Filth Read online

  He got the last word, and I do my best to fight the need to go after him. We're done. We should have never happened. I've sated the mystery of him, and my sexual thirst—I hadn’t fed it in a year.

  A year.

  But he, in every way that matters, got the last word.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NATE

  “You're kidding, right? You're not wearing that to the club. I thought we came here because you had a backup pair of clothes.”

  Duke is in his usual uniform of an expensive Faustian's-bargain suit. It's charcoal gray and his shirt is black. The tie is even starker. I can only guess his cuff links cost a mint because he takes them out, replaces them with something plain, and tosses the expensive ones into a safe under his desk.

  His office is...well, black, white, and glass. If at one point the room had life to it, he glared it out. There are bookshelves and a view of downtown Hartsburg lit up like a woman wearing nothing but jewels for a special occasion, but he pays no mind to it. All fine, but he needs to hurry the fuck up.

  Why am I slightly annoyed? After being underground for a week prioritizing my life, I was promised a night at the club. I need it, especially after learning Stealth's name is Robyn. Her father is a school teacher. Her mother a doctor. I seriously doubt they raised her in a broken home. Despite her fixation to fuck up my life, she appears normal.

  Yet her fixation on me is anything but normal. The question persists then, why? Why give a shit what I did to her a friend? Her friend knew what she was getting with me, and I remember enough about the woman to know I treated her no differently than any lover. She got honesty from beginning to end. I would fuck her until she begged me to stop. I would end the “relationship” if she started looking at me like I was her happily ever after. I don't fuck broken women. I prefer my women of sound mind and body so when I pushed her to her limits, I could bask in how much she loved it.

  I didn't bother to remember her name and we dated for months. The only reason why details of her friend have filtered in is because Robyn left me bread crumbs.

  So why hold a grudge when I kept my fucking word? Why be bent on revenge when I never lied?

  But I'm done with the whole thing. I'm especially fucking done with Robyn and any leftover curiosity she's sparked in me. Tonight I'm going to officially get her out of my system. I'm on the hunt for a pretty young thing to put on my chin.

  “Now I'm ready,” Duke announces.

  I swallow down a laugh. Duke is in loafers that could probably cover the mortgage on my condo for the next six months. His suit jacket falls on his frame like it was made for him—likely was. His hair refuses to move from the amount of hair gel. His face is just as immovable and stark.

  He's going like that to a nightclub.

  That's his idea of cutting loose.

  I know.

  Though to be fair, he does wear jeans and t-shirts when he's not working.

  But this is his club wear for tonight.

  He is who he is. Fuck you if you don't like him. Since we've been friends for over a decade, I apparently like him. Sometimes he goddamn kills me though.

  The phone on his desk rings. I sigh and take a seat on the couch because he's going to answer it. It's going to take a short forever for him to end the call. I should have taken the car with Tarek. I swear he's the smartest one out of the three of us.

  Movement at the door catches my attention and Duke's. Only because I've known him since forever do I notice the way his shoulders roll back, his eyes narrow, and there's an extra snap to his tone. He's tense and focused. I look at the woman.

  Robyn's redheaded friend reminds me of a fairy. She's short, lithe, and perpetually blushing it seems.

  The redhead standing inside Duke's office door is a pinup model. She's sporting jeans and a shirt, but the way she walks in tennis shoes is sensual. It's all hips and tits. A man could get dizzy watching her for too long.

  In the next moment the room seems to fill with the scent of cinnamon and flowers.

  He glares at the redhead, but says calmly into the phone. “Call back and leave a message. An emergency just cropped up.” He doesn't wait for a reply but slams the phone into the cradle. “What are you doing here?”

  She struts over to me, offering her hand. “Kennedy.”

  “Na—”

  “No,” Duke interrupts. “Hand over whatever you intended to put on my desk and leave.”

  Her name prickles at my memory, but fuck me if I can pin down where I've heard it before. What's more interesting anyway is how Duke has rounded the desk to snatch the thick envelopes out of her hands.

  “Leave,” he says again.

  I shake my head, because my friend does not know women. If he wanted her to actually leave, that was not the way to get it.

  Proof of that is the way she inhales then exhales like she's trying to hold back her knee-jerk response. Duke's gaze drops down to her tits then his jaw tightens.

  “I'm guessing you're Nathan,” she says while holding a staring contest with Duke. “It's very nice to finally meet you. Duke has told me so much about you.”

  I slouch on the couch. My name is being used in their tug-o-war, and I'm not sure why. Is it interesting to see this play out with Duke? Yup. Any other time I'd keep my mouth shut, and then endlessly tease my friend later about everything that transpired. But I've spent a week with my skin feeling too tight, and my head filled with thoughts of Robyn—her eye-crinkle smile, her deep seductive laugh, the way her inner thighs feel underneath my fingers, my mouth, my tongue. And her taste. I've tried to compare it, condense it and there's nothing but Robyn to describe her.

  I need to get her out of my system and now.

  To move this fuckless exchange along, I mutter, “He's mentioned me?”

  “He's described you as a ladykiller a time or two.”

  “Ladykiller?” I glare at Duke, almost forgetting my urgency. “You couldn't be more imaginative? That's something a Golden Girl would call me.”

  She laughs, and Duke's gaze goes up to her mouth. She notices the hungry stare, flushes. “He hasn't mentioned me? How long have I known you, Duke?”

  “Three years. Now that you've had your fun, you can go.”

  “But what if I wanted to know Nathan?”

  “You can't.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you couldn't handle me, you won't survive him.”

  And then I know who she is. There's a whole history there. I sit up on the couch. “The calendar girl.”

  The look Duke throws my way would have made a hostile witness crumble on the stand. He doesn't have to tell me to shut the fuck up out loud. It's there floating like a dialogue bubble above his head.

  I reply with, I remember her because we got drunk one night and you wouldn't shut up about her.

  His nostrils flare and I can practically hear, if you say that I will kill you and no one will ever find your body.

  Since I can't let him do that I slouch into the couch again.

  He uses his forefinger to turn her face away from me. She shifts into him at the touch.

  “He's right, you know.” Her voice is husky and it fits her lush frame.

  “What?” Duke asks as he drops his hand down to his side. He balls his hand.

  “That's a shitty outfit to wear to a club. Lose the jacket at least. Unbutton a few buttons. You look like a mob boss.”

  I expect more from the exchange, but she waltzes toward the door.

  Duke growls. “If you so much as tilt your head to watch her go, I'm breaking your neck.”

  “You won't.” But I don't. Robyn's ass is better.

  I close my eyes, irritated with my damn thoughts. I'm done with her. “We need to get to the club. Now.”

  He runs a hand over his hair and glances up at the ceiling. “Don't tell Tarek about that. He'll just crawl up my ass about Kennedy.”

  “Tell him what?” I say in hopes he'll move his ass.

  He d
rops his head to pin me with a stare. Duke scoffs a second later. I hate how he does that. He can read people with laser focus and find all their flaws. “You're going to do something stupid tonight. Why are you so anxious to get to it?”

  I push off the couch. “Define stupid.”

  “Fuck someone to get the taste of Robyn out of your mouth. It won't work because you're you. You have to get bored first.”

  “I am.”

  “When I gave you the information on her this morning, you were ravenous for every detail. You even accused me of fucking her. You're not bored. I doubt anything I tell you about her will make you walk away until you are.”

  He can hit you where it hurts sometimes. Usually he's right, which just makes him a dick. “I thought you were in favor of me walking away from her?”

  Duke breaks my gaze. “When your father died you were this anxious, impatient. No one could talk some sense into you then either.”

  The pang of grief is a punch to the chest like it always is. “Don't.” I'm not trying to fall into that abyss tonight.

  He puts his hands up. “Don't do anything too stupid is all I'm saying.”

  I give him a baleful stare for the “too” part of his statement. “I'm done with Robyn. Stupid is off the table. Now can we fucking go to Fade, Don Corleone?”

  Duke narrows his eyes to slits and stalks out the door. I laugh when I hear him mutter, “I don't look like a goddamn mob boss.”

  The next time I see Kennedy I'm going to have to thank her for that joke.

  But the important thing is, we're headed to the club, and I'm done being stupid about Robyn.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROBYN

  The music slams into me the moment I enter Fade with Samantha at my side. Like the first time we came to the infamous club, we head straight for the bar. The bartender's eyes alight when he catches sight of me. Of course he remembers me. I'm wearing a sweetheart neckline that gives my cleavage an extra lift.

  I've also come to the club five nights in the row. For three of those days I've worked until nine. I've been training and teaching my boss's newest legal secretary all his idiosyncrasies and everything else she didn't know.

  I get off work, slip into something semi-slutty in the car, and head to Fade. I'm taking that truth to my grave. Samantha thinks I've caved, wanting another taste of Nate, and that's why we're here tonight.

  Yeah. There are some secrets you don't tell your best friend—like you've lost your goddamn mind. But Nate got the last word. For all intents and purposes he won the cat and mouse game by eating the fuck out of the cat.

  That's not the only reason I've hunted him down, but—refer to “lost my goddamn mind.”

  Samantha yells at me, drawing my attention back to her. She gestures on the sly to the bartender. We're here for Nate, she's a bad influence so I doubt she's pointing him out for my sake. She wants my opinion.

  I'm sure of it when Samantha says, “He's cute.”

  He's blonde, buff and adorable, and because I've come to the club for five damn days, I know his name. “Elton can't even be twenty-five. He's wet behind the ears.”

  My friend grins. “Exactly.”

  I just shake my head because really Samantha is a mess, and I love her. “Throw out your womanly wiles and get him.”

  Her cheeks turn as red as her hair. “You know I won't. I want it to be right the next time.”

  “One day you will.” I rest my chin on her shoulder. “Are you getting drunk tonight?”

  “Hell yes. I have a feeling your guy's here.”

  “He's not mine.”

  Samantha opens her mouth, and that's when the bartender says, “Martini, no olives?”

  I straighten and dig into my cleavage. I slide a twenty across the wood. “Where's Nate?”

  The flirtatious gleam goes out of his eyes. Elton pockets the money before leaning on the bar. “Are you the reason he's had three drinks tonight?”

  My heart jumps into my throat. He's here. Yeah. I've come to the club five nights in a row looking for him, but I never had the balls to ask if he was here. It's not much of a secret shame if everyone is aware of the secret.

  In my head I know he's the last person I should want to touch genitals with. I want Nate to hurt. I do. I also want Nate despite the fact he's the very definition of bad life choices. I was warned, and I didn’t listen, and here the fuck I am because he got the last word. And he—his mouth is a god.

  So it's very safe to say I'm unhinged...and I'm going to roll with it. Maybe this is the new me—a barrel of bad decisions. Betrayer of friendships. Common-senseless.

  I glance at the bartender and ask, “How many drinks does Nate usually have?”

  “Two, max.”

  I scope the club, but I'm too short to see the people beyond me. “Well, give me a Coke.” I smile at my friend. “And I'll let Samantha tell you exactly what she wants.”

  She mutters, “I'm going to kill you.” Then she leans on the bar and gives him her best smile. “Give me the biggest, strongest drink you have.”

  He offers back the kind of smile that doesn't need words to translate. Samantha blushes. When he goes to fix our drinks she just shakes her head at me. “Don't think I'm taking him home now.”

  “He'll keep you company and give you free drinks. If you're going to find Mr. Right you need practice flirting. Without blushing.”

  “I hate you. Go find Nate.”

  I wait for my drink before I do. I head to higher ground. Fade has a second floor—or rather steps that lead up to a large platform they've turned into a lounge. No one is up here this early in the night. The DJ is getting into the groove, but the speakers are low in this area. Bodies are stacked on the floor. They haven't thrown on the strobe lights, but there's enough illumination I can see the dancers pretty well. I first scan for blond hair and then men dressed like preppy assholes. Doesn't take long for me to spot him.

  It's not hard to imagine him as a stripper with the way he moves. His body and the beat are one. His partner is along for the ride, though she tries to match him. His hips are insistent, fluid. His hands possessive as he guides her to match his rhythm. Nate holds her gaze as he does all this. The woman is the center of his universe while his hips grind.

  God to have him between my legs, behind me...I glare at the woman dancing with him. Lucky heifer.

  There are about two degrees between jealousy and envy, and as my blood heats watching them, I can't say which emotion is pumping through me.

  This is a bad idea. Not exactly news, but the implications of my actions are finally sinking into my thick skull. I'm waiting around to fuck a guy who fucked over my friend.

  Get. Your shit. Together. And. Leave.

  Ugh. When he showed up at my coffee shop I should have filed a restraining order and celebrated with wine while he rotted in county. Instead, I let myself be charmed into crazy. I let him touch me, carve a bit of himself into me, and now I simply can't think straight. When I try, my mind just circles back to how he made me feel.

  But I'm done now. He's moving on to be the manwhore I know him to be. I'm going to reclaim my common sense, and what's left of my decency, by walking away. I finish my drink, drop the empty glass on the table and stand to leave.

  The woman turns to him. Her lids are sex heavy. So are his. She says something. He replies. The woman stops dancing to place her hands on her hips. How can I not smile at the sight? I know that stance. He's talked himself out of that woman's bed. The game goes back to just two players—me and him. Relief and happiness soaks every thought.

  It's...is it wrong?

  I tilt my head up to the ceiling.

  Leave.

  Just go.

  Letting him touch you also made you feel like shit. Don't you remember that part?

  Going home means being surrounded by memories, a ghost I don't want to shake. Not yet. Not ever.

  Leaving also means I let him win. I'll be saying without words he can best me. I'm scared of what h
e can do. He can top me without a fight. He's as great as he believes he is. I'll give him bragging rights on the latter, but the rest I can't let go. Maybe it's my love of the law that can't allow me to walk away from an argument without saying my piece. More likely I've fallen into an unlikely power struggle, and he has to earn my submission.

  And because that submissive lives inside of me, I need him to dominate without question. My heart climbs up my throat. When did I need that again? Have I ever wanted dominance as much as this?

  It all boils down to I can't leave. Not yet.

  Fuck.

  I lose sight of Nate as he disappears into the thick of the crowd. My stomach clenches and reason slips through my fingers like smoke.

  “Shit.”

  I head down to the bar to check on Samantha and let her know I'm about to make my move. She's deep in a flirtation session with Elton. She'll take a cab home, and she presses money into my hand so I can do the same if shit goes sideways. I take it without complaint or letting her know I don't need it. Friends. Sometimes you let them look out for you in little ways.

  I hit the dance floor only to find it's Nate-less.

  I'm too short for this shit, so I head back up to the lounge like a good stalker.

  My heart beat kicks. The couches aren't empty anymore. Nate's eyes are closed, but his grip on his drink is loose. This close, he's lost some of his asshole veneer. He's handsome from the sharp slope of his cheeks to his full lips. With his head back, his Adam's apple is just to die for. He's all man, and I've allowed him to turn me into this woman who has the sour taste of revenge at the back of her throat.

  And need.

  So much of it I’m not thinking as I let my feet take me over to him. I settle beside him on the couch. His eyes open to slits as he glares. His knuckles turning white is the only sign he’s shocked to see me.

  His gaze starts at my hair. When he reaches the hemline of my dress, his breath catches. He forces himself to exhale. “No.”

  I laugh at his reaction. Somehow it’s both honest and a lie. Hell, it’s my response to him. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”