Authors: Lisa Logan
She paused to sip at her coffee. Ridelle glared at her until Dominique went on. “It dawned on a couple of us that you would have to suffer through endless retakes if getting the proof turned out to be harder than we thought. With two cameras, we had double the chance of succeeding. As it turned out, that decision that Twyla and I made was a good thing.”
Ridelle blinked and shifted her gaze to Twyla. She had Fran figured for being the evil accomplice. Twyla was the last one she’d have suspected.
“
It was a stroke of luck,” Twyla said, her eyes pleading. “From what you told me that night, your encounter with Bruce was less than pleasant.”
Fran snorted. “That’s Bruce under the sheets, all right. An unpleasant encounter.”
Twyla ran a hand through curls rendered even tighter by the weather. “Now that we have photos that will work, you don’t have to go through a repeat performance. So yeah, we helped you.”
Ridelle shook her head. “But how did you get the photos?”
“
From a couple of discreet devices that belong to a friend of mine,” Dominique said. “One in a wall vent, one near the curtain rod.”
“
A friend of yours? So some skanky guy saw everything?”
“
Skanky girl, actually.”
Ridelle shot to her feet. “So some skanky
girl
broke into my apartment and put up spy cameras? Where are they, exactly?” She stalked across the living room toward the back hall.
Twyla spoke up. “Don’t bother. They’re already gone.”
She whirled on a sneakered foot, hands fisting hips. “Fabulous. Some bitch broke into my place twice?”
Twyla raised her hand. “I’m the bitch. The girl was never here.” She reached inside a tiny pocket over the breast of her forest green T-shirt, then set a key down on the dining table.
“
You used my spare.” Ridelle reached over and snapped it up off the table. “I gave you that to house sit last winter, not to give you VIP spy access.”
Twyla stared into her lap. “I’m sorry, Ridelle. I didn’t think you’d be this upset about it.”
“
Oh, I’m this upset, all right.” A fiery challenge blazed at each woman at the table. “I’m pissed. Why didn’t you guys just tell me?” Her gaze landed on Fran.
The woman put her hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me, hon. I knew nothing about it until they brought me the pictures.”
“
Fine.” The death stared leveled at Dominique. “I’ll look at you, since you seem to be the mastermind of all this. Explain to me why I couldn’t know about this backup plan?”
The woman’s return stare was impassive as she rose and stood behind her chair. “Simple. When you came to my door in a wild-eyed panic, I realized you might be too close to the plan to be able to see it through when the time came. If you’d been told about the extra cameras, however, you might have deactivated them.”
Ridelle nodded. “So basically, you’re confirming that this is exactly what I think it is. You don’t trust me. You thought I had the hots for Bruce so bad I’d do anything to protect him.”
“
No, Ridelle.” It was Fran’s turn to rise, though she stood in front of her chair rather than behind it. “That’s not it at all. We do trust you. I know you weren’t worried about sparing Bruce.” She nodded to Twyla and Dominique. “From what these two told me when they turned over the pictures, their concern wasn’t that you’d try to undermine our plan. It was that you’d panic at the last minute. Which is exactly what you did.”
“
I didn’t panic. I made a conscious decision to spare myself having a rather tawdry first time committed to film. Can’t any of you understand that?”
“
Of course,” Dominique said. She walked around until she stood a couple of feet in front of Ridelle. “But you didn’t give us the option of factoring that information into our decisions. You want to accuse of keeping secrets, fair enough. But you had one or two of your own.”
“
Yeah, except mine didn’t hurt anybody.”
“
Not true.” Twyla sat, tilting the mug toward her to examine the half cup of fluid remaining. “Your secret risked blowing the entire plan.”
Ridelle stared down at her. “What are you talking about?”
“
Honey, any woman in your position would have a million second thoughts if they weren’t virgins. But for you, the prospect of giving yourself to a man was that much harder, so the risk of you changing your mind was that much higher.”
“
Which you almost did,” Dominique said. “And now I realize why.”
Fran jumped in. “No one would have thought less of you for it. Bruce has had a few booty calls on the side, but it wasn’t like a daily deed. If you’d have bowed out, how many other women could we have risked parading in front of him before he caught on? He may be a penis-driven fool, but he’s no moron.”
“
We weren’t trying to hurt you, Ridelle,” Twyla said. “We wanted what’s best for you and Fran. We’re your friends.”
Anger still slashed through Ridelle’s chest, but the words softened the edge. “Well, you do have a point. I did almost change my mind, but not only because I was a virgin. I suppose I should be thankful that there are pictures to spare me from another go-round with the jackhammer.”
Fran laughed aloud at that. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of it. I just know all too well what you mean by that.”
Ridelle cracked a sick, reluctant half-smile at the affirmation. “So, do you have the photos here?”
Fran nodded. Silent, she pulled her purse from the floor and plopped it on the table. Inside was a manila envelope she handed over. Ridelle’s hands shook while she pulled out a series of four by six photographs, each one more incriminating than the last. After the third—a pose not even her gynecologist would want to deal with—she swallowed a greasy swell of nausea and handed the stack back. “I suppose all of you have seen these.”
Twyla shook her head. “I didn’t. There was no reason for me to look.”
“
I didn’t really,” Dominique said. “I glanced at a couple when my friend printed them out to make sure they were good enough for Frannie to win her case.”
Ridelle hugged herself, cheeks warming to a high simmer. “Well, embarrassed isn’t even in the neighborhood of covering how I feel.”
Fran came around the table and drew her friend into a warm but tentative hug. “Grateful doesn’t begin to cover how I feel. Thank you, Ridelle. I’m so sorry for all this. The worst crap is behind us now. After I shove these down Bruce’s throat, he’ll hopefully be smart enough to settle. Either way, you’ll be so upset about my discovery of the affair that you’ll break it off with him, and he’ll never suspect the real reason. Then we’re both home free.”
“
All,” Dominique corrected. “We’ll all be home free.”
Four Months Later
Frannie had the dream again. She stood in Bruce’s office, him seated behind the oversized desk like the CEO of a Fortune 500. Why did men surround themselves with obscenely large things? Obsessing over bigger motors, bigger processors, bigger televisions…a penis thing, no doubt. In which case, it seemed that men like Bruce would prefer to downsize their possessions to make their cocks appear larger by comparison.
“
I really don’t have time for this now,” he was saying. “Perhaps you could schedule your raving paranoia for a time when I’m not expecting an important overseas call?”
In reply, she slapped a pile of photographs down on a manila folder in front of him. “Just thought maybe you’d like to make some additions to the digital slideshow on your desk.”
His face went white as he scanned the top photo; by the last Bruce Myers had turned a sickly shade of gray. “How did you get these?”
She crossed her arms under a plunging white neckline designed to give him an eyeful of what he’d no longer be mauling. “Wasn’t easy, considering you cut off my ability to retain a private investigator. Luckily, there were those willing to give generously to the ‘Save Fran From Her Slimebag Husband’ fund.”
He grabbed the photos off the desk and rose, tucking them into the inner breast pocket of his charcoal suit.
She shrugged at the gesture. “Keep them. They’re just copies.”
“
And if I told you they aren’t what they look like?”
Fran tossed strawberry locks behind her as she laughed. “Then I’d say save your foul breath, because you’re the world’s worst liar. Ridelle already confessed to everything.”
He muttered a curse under his breath. “You talked to her?”
“
Of course. She was my friend—past tense. Though in hearing the bitch’s story, I confess I can’t help but feel she was rather led astray. Really, Bruce, a virgin? It’s not enough for you to screw around with my friends; you have to rob their innocence, too?”
A vein pulsed at his temple as he fished the photos back out of his pocket. Holding up a particularly graphic pose of him servicing Ridelle from a kneeling position at the foot of her bed, his voice strained on the edge of a shout. “Does this look like she’s fucking innocent?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, it looks like she’s fucking garbage, but that’s another story.”
Nostrils flaring in the midst of a reddened face, Bruce lunged around his desk toward Fran. The hand not gripping evidence was balled into a fist. Her eyes widened, and she retreated back. “What, are you going to hit me? That’ll make for some great additional photos.”
He sneered, but stopped short three feet from her. “What do you mean, ‘additional’ photos?”
She shrugged. “You don’t honestly believe you’re not still under surveillance in case you decide to do something stupid during this confrontation?” It was a lie through and through, but Frannie had no desire to suffer any physical backlash.
He glanced around in sudden self-conscious suspicion, teeth gritted and photos bent from the tight grip in his hand. For a moment she thought he was going to give in anyway, take his chances. Then he expelled a disgruntled breath. “What is it that you want, Frannie?”
“
Oh, so now it’s ‘Frannie?’ I don’t fucking think so. I want out. You screwed my friend and our marriage. From what I hear, both were unsatisfying. You’re going to give me a divorce, with a fair financial settlement.”
“
But the prenup—”
“
Might as well be used to wipe your lawyer’s ass, because it’s worthless now. You broke the terms.”
He looked ready to argue the point, but for once kept silent. She leaned forward and plucked the photos from his hand. “Now, we can spare ourselves some of the indignity of these,” she waved a shot of orgasmic bliss light years removed from the expression on her husband’s face now, “by coming to a mutually agreeable split, or we can drag them through court. And I guarantee it will be more equitable for you if we settle.”
Bruce stared for a long moment, then without warning fell to his knees. “I’m so sorry, Frannie. I’ll do anything to win you back. The servants, money, jewelry—they’re all yours again. Just don’t send me away.”
She looked down on him, then stretched out a leg encased in black vinyl fetish boots and fishnet hose. She pushed her boot heel against his shoulder, knocking him back to the floor.
“
Save it for the next Mrs. Myers. As for me,” she bent over him and tugged a bow tied across breasts corseted in black vinyl, spilling their creamy flesh free for one final lust-bathed gaze. Splayed as he was on the floor—much as he had been the day he’d taken a tumble in the master bath—it was easy to see the outline of a raging erection.
“
I’m through listening to the endless bullshit. You’re going to spend the rest of your life remembering these.” She pressed them together a foot above his head. “Not to mention the best ass you’ll ever have. You trashed it all for some flat-chested little tart.”
Wincing over apparent pain gathering in his crotch, the man began to weep. Fran smiled as she straightened, turned on her heel, and clicked her way out of his office. That’s where the dream ended.
Fran opened her eyes to find the sunny surroundings of her bedroom. Stretching with a satisfied grin, she let the images wash over her for a while before pushing herself out of bed. She’d dreamed a replay of the night she faced off with Bruce several times over the past few months, except the part where she turned dominatrix while he fell to his knees begging. That was new. In truth, Bruce had spat out something about his lawyer, and she’d moved into the guest bedroom that very night. She kind of liked this alternate ending. Either way, it was a very good dream.
Her feet sank into a delicious cloud of carpet as she crossed the mint-and-cabbage-rose bedroom to the window. Arms hugging herself over a chenille robe, she allowed herself a tight smile as she gazed out at the gray skies of late October. Dominique said Fran could likely extend her divorce settlement indefinitely by prudent investing of the tidy lump sum she’d received, but that wasn’t something the new Ms. Fran Harper trusted. Such was the tornado that had torn through her parents’ fortune. If not for a series of catastrophic investments on her late father’s part, Fran would have been in a far better financial position now. More important, she couldn’t help feeling that the fatal swerve off a bridge that ended her parents’ lives might never have happened. Though the crash had been ruled accidental, nightmares and gut instinct made her wonder otherwise.