The Dirty Ones

I spin around, angry. “You could’ve told me. I would’ve been fine if I knew. But you kept the lie going. You built on it, for fuck’s sake. You told me you loved me, Sofia. And so did you,” I say, snapping my attention to Connor. “And I believed you both.”

“Kiera,” Connor says. “Everything I ever said to you was real. I didn’t know Sofia was faking it.”

“I wasn’t faking it,” Sofia says, her voice uncharacteristically loud and harsh. “Not at the end.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bennett says. “Hold on here. You guys were having a threesome? The entire year?”

“Who wrote in the book?” Camille asks.

God, I can’t believe that just a few minutes ago I felt sorry for her. “I did,” I say, practically growling out the words.

“I want to read that,” Camille says, getting up and snatching the book off the couch next to Connor.

Hayes intercepts her. Snatches the book from her hands, and points his finger at her. “Don’t be an asshole, Camille. I’m warning you now.”

She laughs. “Oh, we both know you’re going to read those chapters, Hayes. You’ve always had a thing for Kiera. I bet it stings, doesn’t it? Knowing she was with them the entire time.”

“That’s enough,” Connor says, who is standing now, leaning into both their faces. “I’m the reader, remember?” He takes the book from Hayes and sits back down on the couch.

Camille smirks at me from across the room, does this little dance-y wiggle thing with her body—like a shrug, but sassier—then says, “I can’t wait to hear Connor narrate his part in all this,” and takes her seat next to Bennett.

“I think we should take a break and have dinner,” Hayes says, walking over to the phone and picking it up.

“Oh,” Camille cackles. “I bet you do need a break.”

Hayes ignores her, just tells whoever is at the other end of that line to bring dinner up and send up servants to set the table.

“We’re eating in here?” I ask.

There is a table, but it’s meant for looking over books, not dining.

“Emily is still out there in the house somewhere. So unless you want her to join us unexpectedly, yes. We’re eating in here.”

“Is there a menu?” Camille asks.

Hayes glares at her, but doesn’t answer.

“I’d like to use the restroom,” Sofia says. “Can you point me to it?”

“Any of those doors lead to a suite,” Hayes says, pointing around the room at four doors, two on either side of the library. “But use these two by the windows. Because the other ones have doors that lead out into the hallway and they’re locked from this side. I don’t want anyone taking unnecessary risks with Emily.”

Sofia shrugs, then walks over to the door I’m closest to, shoots me a look, and then disappears inside.

She wants me to follow her.

My first reaction is to shake my head in disbelief, but then… ya know what? Fine. Let’s do this. Let’s clear the air.

She leaves the door to the suite open after she enters, but I slam it closed behind me. She walks over to what I presume to be the bathroom and turns, looking at me from across the large, four-poster canopy bed. God, this room is pretentious.

“It wasn’t all lies. That closeness, that… whatever it was—”

“Whatever it was?” I ask, unable to believe she just said that. Then I huff out a laugh.

“You know what I’m talking about, OK? I’m just having trouble finding the right words.”

“Trouble finding words?” I laugh again. “You’re a fucking award-winning writer, Sofia. And you write some of the dirtiest erotica I’ve ever read on the side. You’re not having trouble finding words. You’ve having trouble thinking up lies.”

“You can believe that if you want, but that’s not how I feel. We were more than friends back then. My feelings for you and Connor were real. And most of them haven’t changed.”

“We weren’t friends,” I say. “We were never friends because we never had anything between us but a deal.”

“That’s not true,” she says. “We talk to each other all the time.”

“Online,” I spit.

“So what? It’s still a friendship. You live five hours away, Kiera. It’s not that easy to plan a Saturday night with someone in another state. And anyway, you’re happy up there in your little world.”

“Oh, you did not just—”

“You’ve never said a word about coming to visit me. You never asked me to come visit you. Friendship goes both ways, so if you’re feeling left out you might want to ask yourself what part you played in your own sad demise.”

“There’s the words,” I say. “Found ’em, I guess. Better write all this down so you can use it in your next book.”

“What?” She huffs. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you don’t read my books, but I read yours. And I’ve noticed over the years you quote me quite often.”