The Darkest Secret: A New Adult Romance Novel Page 11

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jaime

  I used to think it would be nice to have Amber's kind of problems. No worrying about money, no worrying about whether the school district where your nephew is growing up will still be a good one when he's old enough to enroll. Rich people. Famous people. They're all a bunch of big crybabies, right? It's so difficult having money and fame and a house in the Hills and a pony for every day of the week. We love to hate them for complaining - that was the whole principle behind those dumb Paris and Nicole shows when I was a kid. Remember them? Hard to believe they were even a thing.

  But the more time I spend with Amber the more I realize I would pay actual cash money if there was some guarantee that I'd never get fucked up the way she's been fucked up.

  There's a time in a boy's life when girls go from being 'just girls' to these magical, sophisticated, unattainable beings. It starts, weirdly enough, round about the time when they're about twelve or thirteen, when they're done streaking skyward like beanpoles and start filling out. Sometimes it's like it happens overnight. One day she's a person you could borrow a pencil from without blushing and the next day when she walks into class it's like she exploded overnight - pow! Beauty. Holy shit - where the hell did they come from?

  They leave us guys in the dust. We're the poor pendejos nature has left lagging a couple of years behind in terms of maturity. We can only gawp and yearn while they giggle at the guys two grades above, huge hairy monsters whose voices have stopped wobbling, guys who have actual muscles.

  Then a weird thing happens when you get older. Those beautiful girls, and the older guys they went out with? They turn into children. They shrink before your very eyes as you grow upwards, and then the next beautiful girl you see might be your friend's little sister, or your own niece, and when you see her fluttering her eyelashes at older men your heart starts thumping for all kinds of different reasons. No - don't you dare smile back at her; she's only fifteen.

  Amber is a little like that. She flirts hard but I don't think she really knows what she's doing. She's a kid - I have to think of her that way, even if she's actually a few months older than me. It's the only way I can protect her like I'm supposed to.

  After dinner she goes out to fetch wood, which is not a euphemism no matter how much she wants it to be. To my surprise she builds a decent fire that catches almost immediately.

  "Were you a Girl Scout?" I ask.

  She sits back on her heels.

  "Nope," she says. "Arsonist."

  Her expression is solemn and it's only when she glimpses genuine fear in my eyes that she laughs.

  "That's not funny," I say.

  "Shut up. It's hilarious."

  "It isn't. I don't know what's going on with you. How do I know you're not an arsonist or a murderer or something?"

  She gathers up the take-out cartons and glares at me.

  "I told you," she said. "I had a bad relationship."

  "You didn't tell me anything," I start to say, but she gets up and carries off the empty cartons into the kitchen. I'm comfortably full for the first time since breakfast, but now that I've taken care of some of the basics I'm faced with the next tier on my personal version of Maslow's pyramid - what the fuck is going on with Amber?

  She comes back in, hands me a Diet Coke and sits down heavily on the couch.

  "His name was Justin," she says. "He was abusive and I was an idiot. That's pretty much the whole thing in a nutshell."

  "I'm sorry." I want to tell her that she wasn't an idiot - it seems like the right thing to say - but her eyes are already shining and I think she might be about to tell me more. The last thing I want to do is distract her.

  She swallows and picks at the ring pull of her drink, twisting it around.

  "I was eighteen when I first met him," she said. "He was twenty, which was enough to make him seem exciting on its own. But he also had tattoos, and a motorbike and a well-thumbed copy of Thus Spake Zarathustra. Obviously I thought he was hot shit. We were going to get married - Thanksgiving weekend. We were going to go to Las Vegas and do it - Elvis impersonator, drive through wedding chapel, the whole stupid thing."

  Amber sighs. I get up on the couch beside her. I hope this isn't yet another preamble to trying to jump me.

  "I forgot," she says. "That when you're a Hollywood brat the chances are that you personally know half the acts playing Vegas at any given time. You know Max Mayer, the magician?"

  I nod.

  "He's an asshole," she says. "Fucking douchebag. He's like forty and acts like he's twenty-five. He saw me with Justin and was like 'Oh, hey Amber, what are you doing here? Wanna a see a magic trick?' - like I say, douchebag. We'd been drinking in the hotel room and Justin was all 'Don't fucking come onto my fiancée - we're getting married'."

  She pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt tight around herself and draws her knees up.

  "You have no idea, Jaime - it was all so dumb. The hold he had over me, I mean. He was a nothing. Nobody. Just some pretty boy with long eyelashes, great abs and an accent. Max is embarrassing as hell, but you can't say he's not somebody - I mean, I'm not into card-tricks, but I guess he's something to people who do care about that shit."

  "I'll say. My little brother loves him."

  Amber looks at me for a moment, like she wants to ask more about my family, but I want her to stay on track. I feel like she kind of owes me this much. Is that unreasonable? She did have a gun pointed at my head this afternoon.

  "What happened?" I ask.

  "I was standing there," she says. "Scared out of my wits. Scared out of my mind. And embarrassed. The number of times he made me ashamed - I lost count. Justin was always making me sorry for something. I was always apologizing for his bad behavior - I'd had a gutful of it back in San Diego where I was at college. After the shit he pulled over Thanksgiving dinner - he said he was part Cree - I mean, how fucking ridiculous is that?"

  "Was he?"

  She snorts.

  "God no. Part Creole, maybe - like six generations back. But otherwise white bread." She shakes her head. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, obviously..."

  I laugh. "

  What? To my maybe two drops of pure Aztec blood? Go on. What happened at Thanksgiving?"

  "He made a mess. As usual. I had no idea if my roommate was even speaking to me - this is a girl I'd been friends with since we were thirteen. And I treated her like shit. That's what happens with people like Justin. They're like asshole black holes of dumbass drama. He insulted and alienated my best friend and there he was in Vegas facing off against Max Mayer. I remember it so clearly. There were all these slot machines in the background and the noise was insane - I don't know if you've ever been to Vegas, but the casinos are loud. And I can't stand loud repetitive noises - I was on my last nerve as it was and I was just tired. Bone deep tired. And somehow over the endless noise of coins falling out of slot machine there was this little voice in the back of my head that was like 'Why are you still putting up with this bullshit?'"

  "Smart voice."

  She leans back into the couch, letting her head fall back against the headrest.

  "I know. I know I should have listened to it sooner. And as soon as I heard it I did what I usually did whenever it bothered me - put my hands over my ears and was like 'la la la not listening'. Except that time was different. Maybe. Probably because of what happened next."

  "What was that?"

  "Next thing I know my Dad is on the phone; Max called him and told him I was planning to marry Justin."

  "Holy shit."

  Amber nods.

  "Yeah. Maybe I should send Max a fruit basket and an apology. He kind of saved my life. I didn't see it at the time, of course. Actually his tipping me off sent me veering off wildly in the opposite direction - the opposite direction to the tired little voice in my head. You know how it goes when you tell a teenager that she can't see that boy anymore, right?"

  I stare at her.

  "You married him?"r />
  She gives me a sad smile and nods.

  "Told you I was an idiot, didn't I?"

  "Wow."

  She sighs again and finishes her drink.

  "I woke up the next morning to a shitstorm of lawyers. My Dad descended with his entire legal team and then some. I was a married woman for all of twenty-four hours - that was how long it took them to convince Justin to sign the annulment papers."

  I reach out and touch her knee. I mean it to be a friendly touch but there's no way I can keep thinking of her as a sheltered little kid. She was married, a thing so startlingly adult than I realize I'm pretty much doomed - she's a grown woman.

  "I guess that was the second time I lost faith in him," she says. "I couldn't believe that he'd do that. He'd always told me that our love was the greatest, the most passionate, the most special. It was just one of the ways he controlled me. He knew how to fuck me so hard that I'd forget who I was." She runs her tongue over her top lip and gives me a look that I'm amazed to discover doesn't make me burst into flames. "You don't mind me telling you this, do you?"

  I shake my head. My hand is still on her knee. If I remove it it'll be an admission that she's got to me.

  "He used to tell me that he invented me," she says. "I was a virgin when I met him. He used to like to push his fingers inside me and say 'This is mine. This is all mine. I'm the only one who's been here.' He'd do it every chance he got - in the movie theater, in the car." Her hand covers mine and I don't dare look at her. When she speaks again there's a tremble in her voice.

  "He used to like to drive in my convertible," she said. "With the top down. And me with a short skirt and no underpants. He'd tell me to pull up my skirt at the back and open my thighs a little so I could feel the leather upholstery against my..." She trails off. I hear her swallow. "And God help me," she said. "It used to get me so hot down there. I can feel it now, just thinking about it."

  I don't want to know any more, I want to say. And I definitely don't want to hear any more about your ex. But she pulls my hand down her thigh, pressing it against her. She’s wearing thin yoga pants and I can feel the heat of her flesh through the material.

  When I start to speak my mouth is so dry that I have to lick my lips to even get the words out.

  "I'm supposed to protect you."

  She nuzzles her cheek against my shoulder like a cat.

  "I'm a big girl, Jaime," she whispers. "I can take care of myself." Her lips are on my earlobe, my jaw. Why did I ever think she was some sheltered little rich kid? She knows what the hell she's doing, and more besides. I don't dare move my hand, but she slides her own hand under mine, under her waistband. "I've been taking care of myself more and more lately," she says. "Ever since you came along. Isn't that funny?"

  Her kiss carries the aftertaste of smoke, but I don't even care any more. I can feel her hand moving under mine as her breath quickens.

  "You wanna watch me?" she says. "You want to watch what I do when I'm thinking about you?"

  I can't even remember if I'm supposed to nod or shake my head. My dick already feels like it's going to explode. Then the next thing I know she's off the couch and pulling her sweatshirt over her head, taking her t-shirt with it.

  "Bedroom," she says, walking away.

  I stare at the fire for a moment. Should I put it out before going into the next room? Are you supposed to leave these things unattended? What if the whole place goes up while we're...distracted? Hell of a way to go, I guess. Oh God, what am I doing? The most beautiful girl I've ever seen has just taken her top off and asked me to join her in the bedroom, and I'm thinking about fire regulations?

  Maybe I should keep thinking about that. Her yoga pants are on the floor. I already half know what's waiting for me in the bedroom, but still she takes me by surprise. She's lying naked on top of the covers, propped up against a pillow. Her skin glows softly in the lamplight. I don't think I've ever wanted a woman so much in my life.

  She smiles and parts her thighs. She's shaved bare. Holy shit.

  "Watch," she says, reaching down to touch herself.

  My legs hardly work any more. I half stagger to the end of the giant bed. She watches me with the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, her perfect little boobs pushed together between her upper arms as she goes to town.

  "Amber," I manage to say, no mean feat for my poor, lust-soaked brain. "Can I touch you?"

  She lets out a tiny ragged moan and arches against her busy fingers. I'm stupefied. All I want in the world right now is to be inside her when she comes.

  "Only if you mean it," she says, in a voice as horny as I feel.

  My lips are dry again, so that "I wanna fuck you," comes out in a rush. "Please. Please let me fuck you."

  Amber nods and rubs faster. Her eyes look nearly black in this light. There's a vein standing out hard at the side of her neck when she swallows and when she lifts her hips into her own touch her thighs tremble, like she's close. "Only if you're naked," she whispers. "I want to see you." She reaches out quickly with one hand and yanks open the drawer of the nightstand. For a moment I'm forced to think about why she has condoms handy, but it's not a thought a guy wants to linger on too long, especially when he's performing the world's fastest striptease.

  She cries softly out when she sees me.

  "Oh my God. You're so beautiful."

  I can't help but laugh.

  "Me? Have you seen yourself lately?"

  She smiles at that and the smile turns into a breathless laugh that sets me on fire. I'm on her, kissing her thighs, her nipples, her lips, licking the taste of her from her fingers. I'm talking nonsense all over her, my mouth trailing love words all over her skin as I kiss her. You're gorgeous, you're beautiful, you're perfect, you're an angel and a slut and you're heaven and hell and I never want to let you go. Her legs are wrapped around me and her fingers keep searching, trying to curl around my cock, but we're pressed too close together. When I reach her mouth her lips are as dry as mine and it takes us a couple of moments to make our mouths wet enough to kiss.

  "Do it hard," she whispers. "I like it like that."

  In the moment it takes me to roll on the condom I'm needled again. Was that what he did to her? The one who made her forget who she was? Not me. I'm not the same. I won't be a substitute. But when I get inside her she's tight and silky all at once and all I want to do is pound my hips into hers.

  "Oh fuck yeah," she moans, and arches her back. She reaches behind her, tugs the pillow out from behind her matted hair and shoves it under her hips.

  No, she's setting the pace - and that's fine. She's loud and vocal - harder, there, yes, more, give it to me - and wonder vaguely who the performance is for; me or her. But then it doesn't matter any more, because there's no way she's faking that. Her muscles clench and unclench around me as she throws back her head and lets out a stream of obscenities. I follow her a couple of seconds later, pushing hard and deep where she's still quivering. And I hold her there when we're done, still hard inside her, her legs sprawled and her chest rising and falling. I say her name - once, twice. Three times. This time she doesn't get to forget who she is.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Amber

  He loved me a whole lot more after he'd broken my heart.

  Maybe that was how he convinced me we were soul mates - we both wanted the things we couldn't have. We were alike in that respect at least.

  I didn't cry much when I came back from Vegas. It was like every sensual faculty had been frozen in the wake of his betrayal - all the smells and colors and textures of the world had drained away, leaving nothing but shades of stale gray, kind of like newsprint. There was no question of me staying in L.A. - even I was still slightly mad at Everglade, that was nothing compared to how I felt about my Dad. So I went back to San Diego, where Everglade said, "He was a dirtbag anyway - you're better off without him," and showed me a freezer full of heartbreak Ben & Jerry's. I remember that as one of the few things that did make me cry.


  A week after I got back Justin sent me a dozen yellow roses - "Yellow because I'm a coward. I'm sorry. I love you." I dumped them straight in the trash, not even thinking to give them to a hospital or someone who might enjoy them. Even from a distance he made me thoughtless, a worse person than I already was.

  Everglade broke up with Alex and we became partners in moping, smoking on the balcony and wearing the same sweats for the whole week. "We're Social Lepers' Lonely Heart's Club Band," Everglade would sing. "We hope you will indulge our woe." She made up a whole song - I wish I could remember it. There was one verse about not brushing your teeth until your breath could knock out a horse.

  It was around that time I started to laugh again - not much, but every day it was getting better. When I saw or heard things that were funny I would be conscious of my mouth, stretching into shapes that were unfamiliar from long disuse. I started to realize just how little I'd smiled when I was with Justin. If I ever laughed at anything he didn’t find funny he’d just look at me in disgust until I conceded that it was just dumb: he was determined that we should have the same sense of humor.

  “You need to get out,” Everglade kept saying. “Meet someone else. Wake up to the possibility that there are like three and a half billion penises on this planet, and not just his.”

  “I don’t know if I want to date,” I said. “I don’t know if I feel up to it.”

  “Who said anything about dating?” she said. “I was talking about fucking someone. Nothing like a good old fashioned one night stand to rinse the taste of the last guy’s dick out of your mouth.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

  “What?” she said. “It’s 2012. If you can’t gargle a nutsack to chase the blues away, then what was the point of the whole damn feminist movement?”

  “I don’t know...”

  “So just meet someone for coffee,” she said. “You don’t have to hook up. Just hang out. Come on. You might meet a nice boy? A doctor maybe?”

  I laughed at her Jewish mother act and agreed to go to the student union, just to get some coffee and to be seen in public. Back in those days I wasn’t that interesting to the paparazzi. In her mid-teens Everglade had been unlucky enough to acquire a genuine stalker, but as celebrity brats we were both accustomed to a reasonable amount of unwanted attention.