The Dirty Secret (12 page)

“Deb?”

“No, Starla.”

“Not by name, no. They all know I hired a decorator, Vessa. None of them think for a second that I have the ability to do any of this on my own. I haven’t told them anything about you, or that we—we’ve. Been.” It was a lie, of sorts, by omission. They knew he was “seeing someone,” and he didn’t mention that Deb had guessed. She, out of all of them, would keep her mouth closed. “I know you like your privacy.”

“Thank you.” She rolled up the bag of dirt and set it next to her backpack. She was five feet from him, and yet she could have been miles away, far beyond the neighborhood and the noises outside.

Her jeans had paint splotches on the right thigh, different colored dabs and overlapped splatters, each labeled with a black marker:
R+J Balcony, Ain’t Misbehavin’ Act II Left V Drop, Antigone Floor (Base).
She wore a plain white T-shirt and sandals and was so beautiful he felt clumsy and awkward, loitering in the fringes of her personal space, hanging on for another word or a glance his direction.

“I wouldn’t, you know?” he said. “Be with her, I mean.”

“You wouldn’t want to be with a politician’s daughter?” Her back was still to him. “Would that be crossing party lines?”

Killian swallowed his chuckle. “Well, no, but that’s not what I meant.” The handle of the refrigerator door dug into his back. “Okay, she is a bit fancy. But she’s not as straitlaced as she lets on. She can hold her own at happy hour, and Deb says she’s into kinky spanking shit. But I wouldn’t do that. Two girls at the same time, I mean. Not to you, or to her, or anyone. I’m not that kind of guy.”

Vessa pulled her measuring tape from her bag and took it to the stairway, measured a rise and jotted the number in a small notebook. When she stretched the tape across a wall, he stepped close, near enough to catch the scent of her hair. He held his hand out for the end of the tape, and she handed it to him without touching his fingers. She pulled it taut and wrote down the inches.

Her face was in partial profile, her cheek curved in a slight smile. Her eyes flicked to his and then away. A thrill ran through his spine—he could see it, her awareness of him, the arch of her neck, the way her breasts rose up and down as she breathed—she still wanted him.

She’d seen him with Starla and thought he was with another girl, and the rooms she’d made after were chaotic and sad. He imagined seeing her at the restaurant with another guy, someone with Bengt’s perfect blond hair, and he pressed the inch marks hard enough that his thumb turned white.

“Would you like to meet them? My friends?” he asked. He would have to blindfold Bengt and shackle his hands in iron chains before introducing her. “You could join us for drinks sometime. Maybe when this place is finished?”

Vessa stilled, and her shoulders rose with the breath she took. Had he gone too far, suggesting this crazy relationship continue after the house was done, that it could be more than a “showmance,” or whatever the fuck she’d called it?

She raised her chin, a flash of defiance in her eyes. “I would like that.”

Another
I
. He clenched his teeth to keep from grinning like a maniac.

“Did you put the cabinet fronts up?” she asked, raising the tape to the edge of the landing. “In the kitchen?”

He lifted his end to the corresponding corner. “Yeah. I was here, and needed something to do with my hands. Figured I could help keep things moving forward.”

“Thank you.” She tugged the tape from his hands, and curled it up in a tight spiral. She dropped the notebook into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder.

“Do you have to leave?”

“If you want me to get your house finished on time, yes.” Her glance fell to his mouth, and heat spread through his chest. He leaned in and kissed her, a quick brush over her lips, but then he heard her little gasp, and
fuck
. It had been over a week since he’d felt her mouth, tasted her lips.

Hands settling on her hips, he drew her to him, nothing chaste about the way he fitted her body to his. He put seven days’ worth of wanting in one kiss with bold hands and insistent tongue, teeth catching her lower lip. She rose to him, hands in his hair, wild. Her mouth tasted like sugar and pent-up lust.

He pulled away, catching his breath, his forehead against hers, their hair tangling together, her eyes a sparkling shadowy blur.

“I meant it, you know,” he said, forcing his voice to stay light. “I’m curious about you. Fascinated is a good word. But I don’t want to ask for more than you want to give me.”

He kissed her again. This time he held everything back, lips gentle, all his desire kept in check. She keened, lips soft against his mouth, her fingertips rising to his jaw, and the fragile sweetness of it tore through him, different than before, enormous and overwhelming. He turned his face into her hand, brushing a kiss into her palm. “Will you tell me something?”

She stilled. “Like what?”

“Anything. Something you’d like me to know.”

She touched his mouth with her fingertips. “You’re the first guy who’s kissed me in over two years.”

“Yeah?” A peculiar thrill rose up his spine. Then he sobered, remembering her tragic show romance. She’d mentioned transferring her junior year. And a restraining order. He caught her hand, whispering a light kiss over the knuckles, watching her face. “I’ll have to make up for that.”

Vessa’s eyes closed and her lips parted. He kissed them, lingering until she clutched at him, then pulled him closer, aggressive. Her lips moved over his, tongue invading, heavy, carnal.

She shoved him against the wall, pressing her body up against him, full contact, soft belly against his hard groin, and he groaned when she squirmed away.

“Your open house is in less than a month. Make up for it while the paint is drying.” She kissed him again, then left.

He sat back down at the table, his entire body still throbbing, thinking not about the heated kisses, but the tender one. And fuck if he didn’t want that from her, too—not just the sex, but all her sweetness.

She had been jealous when she’d seen him in the restaurant with another girl. The thought of that kindled a delicious warmth in the middle of his chest.

Vessa did things her own way, on her own terms, he’d told Donna Edith. She’d told him to be patient. He’d wait as long as Vessa needed. He’d wait until the cows came home. Or until doomsday, or the end of the world. All of which would happen before Seth fixed his fucking floor.

The next evening he drove by, looking for her car, but the driveway was unoccupied. A faint glow lit the windows of the house, and he went in to investigate.

The light came from the stairway. She’d painted the walls the same cappuccino color as the hall, tying the two spaces together, but it faded to cream at the top of the stairs, giving the effect that the ceiling was floating, forcing the perspective higher than it really was. The handrail was stained a glossy oak to match the floor, and held in place with curving brackets shaped like leaves above every step, a simple but effective nod to the elaborate banisters of the Belle Epoque.

On the wall over the landing was a shelf with the same brackets. Above it, two antique string puppets danced. A ballerina in red shoes, a mask and a yellowed tutu was suspended in midpirouette, her strings hung from the ceiling of the second floor. Reaching for her was a jester in black and white diamonds and a toothy jointed grin sitting on his own crossbar, strings snarled around his feet.

Killian looked closer. The male puppet wasn’t adoring as much as he was leering—the female dancer had nothing on under her skirt, just a little pink heart painted between her wooden legs.

On each side of the shelf hung a sconce that matched the hallway fixtures, gaslight streetlamps with a pink flicker bulb. Below it was a framed print, an old-fashioned specimen painting of a plant with strange red and gold bells. Next to it was another of an Italian clown, her dress the same colors as the flower.

He sat down on the fourth stair still holding the rail, listening to his heartbeat, absorbing the whimsy of the walls, lighthearted and welcoming and sexy—Vessa all over—and happy. Relief washed over him in slow waves.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the house, and it cradled him with the walls that she had painted, waiting with him to see what she would do next.

Chapter Twelve

Garage Sale

“Vvehhhsssah,” the unicorn moaned from the doorway of Brass and Bone. “The mailmaaan left letters for youuuu.”

“Ugh, Manny! Get that thing away from me!” Vessa shoved at the horrific taxidermy. “What is it, anyway?”

“Mostly a mountain goat, I think. Might have some iguana thrown in, too. It’s been in the basement for a while.”

“How much do you want for it?” a woman asked, from the salt and pepper shaker shelves. She wore all black, down to her fingernails and her lipstick.

Manny brushed the thing’s forelock. “Two hundred dollars and he’s yours.”

“One hundred,” Vessa told her. “Mr. Luna knows you’ll give him a good home.”

“I do?” the shopkeeper asked.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “It weirds out your favorite employee.”

The customer smiled, like she enjoyed weirding out people she lived with, too. Manny glared at Vessa. “One seventy-five, and my only employee needs to get back to work or she’ll be weirding herself out of a job.”

“One twenty-five,” Vessa begged. “Please, Manny, he’ll give me nightmares.”

“Would you take one fifty?” the scary woman asked, looking back and forth between them.

“Yes!” they both said, and Manny gift wrapped the thing as the woman asked, in black tissue paper and a bow tied at the end of the horn.

The shop owner handed Vessa the mail. “Thank you. Didn’t think I’d ever sell that
cabrón
.”

The postcard from her mother had taken two weeks to get to Vermont from Ethiopia, an abstract photograph of a handwoven basket full of coffee beans. On the back was a drawn heart and in curlicue letters:
Here they say “Coffee and love are best when hot!”

The letter had been mailed the previous day, from the local post office. The envelope was oversized and thick, like a wedding invitation. Inside was a card and another envelope, Vessa’s name visible through a glassine window, printed on blue paper with wavy lines. The note card was pretty, with a heraldic crest in the corner. Her name was written on the front with perfect fountain pen cursive.

Vessa,

Our mutual client is extremely satisfied with your work thus far, and has expressed his desire to continue with your services. Enclosed is your first paycheck and the forms to set up direct deposit with your financial institution. Should you wish to seek other clients or another arrangement, please contact me—your skills are an asset to my agency.

D. Edith

She read the card twice, standing outside her door, then a third time, dissecting the first sentence and the last. She looked for hidden meanings and subtext, as if she were in Donna Edith’s office, being tested for social graces that would reveal her innermost flaws. The word
desire
vibrated on the page, and she wondered if that was Killian’s choice of words, or Donna Edith’s.

The check was for four thousand dollars.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, discordant with the lazy afternoon traffic on the street and the summer birds gossiping in the trees.

She drove to the bank, and then the hardware store, entering through the garden department gates. The plant beds steamed with the heat of petunias, cloying, hanging in the back of her throat like saccharine. Tony waved to her as he helped an older gentleman load young plants into a cart.

“Julius,” he said, lifting a peat pot, then another. “Octavia. Augustus.”

“Roma tomatoes?” she asked as the man left.

He nodded. “How’s Jack doing?”

“Better. There’s a little pod on one of the vines,” she said.

“Tuck it up in the soil and it’ll take root.” He untangled a plant stem from another, and wiped his hands on his pants.

She considered the boy. He wouldn’t have a room to paint—he belonged on an earth floor with sunlight over his head. “Do you ever do any freelance business on the side?”

“Ah,” he said. “Follow me.” He led her to a truck held together with bungee cords, zip ties and wishful thinking. The passenger seat was a beanbag, strapped in place by an airplane seatbelt. Tony lifted the door off its hinges and pulled out a knapsack. “I’ve only got a spare quarter ounce on me right now, but after I get off work I can hook you up if you need more.”

“Um...thanks. But I meant landscaping. Decorative plants.”

“Oh. Right on.” He replaced the door. “What do you need?”

“Have you had lunch yet?” she asked. “We could talk about it then.”

“Sure! I’ve got a standing order across the street.” He pointed to the BurgerN’Shakes, a drive-thru with no dining room, just concrete tables outside. “I’m ready when you are.”

He tapped a few keys on the register and took off his green vest. Vessa led him to her Nissan and clicked the remote. The lights flashed.

Tony wrinkled his nose. “This is not your car. At all.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s not.” The California license plates gleamed on either end, another label that she didn’t choose.

They got inside. He slid the seat back as far as it would go, and pulled out a packet of cigarette papers. By the time they got to the menu with the loudspeaker, he had rolled three joints, perfectly cylindrical with twisted ends.

“Can-I-take-yer-order-please?” the lit sign crackled.

“It’s Tony,” he called through her window. “There’s two of us today.”

“Please-drive-thru.”

Vessa pulled up to the next window. The kid in the visor passed them a cardboard tray of food. Tony handed him one of the joints.

“Nice car, dude,” the kid said, snickering.

She parked in the corner of the lot, facing the main road. Tony fired up, and then offered her the weed.

She shook her head. “It’s a bit early for me, thanks.”

Tony laid the third joint in the penny console. “For later, then.”

Smoke filled the Nissan.

The cheeseburgers had extra bacon and extra pickles, and the vanilla shake was so thick Vessa’s cheeks hurt trying to get a mouthful through the straw. Between bites of food she described Killian’s house.

“Yeah, sure, I can figure something out,” he said, then he pointed. “
That’s
your car.”

Across the concrete curb was a seedy dealer’s lot with balloons and plastic flags. Nestled between two big farm trucks sat a tiny red car with a white roof, forlorn and out of place.

Vessa stared at it, her brain muzzy from the smoke. She got out of the car and walked onto the sales lot, passing the heavy rigs to circle around the little car. The computer printout taped inside the window detailed the year and the model, but not the price. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen.

“Can I help you, young lady?” The salesman had heavy eyes that looked her up and down. He peered past her to the beige sedan in the fast food parking lot. He was an inch taller than Vessa, but the cuffs on his trousers didn’t quite cover the stacked heels of his shoes. She would have painted him a room of pale gray, with low ceilings and orange caution lines.

“How much are you asking for this car?” Vessa asked.

“That one stickers at just under twelve thousand,” he said with an oily smile, “but I’m sure I can work something out with your dad.”

“What?” The phone slid from Vessa’s fingertips, bouncing off her shoe to land in the gravel. She picked it up and checked it for damage, then glared at the man.

“The owner of your trade-in has to be present to sign over the title.” He raised one eyebrow. “Unless the Nissan is in your name, not your father’s?”

“My step
mother
’s, actually. But why are you asking so much?” She held up her phone to the open web search. “The book value is less than half that.”

The man’s smirk stayed in place, like it had been sealed with shellac. “Those internet listings don’t take into account taxes and inflation that vary from state to state. Ask your parents to come in and I can explain the pricing breakdown and the trade-in bonuses.” He waved to someone behind her, and then walked off.

Vessa went back to her car, fuming. Tony hadn’t moved, though his joint had burned down to a nub. She rooted in her bag and found a bobby pin. He took it gratefully, and pinched the roach between the wires and smoked it to ash, while she sucked at her milkshake until it chilled her ire.

“Why do you name your plants?” she asked.

“Because they have souls. Some have little souls and only need a whisper of a name, just a breath of wind over a leaf—that’s enough to christen them, in the wild. A lot of plants have a collective soul. They’re part of a specific forest, with a name that protects them, or a field that’s given prescribed care. But when they live with people, they need a bigger ego to compete with all the psyches around them, vying for their sun, their oxygen. Naming them makes people realize they need love and care so that their soul can bloom.” His eyes were closed, but his head moved, bobbing gently with the music on the stereo.

Vessa contemplated the cute little car trapped between the rough trucks in the greasy man’s lot.

After a few minutes, Tony opened the passenger door. “I’ve gotta get back to work, mystery lady.”

Vessa insisted on driving him across the street, unsure if he was sober enough to navigate the road. She dropped him off at the garden gate, thanking him for lunch, then headed back to the new subdivision.

As she got out of her car, Killian’s green pickup eased into the driveway next to her. He wore sunglasses, and with his eyes hidden, his mouth was a new distraction, flashing with a broad grin as he parked. “Hey,” he said, stepping close. “Shall we go in?”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Donna Edith knows, doesn’t she?”

He ducked his head, and she wished she could see his face without the sunglasses as he blushed, adorable and boyish. “I didn’t even say anything,” he said. “She just knew. Did she ask you?”

Vessa shook her head. “She sent me a note with my first paycheck. Which brings me to my next question—do you have time to help me with something?”

“Can I kiss you first?” he asked. His voice, low and dark, rubbed her in delicious places and her nipples hardened as if he’d already touched them. “Because it’s all I’ve thought about the whole morning.” He reached into the cab of his pickup through the window. The garage door rose. The air was cooler inside, with that fresh concrete scent of acid and stone. Killian took off his sunglasses and pulled her to him, his hands at her waist, mouth coming down over hers, tender for a brief moment, and then heated. She met him, standing on tiptoe, hands on his shoulders. His kisses were rushed between his words.

“Your mouth,” he said, “is amazing. And your tits, fuck, they’re so nice. I want to kiss them, too.” His hand slid up her side, settling over her breast, thumb stroking the hard nipple.

Vessa squirmed and pressed against him.

“I want to kiss you here...” he said with a gentle pinch, and then his hand slid lower, between her legs “...and here.” She moaned into his mouth, and his tongue slipped under hers. He tasted like cola and hunger. “I’ll give you anything you want,” he said, “if you just let me kiss you.”

She was falling for him. Or maybe he’d already caught her, with his naughty eyes and his filthy mouth. His hand pressed her through her jeans, rubbing a slow circle that made her gasp. She sucked on his tongue, seeking even that small penetration, and he groaned.

Vessa pulled back, squeezing his rigid erection through his pants. “Anything? How much time do you have?”

He stroked her, another pressing caress that made her knees shake. “As much as you want. About forty-five minutes. But no one will notice if I’m a little late.”

“If I kissed you all afternoon, would you help me buy a car?”

* * *

He drove to the used car dealership and eased slowly past the sales office. The salesman was smoking outside the building, and sized up Killian’s pickup and his tie before stepping on his cigarette butt. He was exactly how Vessa had described him: too much hair product and not charismatic enough to sell brand new cars.

“Hey, my fiancée keeps saying she wants one of those.” Killian pointed to the red Mini Cooper. “Do you think I’d fit inside it?”

“They have a lot of headroom,” the dealer said, as though it were a personal concern of his own. “You want to take it for a test drive?”

Killian turned out of the lot and onto the street, then around the block to pull into the back of the hardware store. The little car was bigger on the inside than out, and cornered tighter than a drafting square. Vessa’s sedan was parked next to a familiar tumbledown pile of wheels and rust. She sat on the tailgate, swinging her feet back and forth. The sun caught all the colors in her hair, and the realness of her in the tangible world startled him. He’d never seen her away from the house.

He shut the engine off, searched under the dash until he found the hood release, then unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. “Runs fine,” he said, handing her the keys. “It’s fun to drive.”

“This is Tony,” she said, as the scraggly haired boy got out of the cab of his dilapidated Chevy, releasing a cloud of smoke. “He works in the garden department. He’s the one who sold me Jack. He might be able to help us with the front yard.” Vessa ran once around the car, inspecting it, then turned back to the boy. “Tony, this is Killian. I’m painting his house. He needs a landscaper.”

“Hey.” The kid stuck out his hand, looking from Killian to Vessa and back. A glob of something green was lodged in his grin. Killian shook his hand as if they hadn’t met before, keeping up the ruse while fighting his laughter. He turned back to the little car, feeling along the front for the latch.

“Do you know about cars?” Vessa asked as he inspected the engine. Her eyes shone, edged in black, lashes tipped with glitter. Her lips were still red from kissing him.

“My dad taught me a few things,” he said, squeezing a hose. “There’s no oil splatter anywhere, and the battery looks brand new.” He closed the hood. “Your Nissan is worth a whole lot. Are you sure you don’t want to trade it in?”

“It’s not mine. It’s a lease. With strings attached.” Vessa raised her chin, her jaw set with obstinacy, but behind her wall of privacy, there lurked a spark of excitement and rebellion. She got in the red car and adjusted the seat, stalling once before she took off.