The Darkest Secret: A New Adult Romance Novel Read online

  “I swear if anyone mentions my mother as a feminist icon I will fucking plotz,” she said, dangling a foot in the water. “So she flashed her beaver at Rock In Rio once – like it makes her Susan B. Anthony or something.”

  I scratched the nape of my neck and adjusted my sunglasses. We’d all seen the picture – hard to miss it. The most unsettling part of it was knowing she was about three months pregnant with Everglade when she treated the world to the literal mother of all upskirt shots. “I never really understood why she did that,” I said.

  “Same reason she does everything,” said Everglade. “So that people will pay attention to her. Trust me – she has no sense of sisterhood; she’s called me a cunt on more than one occasion.”

  “Jesus. That’s horrible. Don’t you ever think about...what is that they call that thing where you can divorce your parents?”

  “Emancipation?” she said. “Nah. I thought about it, but I figure I’d be better off hanging tough until she either overdoses or gets something vital sucked up the hose when she gets her next round of lipo. After the childhood she gave me, she’d better leave me rich.”

  I was about to ask her if she meant it - sometimes it was hard to tell if she was joking or serious - when I saw a tall, dark figure approaching us from across the quad. I could tell before I saw his face that he was someone - you get a sense of this kind of thing, growing up in Hollywood. There are some people whose presence ripples through the crowd before they've even finished entering a room - the old legends or the famous beauties. There's a hush and a whisper - a kind of shiver that passes through everyone, as though charisma were palpable.

  Sometimes it isn't even a famous person - just someone who ought to be, because they are so exceptionally, unnaturally beautiful.

  And he was.

  I couldn't be sure it was him at first. He was even better looking than I remembered, if such a thing was even possible. His black curls bounced almost to his shoulders, his long legs eating up the yards as he crossed the quad. He wore worn old jeans, their black faded to a pale charcoal, and you just knew from looking at them that the denim would be soft as butter at the knees. His eyes were covered with a pair of mirrored Aviator shades, but as he approached he removed them with such grace that it looked like a tribute, like a courtier's doffed cap.

  It was then I realized he was looking at me.

  "Well look at you, Ruby Tuesday," he said, stopping right in front of me. "All grown up and graduated yet?"

  I nodded. I could feel the burn of Everglade's disgust behind me, but I didn't care. I was too caught up in the moment - it was astonishing enough to me that he was real and that he remembered me.

  "Amber," I said. "My name's Amber."

  "I know that, baby," he said. "I remember. Like the stuff that flies get caught in - the shade of honey and twice as sticky."

  "Resin," I muttered, hugging my books to my chest. "You're thinking of resin."

  "Right," he said. "But then it gets hard and turns to amber, right?"

  Everglade snorted. I could feel my face flare hot at the way he said 'hard' - deliberate and dirty.

  He laughed.

  "I don't think your friend likes me."

  "What gave me away?" said Everglade. "The general fuck-off vibes or the moment you realized I could tell you were full of shit?"

  I winced and she caught my eye. She looked wary but jerked her head in the direction of the coffee shop. I mouthed 'thank you' and she just sighed and sloped off.

  "You'd best follow her, Ruby Tuesday," he said. "How do you know I'm not a psycho killer?"

  "I don't." I couldn't figure out if his eyes were closer to blue or gray. His lips were fuller and lusher than even my memory of them, his eyelashes even blacker. He had a rosary around his neck and when he caught me looking at it he took it off.

  "You ever been to Mardi Gras?" he said, reaching out and dropping the rosary over my head.

  "No."

  "You know how it works, right?" he said. "I give you beads, you show me something."

  I stared at him for a moment, unable to quite believe what he was saying. He wanted me to flash him right here in front of everyone? The worst thing was I would have done it too, if only he hadn't laughed at my wide-eyed expression.

  "Not right here," he said. "But you owe me, okay?"

  He started to walk away. I dropped half my books as I pulled the rosary up over my head - it had managed to get caught in my hair.

  "Wait!" I yelled. "Your necklace."

  He turned on his heel and laughed.

  "Keep it," he said. "It belonged to my grandmother." And then he turned back and walked away. I scrambled to pick up my books and straightened up in time to see him roar away on a big, old-fashioned motorcycle. Holy shit.

  An artsy looking girl in ballet flats came a couple of steps closer.

  "Justin Theroux," she said, looking in the same direction as me, the direction in which he had vanished. "I would give my left tit to hit that."

  I laughed, more from surprise than anything else.

  "Really?" I said.

  "Oh hell yeah," she said. "What's your secret?"

  I shrugged. I had no idea. She looked more like the kind of girl I'd imagine he was into - clever, cynical and kind of bohemian. She had a copy of Kerouac's Big Sur sticking out of her bag and while her face was otherwise scrubbed bare of make-up her lips were painted a shade Everglade liked to call 'Fuck-you Red'. Her long brown hair was bundled up in a messy bun on the back of her head and she had one of those big, retro sailor-style tattoos on her upper arm. Next to her I must have looked like an al-dente noodle - thin, white and largely tasteless.

  “Maybe he’s into the whole blank canvas thing,” she said, looking me up and down. “He’s an artist, you know.”

  No, I didn’t know. But I was on fire to find out.

  The next time I saw him was at the bar where I'd first seen him - I'd been haunting the place for a week in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him again and I was beginning to get angry, desperate and crazy. Or maybe I'd been angry, desperate and crazy from the start - I don't know. It was hard to tell with him. Maybe I'd been nuts all along and he just knew somehow exactly which buttons to push to make me worse. All I knew was that every time I saw him and every time he spoke to me, sex stopped being this thing that happened to other people and became a thing that had to happen to me, with him, as soon as possible.

  He was dancing with a rock-chicky kind of girl, whose tight lacy top left very little to the imagination. I was wearing a denim skirt and a sleeveless white t-shirt I'd hoped would make me look vaguely rock n' roll, but actually made me look like a blonde version of Olive Oyl. I was pissed but wasn't I the one with his grandmother's rosary around her neck? I'm not sure how much I'd had to drink but it gave me an idea.

  I went into the bathrooms and took off my bra. I stuffed it in my purse and went marching back out there, onto the dance floor. He was still there and smiled when he caught my eye. I leaned close to yell in his ear, my heart doing double time.

  "You wanna see something?" I shouted.

  He looked amused. I took a step back and, still not quite believing that I was about to do this, hoisted my t-shirt to chin height. There was a rowdy drunk cheer ringing in my ears, but his face was all the reward I wanted - he was laughing, beautiful, incredulous.

  "You're insane," he said, and grabbed my hand. As he pulled me through the crowd I could already hear the mutters - slut, tramp, whore - but I didn't care. I had what I wanted; his undivided attention.

  He led me out the back door to a narrow little alleyway behind the bar. Before I could even look at him I had what I wanted - him. His kiss was every bit as delicious as I remembered, his hands hot under my t-shirt.

  "I know you," he said, grinding into me. "You're the movie star's daughter, aren't you?"

  I felt him hard against me and it gave me a jolt of fear, but it was quickly smothered by the exultant knowledge that I had done that to him. I was out
of my mind with the sense of my own power and daring. My top was bunched up over my breasts, my nipples bared to the elements. He had his hands on my hips now and I was arching into his touch, all but begging him.

  "Little rich girl, right?" Justin said. "Used to getting what you want?"

  He hooked him thumbs into my panties and started to pull them down. Once again I felt the jab of fright, but as he'd said - this was what I'd wanted. Maybe it was going to happen faster than I'd expected, but I couldn't say I hadn't wanted it to happen. I stepped out of my underwear. His grin was all teeth - all the better to eat you with, my dear.

  "I'll take these," he said, scrunching up my panties and stuffing them in his pocket. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would explode, the pulse between my legs nothing more than a mad, stuttering flutter. He reached between my legs and pushed his fingers into me - too fast and too rough - and that tiny wince of mine was my undoing. It wasn't that he was an especially sensitive lover, but I later found out he was finely tuned to fear - especially mine.

  Justin laughed.

  "No shit," he said, slowly. "A virgin?"

  I tried to look seductive, twisting my hips into his touch, but he just laughed again. "No way," he said, kissing me on the mouth. "You're too damn funny, baby."

  "I wasn't trying to be," I said. "Aren't you going to...you know?"

  He removed his hand, smoothed down my skirt and looked me up and down as he licked his fingers clean.

  "Nope," he said. "I don't think so."

  I folded my arms over my breasts, conscious that he could see the shape of my nipples through my t-shirt. Five minutes ago I'd felt like a sex goddess. Now I just felt like a sad, desperate little slut.

  "Then give me my...things back," I said, reaching to remove the rosary beads from my neck.

  He grabbed hold of my hand and kissed me.

  "This right here?" he said, laughing. "This is why I'm not gonna fuck you, baby. You can't even say 'panties', let alone 'fuck' and 'pussy'."

  ***

  That was the start of it - an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse that went on for almost a month. Once the initial humiliation had faded I told myself he'd kept it in his pants because he was a gentleman. "Yeah right," said Everglade. "More like he smelled untainted cash and wants to make sure you're thoroughly dickmatized before he has his wicked way."

  I ignored her; she'd been going through an 'I hate men' phase all summer. Besides, the last thing I wanted to do was accept that what she said about Justin might have been true. He courted me thoroughly, writing me erotic poetry and sneaking up on me in the library, whispering filthy suggestions in my ear. "I'll never get over the fact that you flashed me on the dance floor," he said. "You - a sweet little virgin. Trying to seduce me."

  Sometimes I told him to go fuck himself. Other times it ended with us in increasingly frantic clinches where he'd use his tongue and his fingers to great effect, but still refused to put his dick inside me. "Delayed gratification, cher," he said. "I want you grateful. I want you mine."

  "I am yours. I am grateful," I'd say, as often as not on the verge of tears. All I wanted was to feel him inside me, but he kept on withholding.

  "Nobody's touched you before," he would whisper. "You're going to be my creation, Amber. All mine. Everything you know how to do? It's going to be because I taught you how to do it, just the way I like it."

  Justin did everything he could to keep me in a permanent state of lust. There were a whole set of instructions to this end - no underwear ever, a careful wet shave every day in the shower, since I apparently wasn't even allowed a natural coat of hair between him and the parts he so tenderly neglected. Masturbation was strictly forbidden, unless he was there to watch, although sometimes I flouted the rule only so that I could later confess and be 'punished' - which meant I'd have him inside me, even if it was only in my mouth.

  Everglade snorted about the patriarchy at every opportunity, but I kind of liked that he forced his way into every aspect of my sex life, even the most private aspects. Knowing that I was following his instructions made me feel his presence, as if he was always there, holding me, his hand cupping me where I was bare and soft and ached for him.

  Whenever he thought my attention was flagging he would send me pictures - either nude selfies or pornographic drawings of us together. He worked part time at a tattoo parlor on the beach, where he drew custom designs. The first time he took me there I was fascinated, like I was with everything else about him. He showed me the design he'd created for the Reaper tattoo on his back - "Based on the Rider-Waite tarot, baby," he said. "The most famous deck - designed by some chick who was part of Aleister Crowley's sex cult out in Sicily."

  I think he expected me to turn squeamish at all the blood and needles, but my little henna tattoo hadn't hurt that much, so when he turned up one day with my name tattooed at the top of his spine, I just laughed.

  "Are you crazy?" I said. I didn't say that we might break up - already I was too far gone for that.

  "Maybe," he said, trying to stick the dressing back in place. I leaned forward and taped it back for him, over the bloody Gothic letters at his nape. "It's only five letters, cher. Six for you."

  "Six?"

  "Yeah. Amber is five letters, Justin is six."

  I caught his meaning and stared at him. "You want me to get your name tattooed on my body?"

  He didn't smile.

  "You want me to take your virginity. What's the difference?"

  "A lot," I said. The word 'virginity' sounded ridiculous now - was I really a virgin after all the things we'd done? I didn't feel like one any more. "It's...permanent."

  "And I'm not?" he said, crawling over me on the bed. I glanced at the door - Everglade wasn't due back for a while but I hadn't thought to put a sock on the door handle to indicate that we were busy.

  "You know what I mean," I said, as his hands slid up my inner thighs and his fingers crept inside me.

  "Nope," he said, against my lips. I could feel he was hard, just like he always was. Sometimes I wondered what he did when he left me unsatisfied on purpose; were there other girls he went to? I arched up against him, my flesh defenseless against the buttons of his jeans. I looked up into his eyes and his jaw was set firm - no chance that this was going to be it, the one time he finally relented.

  "Please," I said. "Please. I'll do it if you'll fuck me."

  He smiled. "Swear?"

  "I swear," I said, my hips already stirring with need.

  "On your mother's grave?"

  "Yes," I said, deciding this was no time to tell him she'd been cremated. And then just like that he unbuttoned and stuck it in me, without ceremony or a condom.

  "Oh," I said. I don't know what I'd expected - earthly bliss or something. Instead I was just anxious. This was everything they had told me not to do in health class. Our school had been pretty lousy in all other aspects of education but they'd briefed us extensively on safe sex. "Um...shouldn't you?..." I started to say.

  He rolled his eyes and went to pull out. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him close, determined not to lose what I'd waited so long for. I made him go too deep and I winced, but I'd have him like this or not at all.

  "What's up?" he said. "You're on the pill, aren't you?"

  "Sure," I said. I made a mental note to run down to the health center the next day. Maybe grab a morning-after pill too, just to be on the safe side.

  "Good," he said. "'Cause I fucking hate condoms."

  Afterwards I wanted to cry; I was so disappointed. Justin was annoyed because I didn't come and I was ashamed that I hadn't. The truth was it didn't feel nearly as good as it did when he went down on me, and I couldn't relax because I was too worried about getting pregnant. But I'd sworn I'd do it, which is how I ended up in the chair in the tattoo parlor.

  I wasn't prepared for how much it hurt. The henna tattoo had been on the fleshy part of my upper arm, but this was right on the bony part at the bottom of my neck. When the needle
went in I could feel the vibrations all down the length of my spine. Tears sprung to my eyes right away.

  "Are you okay?" said the tattooist. "You did say you'd had this done before, didn't you?"

  "Henna," I said. "I'm okay. Honestly."

  She looked skeptical but carried on anyway. Her name was Theresa - Justin had introduced us before. She had bright blue waist length dreadlocks and so many piercings that I didn't think her pain threshold could be anything like a normal person's.

  It was terrible. I kept wincing away from the needle and she was getting slowly more and more impatient.

  "I shouldn't do this," she said, taking out a bottle of tequila from the desk drawer. "But I keep this for emergencies. If you don't relax I'm going to have to stop and you're going to have a half-finished tattoo."

  "How far have you got?" I asked.

  "I'm just starting the S," she said.

  "Oh God."

  Justin came in. "How's she doing, Tess?"

  "Awful," said Theresa, like I wasn't there. "Keeps wincing. She's lucky I didn't slip."

  I drank off two straight shots of tequila. It tasted like nail polish remover to me, but if it promised to keep me numb then I was willing to drink a quart of the damned stuff. Justin held me still in the chair. She got as far as dotting the i before I asked for another break and some more tequila.

  “This had better be worth it,” I said, when she’d gone out for a smoke.

  “Sure it is,” said Justin. “Looks great. Makes me happy. What more can a girl ask for?”

  “Less pain?”

  “Life is pain, baby,” he said, giving me a sloppy, tequila scented kiss. “It’s how we know we’re still breathing. You should embrace it.”

  “What? Like Theresa?”

  He laughed and looked furtive. “Maybe not that far,” he said. “You know she’s got a metal bolt through her goddamn clit?”

  I didn’t have time to ask him how he knew that, but I knew. I knew as soon as she walked back in the room and the expression on his face shifted to one of amused interest – he wanted to see how I’d react. I felt sick, but I had to keep sitting there. The other option was storming out with the word JUSTI inked on the back of my neck.