Dirty Bad Secrets (7 page)

It was a beautiful smile, but not nearly so beautiful as the words that followed it.

“So, what are we doing today,
sir
?”

Oh, the fucking ideas.

***

Faye

He sorted me out a telephone extension, as promised. A laptop, too. I watched him the whole time he set me up, waiting for some chink in the veneer. But none came.

My mobile buzzed repeatedly in my pocket, until finally he fixed me in a steady gaze.

“Who is that, Faye?”

I shook my head. “Just junk.”

“Right.” He didn’t believe me, and I didn’t expect him to.

My hand was shaking as I took out my phone, the strange magnetic pull still strong from overseas. I couldn’t bear to look at my notifications, couldn’t bear for all the open-mouthed comments as Facebook went Vincent Blackthorne crazy. “I’ll turn it off.”

His fingers grabbed for my wrist as I held the power off button, and the touch was electric. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Like I said, it’s just junk.”

“If he’s bothering you, Faye...”

I changed the subject, pasting on a smile. “This is great. To have my old desk back, it means a lot. Thanks.”

He couldn’t resist the snipe. “It’s not a marriage proposal.” Despite the snark in his tone he squeezed my wrist just a little bit tighter. The urge to unravel stretched its limbs, the need to be consumed by a force stronger than me, stronger than
Vincent
.

I took a breath, pushed it aside. “Still, thank you.”

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that at the end of the week.” He let go of me, and walked away, only to return with a pile of mail. “Today’s,” he explained. “Accounts paperwork can go in the tray, cheques can go to be banked. He handed me a paying in book. “Down the road, same place it used to be.”

“I remember.”

“Good.” He leaned over me to sort the envelopes into piles. His hand on the back of my chair, his shoulder against mine, and the scent of him, like a desert breeze, hot and oriental. “You get a feel for this without even opening them. Start with these, they should be the cheques.”

I found I was touching him, gripping his arm, fingers tight around the solid flesh beneath his shirt. His face was so close to mine, much too close. He swallowed. Dark eyelashes fluttered. “…Don’t do this, Faye.”

My fingers traced their way up to his shoulder, until they were ghosting along the tender skin of his neck. He closed his eyes. “...Don’t.”

“…I want to thank you. I want to feel like I belong here again.”

“Then sort the mail. Take those cheques.”

I let out my breath. “Ok.”

He retreated to the safety of his own desk, where he buried himself in his laptop and barely looked at me. I organised the cheques, recorded them on the incoming spreadsheet, and tallied them up for the paying in book.

“I won’t be long.”

I picked up my mobile, but thought better of it. I left it on my desk, instead.

 ***

Andy

I was gasping for caffeine by the time Topaz brought coffee. She set it down and glanced at Faye’s empty spot.

“Yes, that’s her desk. She’s gone to the bank,” I said.

She smiled politely, almost making it clean out of the room before I called her back. She approached slowly, wary of what was coming.

“I want answers, and I want them now. What do you know about Vincent Blackthorne?”

She wouldn’t look at me. “Pretty much everything.”

“Fine. What’s the latest? In a nutshell, please.”

“New book release in a few weeks,” she said. “
Bird in the bush
.”

“Why did she leave Italy?” I demanded.

Topaz fiddled with her nose ring. “I don’t know. Honestly.”

“You asked her about him, though, didn’t you?” I could see the fear in her eyes. “Answer the question, Topaz, I know you pissing well asked her. If I was going to fire you, I’d have done it by now. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

“She said he’s brooding, serious. A creative type.”

“A flouncy fucking fairy, probably.” I couldn’t hide my disdain. “He writes porn, doesn’t he?”

“Erotic romance, Mr Morgan. It’s not porn.”

“All the same bloody thing if you ask me.” I knew I was scowling. “What’s the deal with his books?”

She took a breath. “His latest series is about a woman,
Magpie
. He meets her at a conference, their eyes meet and there’s this crazy fated connection. She becomes his pretty bird, his muse. It’s very intense, very romantic. Very dark.”

“Dark?”

“It’s a turbulent love affair, jealous, and sexual and... well... it’s dark...”

“A crock of old shit,” I scoffed. I failed to mention my foray into the world of Vincent Blackthorne, an older book of his when Faye had just left. Pretentious fluff. Up his own arse and then some. I’d thrown the thing in the bin before reading past chapter two.

“I don’t think it’s shit. I think it’s real.” Topaz shifted her weight from hip to hip, stared at me. “She’s Magpie, isn’t she?”

“You fucking tell me.”

“Ok, then yes, she is.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, and her eyes were wide. “I didn’t know whether to ask her about it or not.”

“About what?”

“About this.” She turned the screen to my eyes and my breath caught. “It was only revealed today, I swear, and I haven’t even seen her… Even if I did, I’m not sure what I’d say.”

I gripped the phone, eyes wild and fucking crazy.
Bird in the Bush. Book 4 of the Pretty Bird series. Sir Vincent Blackthorne.
Like fuck he was a Sir. I’d never seen Faye look so sad as she did on that picture. Her eyes were glistening with tears, the tracks of which fell beautifully down her cheeks. Her lip would have been trembling, you could tell, a single moment of sorrow captured perfectly. Her eyes were big and dilated, and haunted. Brimming with fucking despair. And love.

The eyes of a woman in love.

It made me sick to my stomach.

“And this is his fucking book cover, is it?”

She nodded. “I didn’t know before today, I promise.”

I threw the phone back at her, angry fingers jabbing at the keys on my laptop. I looked up the piece of shit’s website, and Faye’s eyes took my breath for the second fucking time.

Topaz was reading the text aloud before I found it on screen.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Magpie is a broken bird. Spinning in Master Blake’s web in the heart of the Veneto mountains, her fate will play out on stage, during Blake’s most dangerous show of all.

His pretty bird is broken, but her beautiful pain only serves to bring her closer to Him. Her Master. Her Lover. Her everything.

Fourth instalment in the acclaimed Pretty Bird Series.

Warning: Contains aspects of dominance and submission which may disturb some readers. Dubious consent, multiple partners and sadomasochism. Please enjoy responsibly.

“What the fuck is this?”

“I’ve read the others,” Topaz said. “All of them. They’re pretty hardcore.”

I started clicking around the screen. “Where can I get a copy of this fucking book?”

“You can’t,” she said, simply. “It’s not out yet. You wouldn’t understand it anyway, it’s not a standalone. You have to start with book one.”

“Where can I get a copy of book fucking one then?”

“Amazon. Do you have a Kindle?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Do I look like the kind of guy who has a fucking Kindle, Topaz?”

I was scaring her. She twiddled her thumbs together. “I could lend you mine.”

“Please.” I stared at Sir fucking Blackthorne’s author picture. Some piece of shit black and white thing with his face hidden behind a Casanova mask. “How the fuck do I contact this prick?”

“You can’t,” she said. “He gets so much mail he has to employ a PR agency.”

I jabbed a finger at the cover on the screen. “This isn’t fucking happening, Topaz. This was a fucking mistake. If this thing goes to fucking print, I’ll sue the poncey prick for everything he’s got.”

“She must have given him permission, Mr Morgan. He’s not an idiot. His other covers were illustrations, bird cages and shackles and feathers.”

“She can damn well take her permission back then, can’t she?” I fixed her in a glare. “What does dubious consent mean?” She couldn’t even look at me. “Topaz, what the fuck does dubious consent mean?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Morgan, I don’t know what to say.”

I slammed my fist on the desk. “Tell me!”

“It’s … it’s dark erotica, forced submission that sometimes goes over the line.”

I put my head in my hands, temples thumping. “Get me that fucking Kindle, Topaz.” I looked across to the empty desk, and Faye’s handset sitting on top of it. “And while you’re at it, pass me that fucking phone as well.”

***

Faye

I’d known it was inevitable, but still the sight of Topaz hunched over Andy’s desk while he blatantly tried to guess my mobile’s security PIN was enough to drain the blood from my face. So much for my happy little jaunt to the bank and back.

“You’ll never get it. It’s a totally random combination,” I announced.

Topaz shot upright with a gasp but Andy didn’t flinch.

“Now you’re back I can stop guessing,” he said. Topaz made some blathering excuses before he waved her from the room, but I was hardly listening. Andy waited until the door clicked shut before he skimmed my phone back across the desk. “I just need his number, I can handle the rest.”

“Handle what, exactly?”

His expression darkened as he turned his laptop screen in my direction. “This. This fucking...
travesty
.”

If he expected shock horror he was sure to be disappointed. The picture on screen was old news. I’d seen it, approved it and signed the thing off long before I left Italy.

“Thanks, but there’s really nothing to handle.”

The scowl was etched across his face. “And you’re happy with this, are you? Not bothered that your face is going to be on every dirty cow’s Kindle screen the planet over? He can fuck right off if he thinks he’s using this picture to sell his seedy little porno book.”

I didn’t even attempt to argue the literary beauty of Vincent’s work. It would have fallen on deaf ears. “I gave him permission,” I said. “In writing. Signed, sealed, case closed.”

“Is it fuck,” he said. “What’s his fucking number?”

I couldn’t help but smile at his zeal. “I signed it off, Andy.
My
signature.”

“Queen fucking Elizabeth could have signed it off for all I fucking care, Faye.”

I focused on the twitch at the corner of his perfect mouth. “You’d be wasting your breath.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.” He stared right at me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you want your face on his poxy book.”

“It’s not that simple...”

“It
is
that simple.”

“Andy, seriously. I signed it off. End of.”

“Past tense. Permission fucking withdrawn. I have great lawyers, Faye, we’ll sue him for every penny he’s got, I promise.”

He rooted through his papers, pulled out a business card and began dialling before I could speak. The business card was one of those uber posh ones, watermarked on a thick, expensive grain. My hand was on his before he’d been connected, guiding the handset back into its cradle. “Thank you, I really appreciate your concern, but stop. Please.”

He didn’t let go of the phone. “If you’re worried about speaking to him...”

“I’m not,” I lied. “Look, I knew he’d be using that picture. It’s no big deal, he’s in Italy and I’m here, he’s busy writing books and I’m busy running a club.” I squeezed his hand. “Thanks, though. It’s nice to have someone in my corner.”

He swallowed, but kept his expression deadpan. “I mean it, Faye, we could fight this.”

“And I mean it when I say it’s no big deal. It’s just a picture.” I ignored the worms twisting in my stomach.

He gestured to the screen.
Bird in the Bush.
The title still made my heart race. “Topaz said you’re this
Magpie
woman
,
whatever the fuck that means, and what’s all this
dubious consent
shit? Did he hurt you?”

I forced a smile. “Maybe there’s some of me in Magpie, but she’s just a character. It’s just fiction.”

“
Just
fiction?” His eyes were so demanding. “Because if it isn’t...”

“It’s hardly a biography. Maybe I was a muse for Vincent, maybe some of it is
loosely
based on real life, but it is
just
a story.” My heart was thumping so loud I feared he’d hear it, but he let out a sigh.

“Fine.” He dropped the phone and pushed the business card back amongst the paperwork.

I used the opportunity to retreat to my desk. “Cheques are all banked. What next?”

He swivelled his chair to face me, and the fine hairs on my arms bristled. “Just answer me one thing. Why did you leave him?”

I hesitated for only a second. “End of the road.”

“End of the road?” I could feel his stare, hot on my face. “Why?”

“I wasn’t
with
Vincent, Andy. I stayed to help him organise his Venice events. It didn’t work out. We weren’t a couple. Not like
that.
”

“Not like what?”

“Not like anything.” I shrugged. “We messed around occasionally, mainly in public. That isn’t a relationship.”

He paused for a long moment. Long enough to catch me off guard. “You loved him.”

The pang of heartache took me by surprise. “I never said I didn’t.”

He turned the laptop again in my direction, my sad eyes haunting me across the fucking room. I looked away, busying myself with the rest of the mail.

“What was going on when this was taken?”

“Nothing.” I laid out the membership ID photocopies, the invoices, too.

“Don’t try and make a dick out of me. Breezing back in like nothing ever happened might seem like the best option to you, but I want to know what I’m fucking dealing with here.”

My hackles rose. “Piss off, Andy.
You’re
dealing with nothing. I’m back, end of conversation.”

“And what are
you
dealing with? Pissing hell, Faye, just talk to me, will you?”

I dropped the empty envelopes in the bin before I met his eyes. “No.”

“No? Just fucking no?”

“
Just
fucking no
.
Drop it, please.”

He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair. “You can’t have it all ways. You want to come back here like nothing’s happened, you want your cosy little desk back next to mine, you want to play your little games in the playroom. All that comes at a price, Faye.
I
want honesty.
I
want commitment.
I
want some fucking answers.”

“And
I
want to get on with running
my
club. Thanks for the desk, but it really doesn’t buy you a free pass to Faye Devere’s life history, break up 101. I’m not that cheap or that fucking generous.”

And with that I’d offended him. Again. His walls came up, lips pressed tight as he angled his chair back away from me. “That’s fucking gratitude for you.”

“I shouldn’t have to be grateful for being allowed into my own club.” I waved the membership IDs in the air. “Where do these go?”

“It’s
your
club. You should fucking know.” His screen switched to email, and he typed away to some supplier or another. Ignorant prick.

I rooted through drawers until I found the correct file, fighting back the urge to fist pump in victory. I could fit back in here, with or without Andy Morgan’s precious permission.

Telling him so landed me back on bar duty, but it was worth it.

Roll on fucking Saturday, and the next bastard coin toss.

***

“He cares,” Topaz said, handing me another batch of juices for the fridge.

“He’s a control freak. Knowledge is power,” I replied.

“That, too.” She kicked the empty box aside and opened another. “But he cares. You didn’t see his face when he first saw that cover.”

“I can imagine,” I scoffed. “Don’t want to create a spectacle now, do we? Have people talking? That will never do.”

She frowned, and I felt surprisingly bad. “It wasn’t like that. I think you’re being harsh.”

“I’m not the one making him beg to help out in his own club.”

And he’s not the one who walked away for three years straight.
Topaz didn’t say it, but her expression did. She had one of those faces, one you can read a mile off. I suspected it would make her truly beautiful in the throes of orgasm.

She stared at the bottles and not at me. “I’m sorry about the cover. I should’ve spoken to you before I showed him.”

I could hardly hold it against her. “You’ve known him a long time, you don’t have to apologise for loyalty.” I smiled. “Really, it’s ok. He’d have seen it sooner or later.”

“Later, probably. He’s not much of a reader.” A smirk lit up her eyes. “Can you imagine him reading them? The Magpie books, I mean.”

The thought gave me shivers. “He hasn’t got the attention span. He can’t even read his own horoscope without getting bored halfway through.”

“Just as well, eh? The things you get up to. I mean Magpie. Not you.” She laughed, a nervous laugh. “She is you, isn’t she?”

“She’s a character,” I insisted. “I suppose there is
some
of me in her.”

“The guy she talks about at the beginning of book one. Was that Mr Morgan?”

My blood really did run cold, prickles dancing along my spine. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t?! Magpie says she’s leaving a nobody, just a man who should’ve meant something. A partner in every way but the one that really mattered. I remember
everything
about that book.” Her eyes glazed over in that hero-worship way again.

“I didn’t feel like that in real life,” I lied. “Creative license.”

I arranged the bottles in the fridge, nice and neatly to appease Mr Perfect. Topaz was on a roll, quoting this and that from those fucking books. Things I’d forgotten I’d ever said, and certainly ever done. It felt unpleasant, like she was sniffing at the crotches of the panties in my laundry basket. Still, I’d signed up for that, made my personal life public domain in the flimsy disguise of fiction. The dread of
Bird in the Bush
thrummed right through me. She’d never look at me the same again after that instalment. Never.

I had to change the subject. “Have you never tried to fuck him?”

My question cut through her rambling in a heartbeat, and the bottles clanked as she lost her grip on the box. “Sorry?”

“Andy. Have you never tried it on? He’s always here, you’re always here. There must have been ample opportunity.”

“I, um... no. Never. I’m not really his type.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know,” she smiled shyly. “I mean, look at me. I’ve got green hair, and he’s like Mr Polished.”

“Mr Polished who owns a sex club for deviants and weirdos,” I said. “And the green hair’s cute. You’re cute. Universally. You shouldn’t put yourself down.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled. “Like I said, Mr Morgan doesn’t notice me. I’m not naive. There are so many beautiful women in this club. If he’s not going to fuck them, he’s hardly going to look twice at me.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “You’re stunning. Trust me on that.”

She actually laughed aloud, poor little cow. “Thanks,” she said. “But it wasn’t me he was all over in playroom two the other day, was it, legs eleven?”

“That was my fault. I started it.”

“Gah,” she smirked. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s my boss crush, and I can dream. I’d just have liked to have had him once, you know? Just one crazy night, for the memories.”

I took the last two alcopops from her hands, taking them to the bottle opener instead of the fridge. “There’s always time,” I said, handing her one.

“Now
that’s
crazy. He’s loopy about
you
. Pissed off, and grumpy, and out to make your life as miserable as humanly possible for as long as humanly possible, I don’t doubt. But still, he really wants you.”

The idea thrilled me way more than it should have.

And way,
way
more than I wanted it to.

***

Faye

“He’s... he’s... nobody. A man who should’ve meant something.
We
should’ve meant something. Life works out weirdly sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Lights twinkle from the plains down below, stretching out towards Venice. This is a magical place. Vincent Blackthorne smells divine. His scent on the breeze is exotic and dark. Black treacle and amber. He’s bigger than I expected from his author photos. His thigh is so thick against mine. My Prosecco is going down well.

“This man, he’s your partner?”

“Business partner. A partner in every way but the one that really matters.”

“And you want more?” His eyes twinkle. Searching. He wants me. I know he wants me. The thrill sizzles through my drunken limbs. I only came for a signed paperback. This is crazy. Crazy.

“Wanted more. Funny thing, how much you can want someone you shouldn’t have.”