Dirtiest Secret (SIN 1)

"It's what I am," he confirmed, though everything inside him wanted to scream that she wasn't really seeing him. That these women--this life--was only a play in smoke and mirrors. A disguise.

And, yes, a defense against her. Because so long as she looked at him with such contempt and revulsion, they were safe. He'd built a wall around himself because it needed to be built. And like those Chinese peasants who'd found themselves bricked in as they built the Great Wall, he, too, was trapped inside a barrier of his own making.

"It's not who you are." He thought he heard a plea in her voice. "It's what you've let yourself become."

A thousand retorts welled in his mind. He didn't voice any of them. How could he, when every word she said was true? When the only thing she got wrong was that he was playing a role? Calculated and planned. And secret from everyone but those who knew him best. And that was a category in which she no longer fit.

She waited a moment, as if she expected him to contradict her, as any self-respecting man would.

When he remained silent, she made a low scoffing noise and shook her head, and the disappointment he saw in her eyes hurt him more than any harsh words ever could.

"Did you come here to criticize me?" He spoke casually as he walked to the bar, hoping she couldn't see how much simply having her in the same room affected him. "Because honestly, a phone call would have been just fine." He held up a clean glass. "Want one?"

He couldn't read the expression that washed over her face. Disgust? Regret? Didn't matter, anyway. It was replaced quickly enough with the fake, polite smile that every child who grows up in the spotlight learns at an early age. The smile that protects them from the nosy press and pushy outsiders.

And now she was aiming it at him.

God, how far they had fallen.

"I should have called first. Obviously." She ran her palms down her jeans, the only sign that she was agitated. And, frankly, he would have preferred if she'd raged at him. It was this polite, level bullshit that was really pissing him off.

"Jane--" He cut himself off, unsure what to say. And so he said nothing, just reached his hand out and prayed she would take the offering.

She didn't.

Instead, she shook her head, and his gut twisted when he saw tears glisten in her beautiful eyes.

"I made a mistake," she said as she turned for the door. "I should never have come to you."

And then she rushed out the door before he could make a move to stop her.

For a moment, he just stood there like an idiot. Then he started to follow. He had to know what she'd come to say. What had driven her to him after all this time. But the blonde's simple question brought him to a halt.

"Who the hell was that?"

Dallas shoved his hands into his pockets, his back to the women and his eyes clenched shut in protest against the truth. The only truth that mattered. She wasn't his lover, not anymore. He wasn't even sure if she was still his friend.

She was lost to him now in every way that mattered. Every way except one. And that was what he had to keep clear. That was what he had to keep in mind. That one connection that still kept them together as firmly as it kept them apart.

"My sister," he said, the word turning like worms in his gut. "She's my sister."

Bastard.

I let the word roll through me, pushing me to move faster, to get out of this house that had once held such happy memories, and away from the boy--now a man--who had once been my everything.

I race down the window-lined hall, ignoring the beauty of the moon-dappled ocean that fills the view to my right. Instead, my head is filled with images of his bed, and of the naked women who shared it. Women, as in two of them.

Horny asshole bastard.

He's supposed to be hosting a goddamn party, and instead he's hidden away in his bedroom fucking two women. At least I only saw two. For all I know there was another one hidden in the bathroom, just waiting for him to join her so she could suck his cock, just one more in the pile of women he went through. One more bimbo who would write in her journal that she'd joined that exclusive club and the King of Fuck had impaled her with his golden sword.

I grimace at the image, and at the nickname. I'd heard it for the first time tonight as I'd moved through the party trying to find him or Archie. Since I'd crapped out on both counts--earning myself only stares for my so-not-party-ready outfit--I'd decided to let myself into the residential wing and simply wait for him.

Clearly that wasn't my best decision ever.

I push through the heavy wooden doors that separate the private area of the third floor from the rest of the hall and the landing, then slam them shut behind me, the clicking of the latch underscoring my irritation.

The King of Fuck. Christ, now that I've heard it, the phrase is determined to circle in my head, over and over like an earworm, only far more annoying than the most irritating tune.