Dirty Exes

  “She wants the full package.” Abby grinned at both of us in triumph. “Which means all-out warfare.”

  “Complete Dirty Exes rubdown.” My pocketbook did a little cheer. The full package always meant more money—I could count on money. Men? Not so much.

  Isla made a face. “Ew, don’t say rub.”

  “Rubbb.” I drew out the b and winked. “And since you were the bait while I fished, I get to be the bait this time.”

  “Boo.” She gave me a thumbs-down and tilted her head. “Alright, bait, take your ass out of the lulu joggers and put on something that’s set to catch this guy’s attention.”

  I made a face. I wasn’t known for dressing up, and most days Isla was thankful I even put on ChapStick. Why go to all the work when nobody would even appreciate it?

  “Abby, we got a name on this guy?” Isla asked.

  “Does it matter?” I fired back. “Once a cheater . . .”

  “Always a cheater,” Isla finished.

  “Unless,” I pointed out in a disbelieving tone that probably had more bite in it than necessary, “he’s innocent.”

  Spoiler alert: we’d yet to have an innocent spouse.

  “May the texts prove otherwise or we don’t get paid the full amount.” Isla gestured at the door. “I’ll go through our client’s file, review his social media, and get all the dirty details for your first mission. We’ll have Abby make an appointment with the wife, say next Tuesday at noon? That enough time to get your stalk on?”

  “Absolutely.” Adrenaline pumped through me. Sleep? Who needed sleep. This job was everything I needed to focus on so I didn’t lose my mind and mentally consider all the reasons why I was in that small office stalking cheaters and trying to find as much dirt on them as possible.

  It was my vengeance.

  My goal.

  It was also lonely.

  “Wear something sexy!” Isla called after me.

  I hesitated and winked at her over my shoulder. “I’m always sexy!”

  Isla didn’t respond.

  Abby suddenly found her computer screen more interesting than the conversation, and even Penny went and hid under my desk.

  Really, universe? Really?

  I full-on glared at Isla.

  “What?” She smirked behind her coffee cup. “Okay, I’m just saying that if you want to be bait, you can’t wear the mom bun.”

  Abby snorted.

  I touched the top of my head and grimaced. “It keeps the hair out of my eyes.”

  And I needed my hair out of my eyes so I could see.

  Not because I was lazy.

  Or because I’d given up on life.

  On men.

  On sex.

  Ugh.

  “Right.” She nodded slowly, and the bangles on her arm clanged as she shifted on her feet. “And so do scrunchies and all the other things that make me want to die rather than let you put them on your head.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine, no mom bun.”

  “Lipstick,” she just had to add. “And none of that bullshit gloss, that’s fake lipstick and you know it. It rubs off in seconds, and if he’s a cheater he’s not going to want you to leave any evidence behind.”

  The woman had a point.

  “Real lipstick,” I repeated. “No mom bun, no joggers, anything else?”

  She eyed me up and down.

  I didn’t like that face.

  I straightened my shoulders and stared her down right back.

  “Nope. This isn’t Clueless, you are NOT going to do a makeover. I like my look!”

  Abby jerked her attention to our conversation. “Makeover?”

  I wanted nothing more than to kill the hope that lit up her eyes, run it over with a train, and set it on fire for good measure. No. No makeover. I looked fine! More than fine.

  “Oh, it’s a good look,” Isla said cheerfully. “If you worked at a CrossFit gym I’d definitely ask you to be my trainer, but you don’t . . . you’re allergic to dresses, and guys like this, they like short skirts, leather, Gucci. They can tell if something’s off-the-rack or designer by the mere feel between their fingers as they slowly unzip the dress, as the silk falls down your back, pooling at your feet, and wet heat pulsates between your thighs and—”

  “No more coffee, Isla, and definitely no more late-night erotica novels. I mean it. It’s not good for your health. And I’m not sleeping with a client. That’s a hard limit contractually, and you know nothing pisses me off more than a guy who can’t keep it in his pants. Marriage is like finally moving into the house of your dreams: you get twenty rooms to sleep in, yet the guy ends up wanting to check out other rentals, you know? Rentals, for crying out loud, not even mansions!”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. I’m tired.” I yawned and eyed her coffee before she poured it into a to-go cup, handed it over, and slapped me on the ass. “Ow.”

  “You have the money, and even though nobody would know it—you also have the style. Use the Force, and the company card, to do some damage, and I’ll text you his whereabouts, ’k?”

  I glared, hoping she’d relent. Whenever I thought about designer dresses and shopping, my ex came to mind. He’d encouraged me to shop, to enjoy myself, to get away and relax—Hey, you deserve it! And I’d done exactly as he said, not realizing it was just another way to get me out of the house. To get her alone. I was too exhausted to deal with the memories the damn mall would bring.

  Why did he have to ruin everything? Past? Present? Future?

  She glared right back and crossed her arms.

  The phone rang again. Abby’s chipper voice sounded in the background while Isla continued to stare me down. Her green eyes narrowed.

  I crumpled first, I always did. “Fine, I’ll do it, but if he unzips my dress, I’m going to be using my stiletto with his dick as target practice.”

  “Take pictures.” She gave me a little wave.

  And I was off.

  To shop.

  Something I’d tried to avoid since the divorce.

  Jason and I often went to the mall when we were first married. I had a weakness for food-court pizza, and he had a weakness for pretzels. Our first date was at Sbarro. There was no pressure like there had been with Jessie, when I was constantly looking over my shoulder and wondering if people were staring. With Jason I just existed, and he didn’t intimidate me the way Jessie had. Looking back, I can at least admit that most of our dates consisted of cheap food and movies. We never had the deep conversations I’d always craved, but it had been enough. Last time I went to the mall I broke down in the middle of Wetzel’s Pretzels. It was pathetic.

  That was then. This is now.

  I don’t even recognize that woman anymore.

  Now I was successful. I was happy.

  Well, marginally happy.

  I was single. Independent. Attractive.

  I was also in a mom bun.

  And glorified sweats.

  I straightened my shoulders and kept walking.

  Just hold your head high and don’t worry about your messy hair or the licorice hanging out of your pocket, or the fact that the mall’s going to smell like Jason and bad memories, I told myself. Just then I slammed into whatever I should have definitely been worried about and fell to my knees with a loud crack.

  Please let my kneecaps not be broken, please, please, please. I really needed those, and with the way my life was going, I’d probably get early onset arthritis and need to use a cane for the rest of my life.

  “Blaire?”

  I shook my head. I knew that voice.

  I heard it last night.

  Both on TV and in my dreams.

  That gorgeous, amazing, hot-as-hell voice.

  The one that got away.

  Best kiss of your life, my ovaries chanted.

  I looked up, up, up, into clear blue eyes and was treated to a five o’clock shadow and a mouth meant for very wicked things. “Jessie Beckett?”

&n
bsp; Great, I just had to use his full name—like a psycho.

  Ex-NFL star quarterback, People’s Sexiest Man Alive—twice. The most delicious and terrifyingly gorgeous man I’d ever met.

  He’d asked me out for coffee back when I was visiting my brother, Ian Hunter, in Seattle, after Ian’s accident his rookie year with the Hawks. At the time, I was still trying to decide what to do with my life. Jessie’s smile had been so sexy, and even though I swore to never get involved with anyone in the limelight—after seeing the drama my brother dealt with—I broke my own promise and went out on a date with him. I was surprised that he was down-to-earth and funny. One spilled glass of wine, lots of laughs, three dates for us to become glued to one another, talking every day, texting until two in the morning. We’d fallen into an easy friendship that turned into sultry kisses and shared lives.

  Three dates. Two kisses. That’s all it took for me to unfairly compare him to every single man in existence.

  We’d been so inseparable that we kept overnight bags at each other’s places. We even had matching toothbrushes. It would be only a matter of time before we moved in together. He was always careful not to push the issue of sex, and I assumed it was because he wanted to take his time with us—he didn’t want to rush this beautiful thing we had.

  Some of my favorite memories were of us watching late-night TV and eating popcorn while he played with my hair.

  And then the bomb dropped.

  He was traded to Pittsburgh three weeks later.

  And I was heartbroken.

  Especially when his calls came less and less frequently before stopping altogether. When he only called on the holidays or my birthday, I just stopped answering the phone out of insecurity. He felt more and more like that relative who called you out of guilt than the guy who made me dream of the perfect life with kids, the house, a small dog. It felt like he was calling me out of obligation.

  A whiff of spicy cologne hit me as he knelt and helped me to my feet. “Are you alright?”

  “What? Oh, this? I, uh . . .” Why? Why were my hands sweating? I wiped them on my joggers like I was dusting off nonexistent dirt, and gulped. “Yeah, I mean sorry. I really need to watch where I’m going.”

  Smile. You can do it. Not too much, just enough to appear confident. Count to three—wait, is three too long? He frowned. I stopped smiling. Great, I was scaring him off by showing too much teeth.

  His eyes lit up. “Well, I did take up half the sidewalk.”

  “Yes, you’re . . . huge.” I gulped. Shoot me. Run me over with a car. Get it over with, God, because this was not going well.

  I was a thinker, it’s what I did. At least I did when I wanted to tackle a situation. I wasn’t ready to do that with Jason, but Jessie? I’d traveled down that road so many times it had permanent footprints, a hotel, and a Starbucks for convenience. He was the what-if, the game changer, the one who pulled me out of that dark place where my life with Jason had set up camp.

  He was the happy that I turned to when I listed all the things Jason had done to me, to our marriage.

  He barked out a laugh then shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Great. I’d been staring and daydreaming about him at the same time. Yeah, I should probably be institutionalized.

  “Yup.” My palms stung and for some reason my heart felt funny—the anger I’d been holding on to for the last year started to dissipate, and sadness took its place.

  Because in that moment, I wondered.

  What. If.

  Two very dangerous words.

  Two horrible words.

  Words that should never be put together in any way, shape, or form.

  What if I had pushed harder?

  What if he had asked me to move with him?

  What if I hadn’t said yes to Jason during one of the weakest points in my life?

  Jessie tilted his head. “You still with me?”

  I felt my face flame red. “Yeah, sorry, stressful day at work and yeah, no need to bore you with the details. It was nice seeing you.” I jutted out the least sweaty of my two hands.

  He took it, his grip was strong. Confident. I wondered if his lips would still feel hot against my tongue, if his hands still knew how to grip a woman’s hips like he was ready to snap and claim her against the nearest wall. I jerked back my hand.

  “You look good.” He sucked in his bottom lip, and I followed the motion with my eyes like I’d never seen a mouth before. With a smile he added, “Really good.”

  I perked up. He was just being nice—after all, I’d had way better days—but it still felt good to get a compliment, and maybe he didn’t notice the hair and leggings. Was that seriously where I was at emotionally? An ex-flame I was half in love with says I look nice and suddenly the sun is shining and my heart starts hammering like he just dropped to his knees and begged me to bear his children.

  Riiight . . .

  No wonder he didn’t invite me to go with him.

  “. . . it would be nice to catch up.”

  I blinked dumbly. I didn’t hear what he said.

  “Yeah.” I smiled brightly. “That would be nice.”

  “So”—his smile reached his eyes, making them crinkle as he rocked back on his heels—“am I going to have to beg for your number, or are you going to give it to me?”

  I darted my gaze to his left hand out of habit. The last thing I wanted was to be a home-wrecker, and in my line of work it was shocking how often married men hit on single, unsuspecting women.

  No ring. Thank God.

  In fact, there was no mention of a relationship on the talk show last night either.

  I wracked my brain to try to remember if he discussed a significant other. I spent the last year shutting out all social media except ones related to Dirty Exes. I didn’t even have a Facebook account with my real name. I figured the less I knew about my exes the better off I’d be. The last thing I needed was to hop on Facebook and see Jason in Mexico having the time of his life with his new cookie, or Jessie making out with some gorgeous model on a yacht.

  “How do you want it?” Because that didn’t sound like a sexual innuendo. I was severely out of practice.

  His eyes widened, as a rough exhale escaped between his teeth. “I’d say the normal way, you can either type it in with your . . . fingers . . .”—he tilted his head—“or I can memorize it.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “That good of a memory, huh?”

  “Black,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Your shirt.” He took a step forward. “On our first date, you were wearing a black T-shirt, black boots and jeans, and you had a stripe of purple through your hair.” He tugged a lock of my hair that had fallen from my bun and was resting against my cheek. I sucked in a breath. “I remember the important things.”

  Good, because I was having a really hard time even remembering my birthday let alone my phone number.

  Miracles do happen, however, because before I realized what I was doing, I was firing off my number, much to his amusement, if the wide smile on that gorgeous mouth was any indication.

  Jessie tapped his temple. “Got it.”

  “You sure?” I teased. “That’s a lot of digits.”

  “Should I be concerned you just gave me the number to a pizza place?”

  I laughed. A real laugh. It sounded so foreign I almost stopped. God, had it really been that long since I’d laughed with someone of the opposite sex? “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”

  “Guess I will.”

  He checked his watch, his lips thinned into a tight line. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta run, but I’ll talk to you soon, alright?”

  I nodded because I had a feeling if I actually said yes it would come out all breathy and needy.

  I was still staring at him two blocks away.

  Finally, he turned a corner.

  And I was breathing normally again.

  Good, because for a minute there
I had a feeling I was going to have to stop by quick care and grab an inhaler.

  Jessie-induced asthma: it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it was a real thing. The man was . . . impressive.

  And nice.

  He’d always been so nice. Opening doors, checking in when he was going to be late. The perfect man.

  I mentally slapped myself.

  Yeah, I needed that.

  Stay strong.

  And don’t get your hopes up that he wants anything other than a quick coffee date where he tells you all about his perfect celebrity life.

  Right.

  My phone buzzed with a text.

  I nearly dropped it twice before I was able to swipe.

  Isla.

  My heart sank.

  Isla: Any luck?

  Me: Not yet.

  And then I made a beeline for Saks.

  Isla: Need help?

  I snorted. Yeah, her help would probably involve me walking around nearly naked. Her idea of clothes almost always involved exposing half her body and wearing heels high enough to impale a person and get charged with murder.

  Me: I got it.

  Isla: You sure?

  Me: I’m not completely hopeless, how hard can it be?

  Chapter Three

  JESSIE

  I ground my teeth together then slammed my hand on the table. Several patrons sent worried glances my way. They could fuck off.

  The modern décor wasn’t dark enough for my taste, in fact, it was too light, too cheerful, too easy to take pictures. Hell, even my clothes felt too fake and cheerful, just like the restaurant. It was one of her favorites.

  Cut was an up-and-coming bar and grill with a full organic menu thanks to the garden they kept in the back. It was the new thing, and we always had to be seen in front of the trendy things. The more people there, the more photo ops, the more ways to show everyone just how fucking perfect our lives were. Despite our A-list status, we appeared just normal enough to give the impression that Hey, we’re just like you, look, I use a fork too! Oh wow, she actually put butter on her bread.

  At some point, the waiter must have dropped off a menu without me noticing, meaning I really must be distracted—I needed a drink if I was going to have to deal with another lunch of one-sided conversation and selfies.