Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"Do I ever cause you problems? Do you have to run interference for me? Do I not live up to my damned golden boy reputation?"

She said nothing.

"Make an excuse for me. Anything. I don't care." For just a moment, he let his mask down. The innocent Iowa boy who'd been discovered at seventeen, plucked out of obscurity to ride to fame on his Midwestern good looks and piercing blue eyes. He'd thrown himself into the work, scrambling up through television and indie films to where he was today. A genuinely nice guy, untarnished by Hollywood's bullshit.

Except that was all just a part, too. And for a flicker of a moment, he let Evelyn see the pain underneath. The loss. The darkness. And all the goddamn guilt.

Then he was the movie star again, and she was looking at him, her brows knit with an almost maternal concern.

"Please," he added, his voice low and a little hoarse. "It's not a good day. I need--"

What? A drink? A fuck? Magic powers so he could change the past?

"--to go. I just need to go."

"Do you want company?"

Hell, yes.

He shook his head. "No. I'm fine. But thanks."

But he did want company. Just not the kind that Evelyn was offering. He wa

nted the kind of company that was raw. That was dirty and fast and anonymous. With complete discretion. And absolutely no fucking strings.

Wanted? No, he didn't want it. Not really.

But he damn sure needed it.

Needed to open the valve and release the pressure. To erase the guilt, even if only for a few glorious minutes. To escape the ghosts and the memories and all the shit that he tried so hard to keep buried. That he never let anyone see.

That's what he needed, because without that release, his mask really would start to crack, and the whole world would learn that the clean-cut Lyle Tarpin was nothing more than a goddamn fraud.

2

"You could pull an extra shift," my best friend Joy says, looking up from my spiral notebook filled with columns of unpleasant, uncooperative numbers. "I mean, it would suck, but if you need the money, then you need the money."

And I do need the money. That sad reality is laid out right there in my notebook, in gallons of glorious red and a few small scratches of black. But unless I want to give up sleeping, I'm all out of hours in the day.

"You're here now," she replies, when I tell her as much.

I stick out my tongue. Not the classiest retort on the planet, but it sums up my feelings nicely.

Here is Totally Tattoo, the Venice Beach tattoo and piercing parlor where Joy works as the piercer-in-residence. Or the Needle Queen. Or whatever other title she happens to have grabbed onto that day. We met when I wandered into the shop almost five years ago, feeling lost and alone and desperate for a change. Somehow, I'd gotten into my head that if I could just change my look, then everything would be better. I'd be reborn, all the bad stuff washed away.

And all I needed was a shiny stud on the curve of my ear.

Unfortunately, that theory wasn't ever put to the test, primarily because I passed out when Joy came at me with the needle.

So instead of body art, I got a best friend.

All in all, I figure that was a fair trade. Even if she does still tease me about the fainting.

Now, I'm perched on the stool behind the reception counter and Joy's standing on the other side, her fingers tap-tapping on my dastardly little numbers. It's still an hour until closing, but the place is empty. So we're using the counter as ground zero for the recap of my financial woes.

"You know I was just kidding," she says. "But honestly, Laine, I don't have a better idea. Unless you want to rob a bank. Or, you know, win the lottery or something."

I thwap my temple with the heel of my hand. "You're brilliant," I say, slamming the notebook shut. "Problem solved."