Dirty Little Secret (Dirty #1) (3 page)

MELISSA

I looked down in horror at the muddy devastation.
 Tears formed in the corners of my eyes, then spilled out onto my cheeks.  Crying didn’t equal weakness, or imperfection.  It was just a girl thing.  After all,
bitches
don’t cry.  They scream and yell.  Nice girls, however, are perfectly happy to let a little bit of constructive emotion out via their tear ducts.

The truck loomed in front of me, looking mean.
 Like it had done it on purpose.  It was one of those jacked up deals, clearly meant to compensate for something.  It was noisy and dirty, and generally asshole-ic in proportion to the Beemer my Danny drove.

I stared at it incredulously.

Fifteen seconds earlier, I’d been rolling my eyes as the monstrosity tore through the parking, windows down as the driver blared some rock n roll garbage that should’ve gone out with the eighties.  

Ten seconds earlier, my mouth had dropped open as it skidded past a row of cars, straight for me.

Five seconds earlier, I’d been thinking,
There is no way that thing is hitting me. No. Way
.

Because I was wearing skinny white jeans that looked like they were painted on.
 And I was carrying a designer purse worth as much as a mortgage payment on a not-too-shitty townhouse.  Oh, and because I was me.  Melissa Hanover.  And how dare he try to mess me up?  I put good things into the world, and they came back at me.  Good girl karma.

And of course, I’d already had my one bit of bad luck for the day, when some doofus had dumped an entire chai out onto my favorite angora sweater.  (
In retrospect, maybe I should’ve known.  The chai should’ve been an omen.  A chai-men.)  In fact, that had upset me as much as the splattering of mud.

I
was forced to strip off the sweater, tuck it into my backpack, and shiver through the halls in my spaghetti strapped tank top.  Even with my arms crossed delicately across my breasts to avoid exposure, I felt cheap.

I got
madder and madder with each chilly step.

My point is…
I was standing on the edge of the grass between a fire hydrant and flower bed, already tense and angry when the truck pulled up.

The truck actually didn't hit me,
of course, or I might not have lived to tell the tale.  But it did do something worse.  It hit the puddle, which was a big, stupid one, caused by poor drainage.  It hadn't even rained in a week, and it was still there, mucky and deep.  In slow motion, the wheels spun, hit the goo, and flung it all over me. 

B
ear in mind that nice-girl-me didn’t get mad.  Not just then, but like, ever.  And I wanted to cling to nice-girl-me.  But as I waited for the driver to climb out and offer me an explanation and an apology, I was seething.  Twitching with unexpressed anger.

Instead, he rolled down the window, tossed back his shaggy blonde hair, and flashed me a grin.
 A grin!  As if it was a joke.  As if
I
was joke.

A trickle of unfamiliar fury bubbled under
the surface of my innocent psyche.

"I'm not a joke," I mutte
red.

"What's that, sweetheart?"

It took me a long second to realize the clown was talking to me.

"I'm not a joke," I said loudly.
"And I'm not your sweetheart."

"
You’re right. You don’t look much like
anyone’s
sweetheart.”

“I do have a boyfriend!”

I don’t know why I yelled it.  I sounded like a five-year old, even to my own ears.  But it was too late to take it back.

The amused look didn't leave his face.
 In fact, his smile widened.  It took up his whole face, spreading out his rocker-iffic beard into ten-day stubble.  It was as overblown as his goddamned truck.  I wanted to shrink it down to the size of his inevitably tiny manhood.

“Does
he
call you sweetheart?” he asked.

“No.”

“Ah-ha.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t worry.” He winked.
Winked!
“With those crocodile tears and that pull-me ponytail…I’m thinking you’re more of a baby-doll than a sweetheart, anyway.”

Now here's an
other important thing to know about the carefully crafted, Grade ‘A’, good girl image.  It doesn't include room for cuss words anywhere but in your head.  It doesn't include losing your temper, especially in a public place.  It definitely doesn't include literal mud-slinging at a beer-for-brains loser like the one in the truck.

But.

I. Did.  It.  All.

"You scumbag, douchebag,
shit
bag loser!" I hollered.

"Me?"

"What the fuck! Yes, you. I don't see any other assholes around here."

In fact, a crowd was growing, and most of them
were probably assholes, too.  Only assholes stare at, rather than help, a nice girl in distress.

The n
eed-a-haircut trucker noticed them too and looked around pointedly.  Which pissed me off even more.  So I stomped - in my hideous but eco-friendly canvas shoes - to the mud puddle, reached down, grabbed a handful, and tossed it as hard as I could at the offending vehicle.
I should add, here that my squeaky-clean self-played all-girls' softball for thirteen years before joining the cheer squad.  And admit that my favored position was pitcher.  And maybe also confess that I was an All-Star.

However, that being said, my eyes
were
closed when I threw the mud.  Where it landed was nothing more than a happy coincidence.

Though maybe outta-buy
-a-razor dude didn't think so.

With a sludge
-caked, incredulous stare – yes, it hit him right in the dirty-ass mouth - he tossed the truck door open so hard I thought it might snap off, and leaped out.

Wasn't he wearing a seatbelt?
I wondered absently.

It was his turn to stomp.
 His army boots slapped the mud emphatically as he made his way towards me. I stood my ground, bracing for my first ever fist fight. Which was going to be with a man. A six foot, six inch, perfect specimen of well-muscled man. With a vein popping out of his dirty forehead and mud stuck to his beard which was in turn stuck to his chin. He stopped, right in front of me, sky blue eyes blazing, hands clenched at his sides. If he was shorter, and I could've reached, I would've slapped the self-righteous look right off his face.

But a lady doesn’t strike first.

"Hit me," I hissed.

“What?”

“Hit me, you fucker.”

"I am not going to
hit you."

"Either hit m
e, or apologize," I commanded.

H
e took a step closer.

Yes!
I did mental fist pump.
He's gonna do it
.
He’s going to fucking hit me.

For some reason, this thought sent a desire-
filled shiver through my body.

Here, I wish I had a pause button.
 A way to stop life in that absurd moment, then rewind it, slow it down, and analyze it frame by stupid frame.  Because I was not a girl who had ever glorified violence.  

So why, in God'
s name, did the idea of this caveman yanking back my hair and laying the smack down, turn me on?

He smirked, lik
e he knew what I was thinking.

"Still
not going to do it," he said.

His statement infuriated me.
 And I had already slung mud.

"Are you always such a dip
shit?" I demanded.

He put his hands on his knees and bent down to my level.
 I shook with indignation.  How dare he treat me like a child?  

And it got worse.
 

He leaned forward
, so his lips were right beside my ear and whispered, "Only when dealing with a cunt like you."

When he dropped the c-word, I should've punched him.
 I should've spat in his face.  I should've taken a step back and given him a look that put him in his Neanderthal place.  What happened instead is this.

My knees got weak.
 My heart rate increased quicker than it does during a Zumba class.  I had to take a shallow breath to steady myself, and very nearly reached for the daddy-of-all-douchebags to hold me up.

With that smirk still in place, he put one hand his hip, and pinched my chin
with the other.

"See you later.
Baby-doll."

"Fuck you!” I yelled. “Later."

It wasn't until he was back in his truck and speeding away that I realized exactly how that had sounded.

CUTTER

I had to get out of there before I put her in her place.  Or put her against my truck and my
self
in her place, so to speak.

I jumped back into my truck
, and hit the gas as hard as I could.

She
’d looked even better close up.  

Except
, of course, for the glare in her eyes.  

Then she started with the crap about hitting her.
 

And fuck me if I didn’t want to.
 

Hit her.  Tap her.  And every other euphemism for fucking her
I could come up with.

As soon as there was some space between us, a surge of dark adrenaline raced through me
, and I had a sudden, intense vision of the girl, spread-eagle on silk sheets.  As if
I
owned silk sheets. 

My hormonal reaction pissed me off
even more.  It wasn’t like I couldn’t get some on a regular basis.  I was exactly the kind of guy bored soccer moms eyed up while their husbands were picking out two-by-fours.

What the hell is wrong with me?
 

Maybe I could just use her for a revenge fuck.  I nearly turned the truck around before reminding myself that a girl like that wouldn’t glance twice at a guy like me. 
Hadn’t glanced twice at me, even when I’d dumped an entire cup of tea onto her cotton-candy sweater.

Besides that, it would only make me feel better for a while, and what I needed was a long term solution to my frustration.

Like celebrating the fact that it was my goddamned day.

I slammed my hand down on the dash in my truck, trying to figure out exactly what the fuck had happened.  I couldn’t decide if I’d schooled the girl, or if she’d schooled me.

Normally, I had no problem admitting I’m not exactly peaches and cream to deal with.  As I said before, it’s a hell of a lot better than catering to people’s whims, living up to expectations, and generally being a huge-ass phony.  So why did I feel so fucking guilty about cussing the girl out?

Fuck you, later, she’d said.  What a closing line.

Finally the humor of the situation hit me, and I swallowed a loud laugh as I pulled into the parking lot at my place.  It made me almost regretful of the fact that I’d likely never see her again.  I hadn't had that much of a visceral reaction to a girl for a long time.  Or had that much fun with one, either.  Of course, my idea of fun was probably a little different than hers.

I grinned as I parked in front of my apartment, using two, shit-disturbing spots, knowing full well that no matter who complained, the building manager was too
scared of me to ask me to move.

Then the alarm on my watch went off, reminding that I had about five minutes to get my ass inside before a half dozen cops found a pretty good excuse to come calling.  I shoved down thoughts of the blue-balling, blonde bitch aside and climbed out.

“Fuck her and her fucking mud,” I muttered. “I should just be glad she’s someone else’s problem.”

I took the stairs, two at a time, reaching my door just as my watch alarmed again.

“One minute to spare,” I announced to the air, daring my phone to ring and tell me I’d broken the terms.

I was rewarded by silence.

MELISSA

So I was left doing that dumbfounded thing you see people in movies do, where they're totally shocked by what they've just witnessed and are rooted to the spot, and want to sputter out so
mething, anything.  But can't.

And all I could think was…
Why didn't I ask him his name?

In fact, I was still standing there, two minutes later when Danny finally pulled up in that foreign car of his.
 

Did they pass each other in the parking lot?
 Did Danny give Tiny Testicles' dirty truck an even dirtier look and swerve over to avoid being contaminated?
Oh, God.

Danny guided his car into one of the fifteen-minute, drop-off/pick-up spots.
 On his first try, he didn't get it exactly between the lines, so he backed up, straightened out, and adjusted until the parking job was spot on.  At last, he opened his door carefully, pausing to wipe the handle as he climbed out.

One day, I am going to wake up married to that man
, I thought
. I am going to make his breakfast, pour his coffee and kiss him goodbye when he leaves for the office. I am going to drop my kids off at school on my way to work at the half-time job I took so I could still go on ice skating field trips. I am going to realize I forgot something (probably the aforementioned ice skates) and I am going to come back home and find him in bed with another man.

Danny adjusted his argyle sweater vest.
 He patted the sides of his man-do and stepped around the mud puddle.  

Oh, God.
 I wanted to smile at him.  Smiling at loved ones is important.  I read a study somewhere that explained how new moms smiled every time they see their newborns, and this lets the babies know they’re loved.  I applied this same principle to Danny.  

I’d never thought before about how weird it was that I tr
eated him like a newborn.  At that moment, it didn’t even matter.  Because I couldn't do it.  

The closer he got, the harder I tried.
 He was smiling at
me
, and when his lips parted to show his perfectly straight teeth, all I could think about was how his mouth would look, wrapped around some other dude's enormous penis.

When he got about two feet away, he really saw me.
 His mouth opened in a round 'O' of surprise, and I couldn't hold it in any longer.  A cackling laugh exploded from my chest.

"Mel?"

"Shit, Danny," I gasped. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

I had no clue which part he needed clarification on.  My swearing, which was undeniably out of character.  Or my hysterical, wicked-witch giggles, which were so unlike my usual muted chuckles.  And I didn’t really care.

Okay.
 So I know that at this point, I don't sound like a good girl.  Hell, I don't even sound like a nice person.  It's hard, looking back, to reconcile the pre-truck-splattering me with the post-truck-splattering me.  I'm not even sure I could identify the way my mind worked then.  Was I superficial?  Not at all.  I volunteered at a hospice, read at an inner city elementary school, and wore an anti-bullying bracelet.  And I liked doing it all.

You might be thinking the real me was always there, under the surface.
 Either purposely hidden, or buried so deep I didn't even know about her myself.  I can say for sure the former isn't true.  I didn't need to work at keeping nasty thoughts to myself.  I don't recall thinking badly at all.  As far as the latter...Maybe it's the most plausible explanation for all that happened.

Anyway, to properly explain the
before
me, the best thing I can do is introduce my best friend, Shelby.  Which is pretty easy, since she showed up just then.

"Oh my goodness, Melissa!"

I spun to face her.  My foot stuck in the mud, and down I went.

"Fu-uh-uh-uh-ck!" I dragged th
e word out into five syllables.

Shelby jumped back, stumbling into Danny.
 They stood over me, pristinely preppy, pristinely pretty, and pristinely...pristine.

I wanted to shriek
, Help me up, you tools!

But as I watched them, watching me, I realized I couldn't.
 These people were my life.  Had been my life since senior year in high school, when Shelby and I formed the Good Cheer Club.  Back then, we spearheaded the Sing-O-Gram, a classroom-to-classroom service for students to share their well wishes with others.  Our program grabbed the attention of local media, spread to the high school in the next town over, and introduced us to Danny, who wanted to start a similar club in his high school.  The rest was history.  And I didn't want to mess with history.

"Melissa?" Shelby's voice was w
orried, probably genuinely so.

I took a deep breath
and told my very first Big Lie, designed to cleverly hide my very first brush with Something More.

"I'm so sorry! I just had the worst thing happen to me. A thug in a truck assaulted me." I shudd
ered as I made the confession.

Shelby's eyes widened with horror.
"Oh, no! Did he...fondle you?"

Fondle me?
What the hell?

Danny stepped back.
 His gaze found my cleavage, skipped over it, then focused on something in the distance.

I suppressed an eye roll
. "He did more than touch me."

Why weren't they helping me up, for Christ's sake?

"Oh no!" Shelby placed her hand over her mouth dramatically.

"I know, Shelby." I put a sob into my re
ply. "He pulled up in his truck and splashed me with mud. He got out. I thought he was going to help me. Even when he got closer and reached for me, I assumed he was just going to wipe off the dirt or something. Instead, he pinched my nipple."

Ha.
 Danny's face went beet red when I said the word nipple.  How was he ever going to deal with his buggery-filled future if he was that prudish?

"That's j
ust awful," Shelby exclaimed.

"I know
,” I agreed. “I was so scared. I couldn't move. Then he ran his hand over both of my breasts, then my bum, and he unsnapped my pants, and - "

I cut myself off, not because I couldn't keep it going, but because I
wanted
to.  Keep going that is.  Shit.  I was getting damp, and it wasn't just because I was seated in a pool of water.

"And what, Melissa?" my best fri
end prodded in a gentle voice.

I shook my
head. "And then he took off."

Before I
got
off
, I added mentally.
Asshole.

"What di
d he look like?" Shelby asked.

"Dirty hot," I blurted.

Danny finally looked at me again. "What?"

"I said he was dirty."

"Dirty what?"

Double shit.

"Just dirty. Literally. Totally covered in dirt." I burst into tears. "This is my fault! I shouldn't have come out here wearing this shirt. He probably thought I was asking for it. It's just that I was covered in chai and my angora was ruined and I - I - Oh, God. Why me?"

And Shelby came to my res
cue, just as I knew she would.

"Geez, Danny." As close to a swear word as she would get. "Maybe you should leave us alone for a bit. Melissa needs a shower to wash that creep's cooties off. And a frappe, to cleanse her insides."

Because when somebody gets fake-assaulted, nothing cures her ailment like a frappe.

“Danny?”

He turned an apologetic smile my way. “Yeah, Mel?”

“Give me your fucking keys.”

“What?”

I repeated my words slowly, like I was speaking to a small child. “Give. Me. Your. Fucking. Keys.”

Danny frowned. “Why?”

“I’m following him.”

Shelby gasped. “The guy who fondled you?”

“Yes,” I replied angrily. “Hurry up, Danny, before I lose him.”

He held them out hesitantly.  I wasn’t in the habit of handing out orders, or chasing down fake assaulters, or real assholes, or anything that was much beyond smiling and nodding.

I grabbed the keys and dove for the Beemer before anyone could talk me out of it.  I knew the asshole wo
uldn’t get far.  There was one main way off the campus, and he would’ve taken it.  With the afternoon rush of students trying to get from there to anywhere else, he’d be jammed up.  But I knew a way to cut through the parking lots that would take me right to the main exit.  I’d beat him there for sure.  And I had no problem with the idea of lying in wait to tell him exactly what I thought of him.

I grinned as I shifted Danny’s car into drive.

Fuck you, you slow-witted tool. Right now.