Dirtiest Secret (SIN 1)

Honestly, I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

I continue across the room, pushing past dozens upon dozens of partygoers who have meandered inside, entering through the three massive French doors that line the east-facing wall. The throng makes me tense--I don't know these people, and I don't like crowds. I keep looking over my shoulder to check my six the way Liam and all my self-defense instructors have taught me, even though I know it's stupid. No one at Dallas's party is going to hurt me. But knowing and believing are two different things, and I've gotten used to constant vigilance.

I look around the room, finding comfort in noticing the details. The usual furniture has been moved out so as to turn this room into a dance floor with a DJ in the corner and small round tables set up around the perimeter. Hired waitstaff move through the crowd with trays of drinks, and I see dessert stations set up in all four corners of the massive room where my friends and I used to practice our middle and high school cheers.

The dessert tables are themed, and I make a beeline for the chocolate station, cutting across the dance floor and moving nimbly to avoid arms and legs and dips and shimmies. I also avoid the stares I'm getting from more than one guest. I'm quite certain it's not because they recognize me as Jane Sykes, now Jane Martin, the daughter of Eli and Lisa Sykes. The sister of Dallas Sykes. And a bit of a celebrity in her own right, what with the buzz my book has been getting lately.

No, I'm getting stares not because of who I am, but because of how I look. Everyone here looks like they walked straight off a Fashion Week runway, and my jeans, canvas sneakers, and tank top are hardly blending in, even with the designer blouse I'd pulled on at the last minute. Not because I'd been trying to dress up, but because I hadn't wanted to face Dallas in such a skimpy top.

I tell myself I don't care. After all, the women who stare as I pass and whisper snide comments about my uncoiffed hair don't really belong here. I do. I grew up here. I lived here. This is my place, part of my identity.

And that's the problem, isn't it? Because here I am in a house that I love, and all I feel is lost. All I feel is alone.

I draw in a breath and focus on the platters piled high with cupcakes and brownies. I grab a cupcake with chocolate frosting and colored sprinkles, and then take a big, glorious bite. As I do, I notice that I'm the only female who seems to be eating anything not from the alcohol or vegetable food groups.

This doesn't surprise me. I got sucked into the low cal-low carb diet obsession about the time I turned thirteen, but all that ended after the kidnapping. When some sick fuck with a god complex decides to feed you only cat food and water for days on end, your perspective tends to shift.

I'm not a glutton, but I don't deny myself food. Not if I want it. Not ever. For that matter, there are very few pleasures that I deny myself these days, with Dallas being the only notable exception.

With a sigh, I tear myself away from the chocolate station and go through the open French doors. I step onto the flagstone pool deck and into a wonderland of decadent extravagance. Everything from the Grammy Award-winning pop star performing on a newly constructed stage just beyond the decking to the prone naked models who are doubling as sushi platters. Seriously?

There are just as many people out here, but the crowd is thinner with more space to spread out. All the guests are dressed to the nines, though many of them sport designer swimwear paired with designer wraps and set off by designer shoes. I've never understood why someone would want to wear heels with a bikini, but if the women currently splayed out on the chaise longues or talking in dark corners with well-suited men are any indication, I'm in a small minority.

I pass the bar on one side and the waterfall end of the pool on the other. The lights are on, set to rotate in a pattern of vibrant colors that not only illuminate the floating nudes but also cast a colorful, shimmering glow over the east side of the house. I watch the dancing lights for a moment, my gaze drifting upward to the last window on the third floor--Dallas's room.

I wonder if he's still in there, or if he's gone to the helicopter already, leaving his two guests alone to engage in their own little orgy of fun.

I roll my eyes at myself, irritated at the direction of my thoughts and the extent of my jealousy.

The truth is, I handled this whole evening poorly. As soon as I realized he was having a party, I should have turned away.

Then again, when isn't Dallas Sykes having a party? According to the tabloids, it seems to be a daily event. And, yes, that simple truth makes me a little surly. Because I miss what we used to have, I really do. And I can't help but wonder if he does, too. He practically said as much to me just now, but was it the truth or just a line? Am I now only one of the many women in his life?

I don't really believe that, and yet I wish I could. I think it would make me hate him.

It would be easier if I hated him.

The far side of the pool is lined with cabanas, and I sit on the teak bench outside the first one and watch the show in front of me. Socialites and wannabes mingling and flirting. Women in huddles with secret smiles--and I know that they're all talking about Dallas.

I glimpse a flash of red hair and see the woman who was in Dallas's bed earlier step through the French doors and onto the patio. Her expression is smug, and from the faces that are now turning in her direction, it's no secret where she's been, and what she's been doing.

There are so many stories about Dallas's escapades. So many rumors, so much gossip. I hadn't wanted to believe they were true, but the more I see, the more I believe.

I want to be disgusted--I am disgusted--but I can't escape the uncomfortable truth: I want it to be me.

Except I don't--not really. Because the man I crave doesn't exist anymore, and I don't want the man who goes through women at the same pace he goes through scotch.

Somehow, though, I can't quite believe that the boy I loved turned into the man I see.

Finally, I can't take being there anymore, and so I rise to my feet, planning to head back the way I came, back through the house and out the front door to where I left my car with the valet.

I don't make it.

He's right there, standing just past the edge of the cabana. The women nearby have their eyes on him, but he doesn't even seem aware. Instead, he is looking only at me. And as he starts to walk toward me, my chest starts to hurt, and I realize that I am holding my breath.

I exhale, feeling childish and stupid, and force myself to stand up straight, breathe normally, and not look like I'm cornered and trapped.

"I thought you had to catch a ride," I say, because I don't want him to have the first word.