Wicked Dirty

  Before I know it, I'm standing in the doorway practicing deep breathing techniques. I have a fresh pedicure and am wearing heeled sandals that show off my feet. The dress fits as well as I'd expected, and the skirt swishes when I walk. My underwear--also courtesy of Marjorie--is La Perla, and very sexy, adding a bit of contrast to my more conservative dress.

  Marjorie did my make-up herself, and I look better than I ever have. Made-up, but still natural.

  Everything about me is ready. Everything, except that niggling fear. And that, I'm just going to have to deal with.

  "Remember the house," Joy says. "Keep your house in mind, and everything will be easy."

  I nod. "Easy."

  "Want me to wait at your place?"

  "That's okay," I say. I love Joy, but considering what I'm about to do, I think I'm going to want to be alone. "But can you swing by and feed Skittles?" I rescued the now-fat tabby cat from a sack in a Dumpster when he was only a few days old. His siblings didn't make it, but I nursed him to health, bottle-feeding him and keeping him safe and warm in a little bed I made out of a crate and a heating pad. It was two weeks after Andy and Mom died, and Skittles saved me as much as I'd saved him.

  "Will do," Joy says.

  "Your driver is downstairs," Marjorie tells me, glancing up from her phone where she's obviously just received a text. "Any last minute questions?"

  "No," I say, though I'll probably have a million the moment I get in the car. "Now that I've decided to do this thing, I just want to get started, you know?"

  "Then good luck, Sugar." She hands me a small envelope. "Open this when you get to the hotel. Your driver's name is Lionel, and Joy can walk down with you. I'll contact you tomorrow about transferring payment. And Mr. Z will take care of any tip he might offer you on-site. Okay?"

  I draw a deep breath, then nod.

  Holy crap, I'm really doing this.

  As Marjorie promised, there's a black sedan waiting under the porte-cochere, and a well-dressed man with silver hair is holding the back passenger door open for me. "Miss Sugar," he says, as I hug Joy and promise to call her in the morning to tell her absolutely everything.

  Then I slide into the car, Lionel shuts the door, and it all feels suddenly very, very real.

  I'm actually going to have sex with a stranger.

  I let the words hang in my head for a while, as I decide if I'm truly okay with that basic truism. And you know what? I am. I have a good reason. A purpose. And that's more than most women who meet a guy at a bar and go home with him can say.

  Of course, those women have the benefit of being attracted to the guy. And, probably, of being at least a little tipsy, if not downright drunk.

  What if he's all wham, bam? What if he doesn't have lube or doesn't even care if it hurts?

  What if I'm too nervous to get turned on even if he's freaking Casanova?

  What if I'm a complete and total idiot for doing this?

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  There's a screen between me and the driver, and a control panel on the seat back. I can't find the button for the screen, but I do find an intercom, and I ask Lionel to swing by a drugstore before we go to meet Mr. Z.

  "I understood you were on a schedule."

  "Trust me. This is important."

  Lucky for me, Lionel's a nice guy, and when he pulls into a Rite Aid, I practically sprint inside--despite the impractical four-inch shoes--and head straight for the sex aisle, where I'm faced with a remarkable amount of lubricant variety. I choose a small box with a familiar brand name, then hurry toward the cashier, pausing only long enough to grab a spritzer of minty breath spray and one of those disposable glasses pre-filled with red wine. The top peels off, and I assume Lionel won't mind if I have a quick drink in the back of the car.

  As for the breath spray, it's easier to be confident with a little minty goodness.

  Once I'm all paid and back in the car, I tuck the lube and breath spray into my purse, then carefully peel the lid off the wine. I want the drink, but I don't want to stain my dress.

  I drink it fast, then close my eyes and let a warm buzz wash over me.

  Just in the nick of time, too, because Mr. Z is apparently tucked away at the Stark Century Hotel, one of the ritziest hotels in the city. Lionel pulls in front of the valet stand, and a uniformed bellman opens the door for me and I step out of the car. I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do now, but then I remember the envelope and slide a finger under the flap. I pull out a small notecard, on which is written: Z - 2848.

  And absolutely nothing else.

  I use my amazing powers of deduction and conclude that 2848 is Mr. Z's suite number. I use the revolving door to enter, then pause in the tastefully elegant lobby. There's a concierge desk nearby, and a woman glances at me, her smile clearly offering help. I just smile back and head toward the elevator bank, as if I'm just one of the regular guests. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.

  The elevator is fast. Too fast. I was hoping for a slow crawl as I gathered my wits, but that's not what I get. Instead, when the doors open on twenty-eight, I'm still trying to calm my crazy-rapid pulse, which kicked into overdrive the moment I stepped out of the car.

  I pause in the elevator bank to collect myself. There are four elevators, two on one side of the rectangular area, and two on the other. The hallway is to my left. A floor to ceiling window is to my right, an upholstered bench sitting right in front of it. A man with curly blond hair and a goatee sits on the bench, scowling at his phone and tapping at the keypad. He's wearing jeans, a sports jacket, and a baseball cap, and I'm guessing that his date is either late or has stood him up.

  He lifts his head to glance at me, and I immediately fumble in my purse for the breath spray so that I won't look like a terrified little girl off to meet the big, bad wolf. Instead, I'll look like a girl primping for a hot date.

  After I spritz, I redo my lipstick. And then, of course, I'm all out of excuses. With a sigh, I move toward the hall, check the placard so I know which way to turn, and head for Mr. Z's suite.

  It's to the right at the end of the hall, and I'm guessing it's one of the larger suites. Probably the kind with a kitchen, a living room, and at least one bedroom. In other words, the kind I've only seen in the movies.

  So, that's another perk, right? Cold, hard cash and a really cool hotel room.

  Way to keep up the optimism. Because, really, tonight is all about the room.

  I close my eyes, trying to shut down the conversation running through my head, then knock firmly on the door. Although why I bother, I don't know. My heart is pounding so hard, I'm sure he can hear it on the other side.

  Then the door opens, and my heart picks up tempo again. This time not out of fear but out of--what?

  Lust? Surprise? Anticipation?

  Because I know this guy. Hell, everyone knows this guy. He's plastered on the side of a freaking building on Sunset Boulevard. He's on the cover of at least two different entertainment magazines. And I saw him this morning on a local talk show.

  He's Lyle Tarpin, and he's reaching for me.

  He's taking my hand and pulling me inside.

  He's pressing me against the foyer wall, one hand at my waist, the other tangled in my hair.

  His mouth is closing over mine, hard and hot and wild and desperate, and I'm melting.

  I'm just freaking melting.

  And the only thing I can think when he finally pulls back, his mouth quirked up in his trademark lazy grin, is that I really, really, really won't need that lube.

  4

  My blood pounds through my body, my heart beating so hard that I can feel the pressure not only against my ribs, but against the wall behind me. My lips are parted, my breath coming in shaky gasps.

  He's only inches away, so close I could reach out and touch that famous, gorgeous face. His eyes, as deep and blue as the summer sky, roam over me. He eases closer, moving slowly, his face reflecting a hunger that sends shivers through
me.

  Once again, my mind conjures the image of a hungry wolf. Only now I'm thinking that maybe getting eaten wouldn't be so bad after all.

  Besides, I'm here. Might as well enjoy it.

  Then, of course, I remember exactly what it is.

  Oh, God.

  His fingertip brushes my forehead, and I almost jump out of my skin. I meet his eyes, see something that looks like irritation, and want to kick myself. I need to focus, dammit.

  "You were somewhere else." He speaks flatly, as if he's working to keep all emotion out.

  I shake my head, conjuring a lie. "I'm right here." And then, because I've seen movies with call girls, I put my hand flat on his chest, trying to seem seductive. He's wearing a gray T-shirt, and I can feel his heart beating beneath the planes of his muscled chest.

  I read somewhere that he was getting in shape to play a superhero in an upcoming movie. And kudos to whoever's orchestrating that transformation, because this guy is rock solid.

  He's still looking at me, and I fist my hand in the material of his shirt, needing an anchor against the storm of emotion I see playing out on his face. Desire. Hunger. Longing. Regret.

  And pain. I see so much damn pain that I have to fight the urge to cup my palm against his cheek and tell him that whatever it is, it's going to be okay.

  Instead, I simply whisper, "Lyle?"

  I'm not sure if it was the wrong thing or the right thing to say, but I know that it was unexpected. And before I can apologize or cover or say anything else at all, he is on me. One hand at my throat, the other hard on my breast. I'm pinned against the wall, helpless, as he claims my mouth again. Wildly. Brutally.

  I try to think what I'm supposed to do--try to respond. But I'm trapped. I'm not Sugar. I'm not Laine. I'm not anyone. This isn't about sex. It's about pain and need and that storm of horrors I saw on his face. I might as well not even be here. And as his hand squeezes tight on my breast--as his mouth clashes so hard against mine that he draws blood--my only thought is that I shouldn't have come at all. That this was stupid. Foolish. And that this night is going to leave me scarred.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to be what he wants. A warm body. An anonymous female.

  But I can't do it. I can't do it at all.

  All I can be is me. A woman desperate enough to have sex for money. A girl trying anything and everything to save her house. To protect her family's memory.

  I can be that girl.

  But I can't be nothing. I can't be no one.

  And as his hand tightens in my hair--as he kisses me violently--as his body presses hard against mine and I feel the steel of his erection--I know that I've made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.

  Stop!

  The word rips through me, but it's only in my head. He doesn't hear it, and he presses harder against me. His hand on my dress, yanking it up. His fingers closing on the band of the pretty La Perla panties. He starts to tug them down, and suddenly I can't stand it anymore. Being trapped. Being crushed.

  One palm is on his chest, the other hand hanging limp at my side. I bring that hand up now, hard and fast, so that I knock away his hand that is clutching my breast.

  I feel him flinch. The pressure of his mouth lessens against mine, and his grip on my neck relaxes as well.

  I take advantage, shoving my free hand hard against his chest, then using both hands to push him away.

  He stumbles back, obviously startled. His eyes go wide and his lips part as he stands in front of me. I'm still against the wall, and I cross my arms over my chest, holding tight to my shoulders.

  "Oh, God," I say. "I'm sorry." I'm not sure if I'm apologizing for breaking free or for not knowing how to ease his pain. "I'm so, so sorry." I draw in a breath. "I have to go. I shouldn't have--I just have to go."

  We're still in the foyer, and so I turn, then launch myself toward the door. It's happened so fast, and he hasn't really moved at all. But even when I turn away, I can feel his eyes on my back. Can feel the shock and surprise, now thick in the air between us.

  I reach for the door, and that's when his hand closes over my shoulder.

  I spin around, my arm now behind me and my hand clutching tight to the knob.

  He steps back, as if instinctively knowing that I need space. "You're leaving?"

  I can't tell if he's surprised or angry, but I nod. "I'm sorry," I say for about the billionth time. Hollow words. Useless words.

  I know that I should stay. I need the money. But I feel so twisted up inside. Like I can feel his pain--and there's so damn much of it.

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "I just--you just--"

  I snap my mouth shut, knowing I sound like an idiot. Knowing I'm making it worse. But then I open my mouth again, and the words just spill out. "Why are you doing this? Me? The other girls? Anybody? You don't want a date. You don't want a woman. You don't even want sex." I feel tears on my cheeks, taste the salt. "You just want a witness. Or not even that. You want a wall. Something you can rail against. Someone who'll take it because they have to. And I--I'm sorry," I say again lamely. "I'm sorry, but I just can't."

  "A wall," he repeats. His voice is low, his expression hard. I'm certain that he's angry, but I'm not sure if that anger is directed at me or himself or someone else entirely.

  I'm not going to hang around to find out.

  I turn back toward the door.

  "Sugar," he calls, and I freeze. It's the first time he's spoken my name, and I'm shocked at how much I like the sound of it.

  I swallow, then grapple for the handle again, because clearly I need to get away from this man who's messing with my head.

  "Please," he says more gently. "Wait."

  I hesitate. I know I shouldn't, but I do. I stand there with my hand tight around the cool steel of the handle, tears clinging to my lashes. I'm not even sure why I'm crying. For my house? For my stupidity? For this man's pain? A man who projects such kindness and innocent charm to the world, but here in this room is so obviously, painfully tortured?

  He says nothing else, and I think he's afraid that if he speaks, I'm going to bolt. As if I'm a small, cornered rabbit, and if he moves too quickly I'll somehow manage to hop away.

  "Tell me what you're talking about." His voice is firm. Demanding. But I can't answer.

  Besides, he already knows. He's the one trying to work something out, after all.

  Finally, I face him again. "Don't take this out on Marjorie, okay? I get that you need ... something. But this is my first time doing anything like this, and I messed it all up. She thought I'd be okay, but she was wrong. Please don't blame her. I feel terrible enough already. If I thought she lost a client, then I'd really--"

  "I won't," he says. "I don't."

  "And I'm sure she'll give you a refund." A fat tear rolls down my cheek, and I wince at the thought of what I'm sacrificing by walking away. "Fuck," I whisper as I wipe the tear with the back of my hand.

  I manage to stop myself before I say that I'm sorry one more time. Instead, I turn toward the door again, this time pulling it open a few inches before a single word stops me.

  "Why?"

  I pause, my eyes down so that I'm focusing on the pattern of the carpet in the hallway just outside this door.

  I hear the rustle of clothes and feel the shift in the air. He's stepped closer to me, and this time when he speaks I feel him gently lay a hand on my shoulder. "You said it was your first time. Why were you doing it?"

  I twist out from under his touch. "Does it matter?"

  "It matters to me." He reaches over me to push the door shut. As he does, his entire body brushes mine. I stiffen, hyperaware of his touch, of the ripples of electricity that zing through my body. And I breathe only when he eases back, once again giving me space.

  I close my eyes tight, hating that I reacted so viscerally to this man. But something about him--his pain, his loneliness--has settled inside me. And even though I want to ignore the question and run out that door, I already know that ev
en if I leave, I won't really be escaping him at all.

  And so I stay. I draw in a deep breath. And then I turn to face him. "The money." I say the words simply. Flatly. As if there's no emotion attached to them at all. As if I don't understand how much I'm giving up by walking out this door.

  "That much I assumed. What do you need the money for?"

  I tilt my head as I look at him. "Is this your first time?"

  The corner of his mouth twitches. "No."

  I nod, as if considering that. "Why were you doing it?"

  The twitch turns into a full-blown smile. "Does it matter?"

  I meet his gaze. "It matters to me."

  Our eyes lock, the words hanging in the air between us. There's heat and humor and something else I don't recognize but makes me feel safe. Comfortable. I like this guy. Despite the weird circumstances, there's something about him that I really like.

  The moment seems to last for an eternity, though I know it's really only the space of one breath. Then he takes a step back. "Touche," he says, breaking the spell.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "So, anyway. I should go."

  He takes my hand, and suddenly the only thing in the whole world that I'm aware of is that connection between us. His firm grip. His warm skin.

  His hand is just a little rough, not soft and prissy like some manicured, pampered actor. He feels like he's struggled. Like he's earned what he's achieved. But as I remember the pain I saw in his eyes, I can't help but wonder what price he's paid along the way.

  I glance down at our joined hands. "I really--"

  "What were you expecting?" he demands.

  "Expecting?"

  "When you came here tonight. This first time, for money. What did you think was going to happen?"

  "I--I'm not sure." I tug my hand free, then rub my suddenly sweaty palms down the skirt of my dress.

  "You must have had some idea. Didn't Marjorie say anything?"

  I look up at his face. "I get the impression she doesn't know that much about you."

  "Not many do."

  For some reason, those three little words make me incredibly sad. "Why?"

  But he just shakes his head. "You still haven't answered my question."

  I exhale loudly, coming to terms with the fact that the only way I'll avoid the question is if I yank the door open and take off running down the hall. And if I do that in these shoes, there's no doubt that he'd catch me.