Tell Me No Lies (Bright Lights, Dark Secrets Collection Book 4) Page 3

  He actually laughed, and it seemed genuine. “Tell me, how would you get a guy off?”

  I laughed like Victor was silly.

  “The first thing I’d do is not think about it as getting him off. I’d think about giving him an experience.”

  Victor looked at Olivia and nodded. She looked relieved — I guess she’d been sweating whether or not I’d pass the audition more than she let on. I wondered if there was more to her finder’s fee than the percentage she’d mentioned.

  I was relieved too. Ryan usually tapped me on the shoulder when he was in the mood, then he’d roll me over, lift my nightgown — his perennial preference for easy access — pump for under a minute before I started slamming my ass back to hurry it up. I wore shorts to bed to let him know that I wasn’t in the mood.

  So, if I wanted the job, I needed to avoid giving an accurate description of my sex life with Ryan at all costs.

  “You let your husband fuck your ass?”

  I’d never wanted to slap someone more. Well, except maybe Olivia, for showing me the picture of Ryan and his bimbos.

  But instead, I answered, “No, I never have.”

  “Why not?”

  “He never asked.”

  “You don’t think your husband’s ever wanted to?”

  “Probably.” But if he wasn’t interested enough to at least have a conversation with me about it, then I wasn’t interested in finding out if it hurt.

  “What you have let him if he had asked?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “What if you’re asked that question on the job?”

  “Then I will say no and be submissive to them in some other way, because that’s all anal sex is about, the crudest form of domination. I’ll tell him that he can eat my ass like a cupcake, and then I will fuck him to Venus, but no anal penetration.”

  Fuck him to Venus? Where did that come from?

  “Fair enough. You ever been with a girl?”

  “A few drunken makeout sessions in college.” I shrugged. “Because sometimes it’s fun to live the cliché.”

  “Any objection?”

  I was surprised by my immediate, genuine response. “No objection.”

  “What’s your favorite sexual position?”

  “I like them all.”

  “Everyone has a favorite position.”

  Of all the things he’d asked, this was the first one that made me feel dirty to answer. Probably because I was sure that as soon as I named a position, he’d be imagining screwing me in it.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Doggy,” I admitted, having to make an effort not to squirm as his smirk turned into a leer.

  “Much better. Congratulations, you’ve earned another question.” He petted my knee. My skin crawled, but I didn’t pull away.

  “Do you regularly orgasm from sex, or are you the kinda girl who fakes it?”

  “No faking.” Although I supposed I might need to start. Did clients care if their escort had an orgasm? I’d kind of thought it was all about making the client come.

  “Why not?”

  “Haven’t needed to.” Which sounded better than, My husband doesn’t care.

  Victor squeezed my knee, then began to slide it up my thigh.

  I shook him off and inched away, smiling. “I’m having a hard time concentrating while you’re doing that, and I’d like to give you my best possible answers.”

  “You’re doing great, and believe me, this is exactly the sort of stuff you’ll have to navigate on the job.”

  “True.” I moved even farther away. “But then I’ll be earning two thousand dollars an hour, minus your commission. I’ll be focusing on that.”

  He actually backed off. I couldn’t believe it worked.

  “How often do you masturbate?”

  “I don’t,” I lied, because I didn’t want to say every day, and because he didn’t need to know to decide whether or not to hire me.

  “You don’t masturbate, but you come whenever you fuck?” He laughed. “Which of those fantasies do you want me to believe?”

  “Do you want to hear that I’m horny all the time?”

  Victor laughed. “Something like that.”

  He turned toward me and brushed my shoulder with the tips of his fingers, sliding one strap down off my shoulders, then the other.

  My breasts were dangerously close to breaching the thin barrier of fabric still holding them up.

  His fingers drifted down, stopping at my nipples, where Victor made slow, teasing circles around them.

  I hated my own arousal, forced myself to arch into his touch and bite my lip and let my breathing get heavier, like I was enjoying all this. Because if I couldn’t tolerate a little groping from Victor, how was I going to spend an entire night with a stranger?

  I was about to find out if I was the kind of woman who could fuck men for money. Maybe women, too. I don’t know why, but right now, that actually sounded easier.

  I wasn’t sure what would be worse: if I got the job, or if I let Victor fondle me and then I didn’t.

  Because I’d already crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. Even if Victor said no and Ryan never found out what I’d done. I would know, for the rest of my life.

  Suddenly, Victor stood, took me by the hand, and led me over to a splendid floor-length mirror on the other side of the room, with gleaming glass and a platinum frame.

  I barely recognized myself -- the lingerie barely covering the rise and fall of my breasts, the flush in my cheeks, the strange light in my eyes. I felt more like one of the women in those erotica novels I like to read on my Juke than a loving housewife with two adoring children.

  Something collapsed inside me as I realized that I was more aroused than I had been with Ryan for years. Not because I was attracted to Victor, I wasn’t. Not because the situation was hot, it definitely wasn’t.

  But because I was doing something I hadn’t done in the twelve years since I’d married Ryan.

  Taking a risk.

  Sleeping with Ryan had been exciting, because of the risk that Olivia would find out. Then she did, and he proposed, and he became safe.

  And I’d been playing it safe ever since.

  “Show me,” Victor said, startling me out of my trance.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m a client.” He sounded slightly irritated. “Demonstrate how you’d service me.”

  I froze. What did he want me to do? Kiss him? Do a striptease? Drop to my knees and undo his fly?

  Everything I’d tried to rekindle Ryan’s interest after Alec was born had failed, because he’d already started screwing someone else. When we did have sex, it was as perfunctory as it could be and still involve one of us coming. I was seriously out of practice.

  I was going to flunk the test, and it was all Ryan’s fault. I didn’t want to screw Victor. I wanted to punch him in the nose for being a prick, just like my husband.

  Somehow, the anger made it easier. I turned around and grabbed Victor by his collar. “You want to fuck me?”

  He smiled and gave me an encouraging nod.

  I let go of him and stepped back.

  “I’m not going to fuck you until you’re nice and hard for me.” I glanced back at the sofa. “Maybe I should go over there and play with my pussy instead …”

  That did it.

  Victor grabbed me by the arm and spun me around, then bent me forward. I barely managed to catch myself on the ottoman as he ground his erection against my ass. I turned back to look in the mirror. Mistake.

  I started to get wet.

  “You’re a mom, right?”

  Was that a trick question? Olivia must’ve told him. Did he want to know if I’d lie? Or were MILFs his thing?

  “Yes.”

  “Never had a mom in the lineup,” he said, still grinding, and now he was looking in the mirror too. I couldn’t tell if he was staring at me, or himself.

  Victor stopped talking, but the grinding conti
nued. It had tumbled past sexual right into awkward. He seemed to be … thinking? The grinding became thrusting and I seriously had no idea what I was supposed to do. Grind back? Turn around and take him to the couch? Was I supposed to give him a blow job? While Olivia watched?

  This was a massive, mammoth, monstrous mistake.

  I was about to pull away, tell him that I’d changed my mind, but I never had to make that choice.

  Victor slapped me hard on the ass, took two steps back, then dug into his pocket to retrieve a burner phone.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, handing it over.

  I felt like I’d just won first place in a loser contest.

  Chapter Two

  Monday Morning …

  I scraped scrambled eggs – I’d gotten up too late to make anything more complicated — onto three plates, one for each child and one for my cheating husband.

  I swallowed hard as a surge of nausea flooded my throat with hot bile. I’d drunk more alcohol last night than I usually had in a month, but the hangover seemed a suitable punishment when I replayed the memory of what I had done.

  Last night, it had seemed like poetic justice: Ryan had made me out to be a whore, so I would be one long enough to get back on my feet. But now that I was sober (mostly), it was time to forget it ever happened and get back to my regularly scheduled life. Figure out what to do about Ryan. Do the math. Make a plan. Maybe get a job.

  I had to be qualified for something better than Sloppy’s.

  I dropped the plates on the table and shouted, “Breakfast!”

  I wouldn’t have had to call them if I’d started earlier. No one came running for scrambled eggs. If I’d made my lemon crepe pancakes, or my chicken sausage breakfast hash, or that bacon thing that made Ryan drool, they’d have been standing in the kitchen with plates in hand, begging for me to fill them.

  Alec and Lena came running into the room, taking their usual spots on their sides of the table.

  Thank goodness they’d never know what I’d done last night.

  I kissed Lena on the forehead, then gave her a hug that lasted so long she giggled and squirmed.

  I leaned over to kiss Alec, but he leaned back and squinted at me. “You okay, Mom?”

  Twelve-year-old boys. Gotta love ‘em.

  “Of course, sweetie.” I swooped in for a kiss on the top of his head before returning to the kitchen.

  Where I wondered if I was ever going to be all right again.

  Of course I had to tell Olivia I’d changed my mind.

  Of course I wasn’t going to become a ridiculously expensive escort in the name of supporting my kids.

  Of course I was going to find another way to get the money to leave Ryan.

  How would they ever respect their mother if they found out she’d supported them by prostituting herself?

  I was doing what was best for them by saying no.

  I jumped and yelped as arms closed around my waist. Ryan. Why wasn’t he eating his damn scrambled eggs?

  “Hey …” he tried to sooth me. “Why so tense? Is it Lynette? Is she stressing you out again?”

  Lynette Wilder, supermom who seemed determined to make every weekend a playdate for her kids and mine, was the least of my concerns today.

  Although maybe she shouldn’t have been. Maybe Ryan was secretly screwing her too.

  “No. Not Lynette. I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Yes. No. Fuck you.

  I turned around to face him. He dared to kiss me, right on the mouth, the bastard.

  How did he do that? Act so normal when his every breath was a lie?

  I would have to learn, and judging by the shadow of a migraine lurking at my temples, it wasn’t going to be nearly as easy for me as it apparently was for him.

  “What time did you get home from dinner with the girls last night?” He sat at the breakfast bar. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

  “We lost track of time.” The lie felt easier on my tongue than I expected.

  “Oh.” He didn’t question it. Part of me wished that he would, the part that felt hurt that he didn’t care enough to ask. But why would he?

  Ryan headed to the dining room, finally. I bonded with the kids all day, but when he was in town, he made a point to have breakfast with them no matter what.

  I needed to figure out the job thing, but I was afraid Ryan would try to sneak up on me from behind again and ask what I was doing.

  So I did what I usually did during this time, leaned against the counter, sipped my coffee, and scrolled through LiveLyfe. It was a stupid, empty habit, and I wasn’t sure why I kept doing it to myself. I should never log on again. Maybe not all of the time, but most of the time it makes me feel worse about myself, and pretty much every choice that I’ve made, from the color of my curtains to the timeline of my life.

  I was most addicted to checking — okay, maybe stalking — all of my old sorority sisters from Yardley. It was hard not to, seeing as most of them had it all. Perfect lives. Living in giant McMansions, driving perfect cars, killing it with high-powered careers and perfectly fuckable husbands. And yes, most of them were managing to do the mom thing in between it all by now, much better than I had ever come even remotely close to doing.

  I wasn’t sure what I felt more, the envy of wanting all the things I didn’t have, or shame for not appreciating the abundance I already did have. If only they could—

  “Hey, honey, when is that thing with the Wilders again?” Ryan dropped his dishes in the sink. “That’s coming up, right? Maybe we’re not synced because I seem to remember you telling me about it, but I didn’t see anything when I looked.”

  Fuck. I still can’t believe I even agreed to “Family Day” with the Wilders.

  Ryan didn’t care for Lynette’s husband all that much, but he was willing to pretend for the sake of an afternoon out on their yacht on the open sea.

  I should’ve realized that if Ryan was pretending with everyone else, he was probably pretending with me too.

  “I’ll double check and let you know.”

  “Great.” Ryan seemed like he wanted to give me a kiss on the cheek or something, but instead he gave me an awkward sideways hug. “So I guess I’ll see you next week?”

  “I guess so.” Could he tell that I’d been thinking, Not if I see you first? “Looking forward to New York?”

  “I guess. I really hate how busy it always is. It’s not like I’ll get to see a show or anything.”

  He laughed, because that might convince me that he wasn’t a dog who had been sticking his dick into things he wasn’t married to.

  “Right,” I agreed, because fuck him and the horse he rode in on. And double fuck him for making me ask. “Did you remember that I need the next tuition payment for Constellation?”

  He looked at me, shaking his head. “I’m really sorry. I’ll go take care of that right now, and I’ll leave it on the kitchen counter.”

  “I’d rather wait, so I can take it when I drop the kids off.” Last week, the principal had been waiting out by the drop-off area to ambush me with a “quick reminder” that we were already past the deadline and that she was giving us an extra few days as a courtesy, for Lena’s sake. “It’s overdue, remember?”

  I studied Ryan’s reaction, chastising myself for not seeing it sooner. Now that I’m paying attention, he’s an easy read. The clenched jaw, the suddenly shallow breath, the narrowing of his eyes. And I know the floor isn’t that interesting to him. The bastard hasn’t touched a broom in years.

  Ryan gave me his best smile and pulled me into his arms. It took all my willpower not to stiffen with disgust.

  He kissed me tenderly, like he meant it, then leaned into me, nibbled on my ear, and whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

  I resisted the urge to push him away as I lied, “I’ll miss you, too.”

  I could hardly wait to never see him again.

  LYNETTE

  I h
ad been talking to Susan Foley for fifteen minutes, but already it felt like an hour.

  “And it’s not like I do his homework for him,” Susan said. “But I’d rather sit there until he finishes than have him tell Mr. Herrera that he doesn’t have it done. Are you listening, Lynette?”

  “Of course I’m listening.”

  But I didn’t have to be upset about it because Susan was upset enough for both of us.

  She cared more than any of the other moms, always first in line to volunteer for whatever the school needed. The poor woman had even been willing to supervise the halls during standardized testing. In exchange, we all pretended not to notice that her twelve-year-old son was still on the nipple. All of us except for Natalie, who always found the most diplomatic way to say what she meant. But she was a saint. It took a lot of skill to call someone out with elegance, and Natalie definitely knew how to do that.

  Someone needed to say it -- Susan wasn’t doing her son any favors. It wasn’t just the double-checking his lunch to make sure he has his snacks, asking him if he’s filled in his learning log, or his permission slips, or whatever other overprotective robot question she had at the ready. Poor kid was constantly humiliated in front of the other kids.

  “And really, it’s too much homework for their age.”

  Do you really think you can meet with every teacher and grade grub all the way to college? It doesn’t work that way, and in the meantime, you’re turning Owen into an idiot.

  “It is a lot,” I said. Then, “Hey Betty!”

  Betty turned and gave me a wave and a smile. I could tell that she barely meant the first and I doubted she meant the second at all. She wasn’t nearly as bad as Susan, but she was another helicopter parent who monitored all of her children’s Internet activity, including her nineteen-year-old son, who, by the way, is soiling the family name by skipping city college. I’ve seen him at Perfect Burgers three times this month, just sitting there swiping on his iPad with nothing to do. You would think the kid would’ve gone to a school out of state, just to get the hell away from his mother.

  I was about to go home when the reason I was sticking around swung her silver Volvo Hybrid into the parking lot.