Tell Me No Lies (Bright Lights, Dark Secrets Collection Book 4) Page 2

  The same Olivia who wanted to give me a way to fix my life. It didn’t make sense.

  “Why?” I demanded, hating that I sounded stupidly petulant, but too drunk to pull myself together. “Why would you help me, after what I did to you?”

  She stared at me for a long, thoughtful moment, as if she was trying to decide whether I would believe her.

  Then she said, “Because Ryan deserves to be punished.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “I’m in.”

  I don’t how many drinks I’d had before we left Drink. Enough that I didn’t remember getting in the car, or Olivia driving us here. ‘Here’ was an office suite that had been converted to a dressing room in Victor’s place of establishment, stuffed to bursting with racks of lingerie I would’ve considered too rich for my budget even before I found out we were destitute. It was on the second floor of a building that Victor owned, mixed use with office space and luxury apartments. Apparently a lot of his “girls” lived on the upper floors.

  Aside from the TV on the far wall, displaying the news silently with captions, the room was nothing but full-length mirrors and racks of leather, Lycra, and spandex. I could’ve been backstage at the world’s naughtiest fashion show.

  Olivia held a sheer red teddy up to my extra ten pounds for two pregnant seconds before shaking her head and diving back into the rack of baby dolls, negligees, and various undergarments fluent in the universal language of fuck me.

  I was feeling that phrase in one more ways than one.

  Olivia shook her head for us both, disappointed in the choices, or at least how they were looking on me. She had already told me twice that even if I looked good, it wasn’t exactly “recruitment bonus-worthy.”

  I had no idea that the escort business was so … corporate, but apparently business is business.

  Don’t think I didn’t see the irony of all this — twelve years ago, Olivia calling me a whore, and today, trying to turn me into one.

  Would this be my revenge on Ryan, or Olivia’s revenge on me?

  There was another way to look at it — twelve years ago, Ryan made me look like a whore by being too cowardly to break up with Olivia before he’d seduced me. And thanks to his treachery since, I now had no other way out of this mess than to become one.

  I was too drunk to tell which was the truth. Or maybe not drunk enough.

  Would it matter when I was living in a homeless shelter with Alec and Lena? Not one little bit.

  I looked over without meaning to and saw the thing that I’d been trying not to see for the third time in two minutes. A girl changing with zero inhibitions. But why would she have any? She had the same perfect, round little ass I used to shake in front of Ryan’s face; the same full tits — not too big or small — he used to knead by the handful; and the same nubile body I would rub against his for thirty to forty minutes at a time, two or three times every night, back when we were first getting started.

  Before two rounds of childbirth turned me into … this … and Ryan started cheating on me.

  But I couldn’t leave him until I was sure I could support myself and the kids.

  Step one: Find something that would make me look “recruitment bonus-worthy.”

  “There’s gotta be something that you think will look good on me.”

  Olivia looked from the simple black slip in her hand back to me. “The lingerie isn’t the problem.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” I said, trying not to sound irritated. If she didn’t think I could do this, why was she bothering? Was this her revenge, to dangle the hope of economic freedom in front of my nose before explaining to me how I wasn’t good enough to be a whore?

  “You. You have zero confidence.” Olivia looked at me the way that drill sergeants look at fresh draft recruits in movies. “This is an interview for an escort agency. You can’t just dress sexy, you have to believe you’re sexy. If you’re not a 100 percent in on that, then we should leave now. Are you in?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Just tell me what to do.”

  Just tell me what to do.

  Would I be saying the same thing in a different voice if this interview went well? And did I even want it to? Wasn’t I hoping that it would go absolutely nowhere?

  “I need you to focus. Either you’re serious or you’re not. I don’t want you making me look bad.”

  How could I know whether I was serious when I was so holy shit drunk?

  The hazy reality of my situation was settling in. Sure, my husband was apparently some sort of serial cheater who had been living a double life, but was my only option to audition for Victor, a guy who sounded like the opposite of charming, so that — hopefully, only if everything went well — I could trade access to my most intimate affections for money?

  No, absolutely not. It was thoroughly batshit.

  But as hard as I racked my brains, I couldn’t think of a single other option. My parents were both dead, grandparents too. I was a single child, no other family I could turn to. I was in my early thirties and my resume consisted of part-time shifts at Sloppy’s. Welfare wouldn’t even come close to paying for the life I’d grown accustomed to — or that my kids had grown accustomed to. I could file for divorce, but giving Ryan warning would also give him time to move things around in his business and make it look like there wasn’t anything for the courts to give me; he’d helped his best friend do just that a couple years ago, to get out of paying alimony.

  Even if I waited for him to land another big gig and withdrew the money from his account before he could spend it, I’d only be delaying the inevitable for a few months.

  I could stand to be broke and homeless, but I couldn’t ruin my children’s lives.

  I owed it to them to take the audition and let it be my stopgap, until I could come up with a better plan. Or at least until I’d made enough money to hire a lawyer good enough to find me another option.

  The nubile twenty-something finished changing, and she looked stunning in something that shouldn’t have worked, or at least never could have on me. Black panties and a lavender halter, barely there and sort of see-through. As she strutted in front of the mirror, seeming aroused by her own reflection, I felt myself involuntarily responding to her sensuality.

  I tried to imagine what it would feel like to be so comfortable in my own skin that being nearly naked in front of other people would be an erotic act instead of a shameful one.

  And I realized that I wanted to experience that.

  I wanted to look in the mirror and see a goddess instead of a tired, frustrated housewife.

  I wanted to be admired the way I was admiring her lithe body right now.

  I wanted to feel sexy.

  I turned to the rack and picked out something sheer and black. Beautiful but not obnoxious. The matching panties had enough fabric to hug my ass, and the baby doll itself would throw the best sort of shadows across my tummy. I loved the scallops, on the straps and looped along the bottom, because they invited the eye to rest on places where I still looked mostly my best.

  I could look hot in this. Maybe not nubile waif-hot, but MILF-hot.

  I stripped, ignoring Olivia’s look of surprise, and wiggled into the outfit, which probably cost as much as the cheap engagement ring Ryan had bought for me after I’d told him I was pregnant. The drape of the sheer, silky fabric made my curves seem even more voluptuous while obscuring my baby belly just enough that I could barely notice the little pooch that daily yoga and power-walking at the mall hadn’t been able to get rid of.

  I stalked toward the mirror, turned around to examine my ass. Not bounce-a-quarter-off-it tight but not as bad as I’d worried. In this outfit, I did look MILF-hot.

  To Ryan, I was a mom he didn’t want to fuck, and I’d started to think of myself that way too. Unsexy. Undesirable. Unwanted.

  No more. I was good enough for him to sneak around with behind Olivia’s back. I was definitely good for whatever I needed to do to get free of him.


  I raised my chin, put one hand on my hip, and pivoted on the balls of my feet, like I’d seen beauty contestants do. I wobbled a little at the end of the spin, thanks to all those margaritas, but I pretended not to notice.

  “How do I look?”

  Olivia eyed me up and down, smiling for the first time. “Much better. Are you ready?”

  I gave Olivia jazz hands.

  “Be serious.”

  “I am serious. This is literally the most serious I’ve ever been. If I can’t give you jazz hands, I’m probably going to punch a wall. How do I look?”

  “You look great.” Olivia smiled. “But I want you to try on one more.”

  I was about to object that she risked messing with my MILF-y vibe by making me change just as I’d found something I could rock, but the thing she pulled off the rack and held out to me …

  It wasn’t just beautiful, it was me. Lingerie of the lightest blush, mesh in the middle, almost like a mist, edged by the softest pink everywhere else. The tiny bows looked like they belonged on a doll. I would look like the world’s most fuckable angel in it.

  I nodded, taking the lingerie, surprised to suddenly feel like the next moment might be okay.

  The last time I’d worn lingerie was nine years ago, when Alec was three and I was trying to prove I still had it. Ryan had barely glanced at me before he turned out the light without a single word, so fuck him.

  I only bought the stupid thing because it was the first thing I’d tried on in nearly four years that didn’t make me feel fat, and I only tried it on because Victoria’s Secret sent me an email with a promise that the teddy would make me feel better about myself.

  If I’d been wearing this, Ryan wouldn’t have been able to help himself.

  Or maybe he would’ve, because the pictures Olivia had shown me proved that he’d already been cheating on me then.

  “Not to rush you, but we’ve taken way too long and Victor is waiting.” Olivia looked from the lingerie to me. “Let’s get going, ’kay?”

  I changed, trying not to be self-conscious about the extra ten pounds of pudge around my middle as I peeled off the baby doll.

  It was hard maintaining my post-childbirth figure. I could eat better, but snacking while shopping was fun, terrible as it is for you. I could do more than yoga, but that’s a great time to breathe and think. It’s not like I’m going to give that up, and adding any exercise on top of that would totally suck.

  She raised an accusatory finger and stabbed it at me. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?”

  “Give me a break! I’m sorry I had kids.”

  “It’s not baby weight after a decade, honey. And that’s not what I’m talking about.” She pointed again, this time right at my crotch. “Your Barbara Bush looks like a bird’s nest made of Brillo pads.”

  I guess she’d been busy going through the racks when I’d changed the first time.

  “Sorry, I forgot to put wax my snatch before I have drinks with Olivia on my calendar.”

  She shook her head, then grabbed a pair of thick black panties, almost like boxer briefs. They were probably supposed to go with matching thigh highs or something.

  “Here,” she handed them over. “Maybe you can shove all your short and curlies up in here.”

  “No,” I said. “We’re late, and this is perfect.”

  Olivia sighed. “I’ll give you the number for my esthetician. You need to take care of that, because ohmygod you’re giving new meaning to going through a rough patch.”

  And the nerves were back again. “Seriously, can you please say something nice? I’m about to go out of my fucking mind.”

  Olivia appraised me again. “Sorry. You’re right. Except for the bounty of pubes, you look terrific. I’d pay to fuck you for sure.”

  She smiled like she actually meant it.

  For all I knew, she did. “Thanks.”

  She took me by the hand, the gentlest she’d been with me since our reunion, and led me out of the dressing room and into a sort of reception area where she explained that I’d have to sign some paperwork before the audition. A short profile, an even shorter NDA, and an initial contract, just in case I got the job I didn’t really want.

  The contract stated that I agreed to take ten clients if I passed the audition. After finishing the first ten, I would have the chance to re-up, or walk. If I didn’t make my quota, I would have to buy myself out.

  That would be enough for the kids and I to live for ten months, if I sneaked into Ryan’s bank account to make sure the next deposit paid the rest of their school tuition for the year and if I was frugal in every other aspect of our lives.

  Olivia waited with me while I filled everything out, then glanced down at my hand as I handed the tablet back to her. “Your wedding ring. You need to take that off.”

  A slap to the face, a punch to the gut, a tempest set loose inside me.

  Taking off my wedding ring would make all this real. I would be agreeing to cheat on my husband, for money. I would be lowering myself to his level, for the sake of protecting our children. There was still time to change my mind, put my own clothes back on, and find another way out of this mess.

  But Ryan would still be Ryan, the faithless and financially fucked husband. And I would still be me, the unqualified stay-at-home-mom with no way to support her family.

  If I took off my wedding ring, there would be no turning back.

  I took it off.

  I knew Victor was a prick the second I met him. The guy was eyeing me like a slab of alcatra at a Brazilian steakhouse.

  I stood in the doorway, working to stay steady as he raked my body with misplaced appreciation from his spot on the sitting room couch. He actually smirked. Pure Snidely Whiplash.

  It was hard to tell how tall he was since he was sitting down, but I could still see just about everything else. His close cropped hair, almost fuzzy, matching the scruff on his face. He would have been handsome, if he didn’t look mean; his emerald eyes might have been bright with life if they weren’t so obviously cruel. He was younger than I had expected, probably not thirty.

  He made a come-here gesture, so I slinked across the room, stopping in front of him.

  He motioned for me to twirl around.

  Dizziness surged, the room whirling even faster than I was. Too many margaritas. I swallowed hard, not wanting to blow the job interview by barfing in his lap.

  Still smirking, he patted the spot on the sofa beside him and said, “Have a seat.”

  For the first time, it occurred to me that this audition might involve more than taking off my clothes and being inspected like a cow at auction. Shit. Could I go through with this?

  “You seem nervous,” he said.

  “Not at all.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  I sat down, as far away from him as I could get on the couch without seeming like I was retreating.

  “Why would you want one of your potential girls to be nervous?” I asked. “Isn’t confidence part of the crack that you’re selling?”

  That seemed to surprise him. “Exactly. But confidence and arrogance aren’t the same. And I’d expect caution from someone like you. Maybe anxiety.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I want to see the real you, and I want to decide if that’s something worth paying for.”

  Something sour seeped deep into my stomach. I wanted to move over, but I refused to budge an inch.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I’d still be in my LuluLemon if I wasn’t.”

  Victor eyed me with something that might have been respect, if I wasn’t delusional.

  But look where I was, so who really knew?

  “Let’s start simple. Why don’t you tell me about your education.”

  “I graduated from Yardley with an anthropology degree.”

  Victor raised his eyebrows, but I think he already knew. “Yardley. Impressive. You come from money?”

  “Not at all. But I’m
a hard worker. I got a lot of scholarships and kept my nose down.”

  “That’s where you met Olivia?”

  “We were sorority sisters there.”

  “Hot. How about now, are you still close?”

  No way was I going to dig into my feelings for Olivia in front of this man. I shrugged like that was an irrelevant question. “Close enough.”

  “Did it always bother you that she was the hotter one?”

  “No, because she never was.” His eyebrows went up. So did Olivia’s, but she didn’t interrupt. “Some people like Betty, and others like Veronica.”

  He smiled, but this time it was appreciative more than leering. “Hobbies?”

  “I love shopping, and hanging out with my—” I coughed and laughed a little, gently reset myself.

  You’re not a mother right now, you’re a high-class escort. Besides, he didn’t really want to know what I enjoyed doing, he wanted to know what I was good at that might serve him.

  “I guess I love cooking the most, probably because it’s one of the things I’m best at.” I did my best to sound like Miss Ohio doing her best to become Miss America. “I love it when someone slurps their soup or makes a quiet mmmm while they’re eating something I’ve cooked.”

  Victor acted like he didn’t give a shit about my answer, but I could tell that he liked it.

  He scooted closer. I forced myself to keep smiling, instead of planting my hand on his chest and suggesting that he back the hell up, like I would if this were a party and one of Ryan’s friends was hitting on me.

  “How many sexual partners have you had?”

  Did he have to lick his lips when he said it?

  “Ten.”

  “Ten in the last year?”

  I laughed. “I was married this last year.”

  “You married now?”

  “For the time being.”

  “So you’re not very experienced?”

  The siren in the dressing room looked like she was barely twenty-one. If he were hiring based solely on experience, she’d have been a well-preserved forty-something, so that was a bullshit question.

  “Are you looking for quantity or quality?”