agent, but she called to him with a sharp, "Hang on there, Iowa. One more thing."

  He paused a moment, his back to her, then forced a smile as he turned, ensuring he wiped away any trace of his melancholy thoughts. "Yeah?"

  "You did good." She passed him her phone, which was open to a picture of him and Frannie and Laine.

  He bit back a wince. For the last thirty minutes, he'd managed to not think of her at all, and now there she was, back in his head again. The way she laughed. The way she felt.

  Most of all, the way she made him feel.

  "She's a great girl."

  "You should bring her to the SCF brunch. That would be another nice photo opp."

  He shook his head. "I played the game. The vultures got their pictures. Frannie met her, blessed her. As of now, I officially have a girlfriend. One who doesn't like the spotlight and who works long hours."

  "Lyle." His name was delivered like an order.

  "No," he said, be
cause on this he was holding his ground. He needed to cut ties. Needed to stay clear. A woman who snuck into his life as quickly and deeply as Laine had could end up spinning his entire world out of whack. "We're good right now. Just let it be."

  He could tell she didn't want to, but before she could argue, Frannie strutted over. "You should have brought Laine," she said. "She probably would have enjoyed seeing this."

  He ignored the way Evelyn's eyebrows quirked up in a definite told-you-so kind of way. "She's not big on the limelight," Lyle said. "She's home having a lazy Sunday."

  "Well, it's your call, obviously. I just thought it would be a nice time to announce your engagement to the press."

  He froze.

  He just plain, fucking froze.

  "What do you think you know, Frannie?"

  Her eyes went wide, her expression genuinely horrified. "Oh dear. I didn't realize it was still a secret. I mean, I figured if Rip knew, then most everyone did. Especially since you two don't talk that much anymore."

  "Rip told you that Laine and I are engaged?"

  "Last night at the gallery."

  "He knew her name?"

  "I think so." She frowned. "I mean, he asked me who you were with, and I told him. Then he nodded and said that he thought so. He hadn't met her yet, but he said that the two of you were engaged."

  He clenched his fists at his side. "What else did he say?"

  "That it was a whirlwind, but that you were gloriously happy and telling all your friends." She lifted a shoulder, pouting a little. "I was hurt, actually. Considering everything, I thought you would have at least mentioned it to me."

  "Actually, Rip's just being an asshole," he said, working damn hard to keep his temper in check. "We're not--"

  Evelyn coughed loudly beside him.

  "--ready to announce yet. Not officially, anyway."

  He caught Evelyn's eye, saw the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders.

  "Oh," Frannie said.

  "A few close friends know, and I was planning on telling you after this madness," he added, wondering just how long his nose was going to grow. "Someone must have told him without thinking."

  "Well, now I feel doubly bad. I just assumed it was out there, and when I was talking to a group of media guys, Gordy asked if I knew about the woman you were with last night, so I told him."

  "Gordy?" he asked, as a cold chill started to snake through him.

  "The one who's so big on Instagram. You've met him, I'm sure. He's right over there. The one in the baseball cap." She turned, her arm up to point. Then she dropped it with a, "Huh. I don't see him."

  She turned back to Lyle with a shrug. "I guess he left."

  But Lyle barely heard her. Because now he knew why he recognized Gordy. He'd seen the bastard in the lobby of the Stark Century Hotel the night he'd first met Laine.

  And when he'd followed her to the elevator, he'd passed a man in the hallway. A man in a baseball cap.

  Gordy took the picture. The one that started it all.

  Lyle was certain of it.

  Just like he was certain that the little cockroach was on his way to Laine's house right now, probably with a half dozen others racing there behind him.

  And somehow, someway, Lyle needed to get there first.

  15

  "Okay, but you still haven't told me what the note actually says."

  Joy's voice over the phone is far too rational. And I'm not in a rational mood. Call me unreasonable, but I tend to get cranky when a man I spend the night with skips out without even saying goodbye.

  And, no, leaving a note on the kitchen table really doesn't count. Especially not one that says I enjoyed last night more than I can say. Thank you for being such a perfect girlfriend for the night. -- Lyle

  I mean, really? "For the night?"

  That couldn't be any more of a kiss-off if he'd scrawled fuck you and have a nice life across the bottom.

  "I should never have let you talk me into this in the first place," I continue, because I'm working myself into a truly righteous rage. "How could I have been so stupid? Easy ten grand, my ass."

  "Slow down and rewind, or I swear I'm going to tell Cass I can't work today and come right over. As it is, I have fifteen minutes before my first appointment, and I want details."

  "Fine." I suck in a breath, then catch her up, giving her the quick story about how Marjorie had called and I'd agreed to be his paid date for the night.

  "It's not real," I say. And then, because I'm a completely hopeless moron, tears actually prick my eyes. "But we had a really good time. I mean, sure, he was paying me to be his pretend girlfriend, but it was fun. And it was real. And then when we got back to my place--"

  "Oh, sweetie, that's the job. They take you out, they show you off. Then they take you home and bang your brains out. It's pretty much a time-honored tradition."

  "That's not how it was," I say, except maybe I had it all wrong. "He wasn't paying me for sex. Just for the date. But when we got back here--"

  "Oh, really?" Her voice rises with interest.

  "Dammit, Joy, do you want me to tell you or not."

  She makes contrite noises, and I lay out what happened. "And when I told him I wanted to put the brakes on, he--"

  "Went all asshole on you?"

  "Joy..."

  "Fine, fine, fine."

  "He was great, actually. Total gentleman. Completely understanding. Except it turns out that it was all a big act, and--"

  "Maybe it wasn't an act," Joy says. "Maybe he really was happy to just be there for you. I mean, you're likable. But in case you've forgotten, he doesn't go in for repeat performances, and yet he went two rounds with you. He probably figured it was time to get gone before he made you a habit."

  I frown, but say nothing.

  "And, honestly, it just goes to show you."

  "Yeah? What exactly?"

  "When you have the chance, go for the sex. Because you never know when you might end up losing it altogether."

  "Thanks," I say. "I feel so much better."

  And I do. Sort of.

  I'm still pissed as hell, but I'm no longer a raging lunatic.

  "But the opening was fun?" Joy asks. "Cass said the art was amazing and the performance was spectacular."

  "I was seriously impressed," I admit.

  "I went to Brighton with her," she adds, referencing a prestigious private school in LA that seems very un-Joy like.

  "Who?"

  "Kelsey. The dancer. We lost touch when she moved away. I didn't even realize until I saw an article about the opening in the paper this morning."

  "Too bad you weren't at the show."

  "I know, right?" Her voice turns muffled, and I hear her talking to someone else. Then she's back on the line. "I gotta go. You okay? I can switch stuff around and come over..."

  "No, it's good. Greg's on his way to show me some pictures of the house we're going to be working on. He'll be here any min--Oh, he's here." My gate buzzer rings to my phone, and I have an app that lets me unlock it remotely. I do that now as I tell Joy goodbye and head to the front door to let him in.

  I pull open the door, ready to tell him to beware because I'm in a pissy mood, when camera flashes burst like popcorn right in my face.

  "What the--?"

  I blink, but otherwise, I'm frozen. I should probably step back inside and slam the door shut, but I'm too baffled by the sight of at least a dozen shouting strangers, most with cameras, surrounding the steps up to my front door.

  I open my mouth to try again, but this time, I don't have to ask the question. Because the reporters' shouted queries tell me everything I need to know.

  "How long have you been engaged?"

  "How did he pop the question?"

  "Have you set a date?"

  In the distance, I hear the squeal of tires.

  At the same time, Greg pushes through the crowd, trying to get to me.

  A car screeches to a halt in front of my house, stopping in the mid
dle of the street. The door is flung open, and Lyle barrels out, only to freeze on the sidewalk when a booming voice calls out, "Miss Laine!"

  I turn toward the source of the voice, and frown at the vaguely familiar guy with a goatee and a baseball cap. "Is it true that you and Lyle Tarpin are engaged?"

  In front of me, Greg's mouth drops open.

  In the street, Lyle meets my eyes. And then ever so subtly, he nods his head.

  And now it's on me.

  I can answer the question the way he wants, or I can express my displeasure at his kiss-off note by telling the world that I haven't got a clue what they're talking about

  I turn back to the crowd as Lyle pushes his way toward me. And then I say--very slowly and clearly--"Of course it's true. He asked me on the beach. And, no, we haven't set the date yet." I hold out my hand for him as I tell the crowd, "The truth is, I'm not crazy about public appearances. But I know I have to get used to them. So one picture, okay? And then if you could leave us alone for a while, that would be just swell."

  He's already climbing the stairs as I say the last. Swell? he mouths, but I just broaden my already tight smile.

  Behind him, Greg is climbing the steps, too, and he dodges around Lyle to get close to me. I know what he's going to say, of course. Or, rather, what he's going to ask. And I really can't risk one of the reporters overhearing him or reading his lips.

  So I throw my arms around him, give him a big hug, and whisper very softly, "Go inside. Please, please don't argue or ask question. Just wait inside."

  I take it on faith that he will, then I turn back to Lyle and face the crowd.

  Lyle slides an arm around me, but I wriggle away. I take his hand, though; after all, I'm the one who kept this ridiculous charade going.

  "Okay, people," Lyle says. "You heard her. Just one photo, and then we're going inside. As you can imagine, this isn't the announcement we had planned. Not to mention, you're trampling her lawn."

  There's a general murmur of consent and apology from the crowd. More snaps and flashes, and then they start to shuffle away. Lyle pushes the process along by getting into the crowd and herding them like sheep.

  Then he snaps my gate shut and turns to face me.

  I meet his eyes, turn my back, and slam through the door into my house, only to find Greg right there waiting for me. "You're engaged?"

  "No!" I blurt without thinking.