Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty 2)

“I’ll keep it just between us,” I reassure her. “Just think of it as a little pain to go with the pleasure. What do you say?”

Part of me hopes she says yes to the deal so that I have an upper hand. Part of me wants her to say no, and then I can show her out the front door and not do the interviews at all. But the biggest part of me, or maybe just the hardest part, wants her to say yes because I want to push her, see what she’ll share, how honest she’ll be when I poke and prod at her deepest secrets.

Honestly, if she left right now, I’d be jacking off to thoughts of her on her knees sucking me off within seconds, not sending up praise at the lack of interviews.

Curious for her answer, I wait silently, eyes locked on hers.

Let’s see who wins.

Chapter 5

Elise

This is not going how I thought it would at all. I was expecting a bit of country boy charm, some hospitality, and maybe some pat interview answers. I figured I’d have to work to get deeper, tease out Keith’s personality for the articles. I was prepared to dig, to have to wiggle my way into his trust so he’d relax and be real with me.

What I didn’t expect was his huge body, clad in jeans and a white button-down shirt that seems to be molded to his bulk, looking so damn sexy when he opened the door. I guess I should have. I ogled his ass for an entire week to get that scoop.

For some reason, the bare head and feet made him seem casual, comfortable until he’d realized who I am. He definitely lit up then, anger flashing in his eyes, and I got a hint of the cold fire in his core.

It’s that cold fire that seems to draw me in. I don’t feel like I’m in control, but instead, we’re jockeying, wrestling for who gets to take charge.

He’s clearly doing these interviews begrudgingly, which makes his deal all the more unusual. I don’t think for one second that he wants to know a damn thing about me, some annoying reporter digging into his private life when he wants desperately to keep it private.

And so we’re in this little silent war, my body saying one thing while my professionalism says another. After all, why would he want to ask me questions?

I realize the answer. He told me as plain as day. It’s a control move. His way of showing that even in a situation beyond his control, he’s in power here. So we keep wrestling, doing our little dance and seeing who gets to be on top.

But really, is that so bad? To let him demonstrate some semblance of being the boss here, if it gets me what I want . . . him to answer my questions. Right, that’s why I’m thinking of sweaty bodies pinning each other to the floor, or a bed, or . . .

Fuck it. It’s not like I have anything to hide with my boring life, so he can fire away with his questions.

Decision made, I meet his dark eyes to see fire flashing there. So much anger . . . at me or at the situation, maybe both? Or is what I’m seeing as anger just passion?

I straighten my back, keeping the stare contest going. “Tell you what, Keith. I’ll agree to your deal . . . If you answer honestly and fully any question I ask and help me write an interesting, exciting story about you. You do that, and I’ll return the favor. Complete and full honesty to any question.”

He studies me, and I can feel him visually taking my measure as an opponent before he gets up, towering over me as he offers a hand. I shake it, noticing that his large hand engulfs mine. “Deal. Fair warning, Elise. You just made a deal with the devil for your soul.”

I grin at his dramatics, but there’s a little swarm of bees in my belly concerned that maybe there’s more truth to what he’s saying than I’m expecting. I expected Keith Perkins to be a little bit of a bumpkin, a good ol’ country boy who might be a little hostile but still stunned by the chic city girl with smooth verbal skills. Instead, he’s controlled, and he’s obviously a damn sight smarter than I’ve given him credit for . . . and that makes him all the more attractive. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.

We settle back more comfortably in our seats, and I pick up my phone, starting the voice recorder before setting it on the table in front of me as he sits back down with the grace of a tiger in his lair. He doesn’t react to my recorder, but I explain anyway, covering my ass. “I hope you don’t mind. Recording the sessions is just part of the deal, to make sure I’m correct with any quotes.” I give him a slight death glare, remembering how his label wanted a retraction and correction as if I’d been incorrect about my reporting.