Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel) (25 page)

The creases on his forehead deepened, and he appeared to battle with himself over his next move. It wasn’t a battle I wanted to weigh in on. I was done arguing.

I. Was. Just. Done.

Looking down at my feet, I waited for him to leave, silently praying that he would. He’d been my weakness and my strength for the past eighteen months, and that scared me. It scared me to think that I needed him, and that somewhere along the way I’d sold my soul to the devil just to have him, because I should never have allowed him into my private life. But then I’d never really had him, because I’d always held him at an arm’s length. So I hadn’t sold my soul. I gave it away on a silver platter instead—because I’m generous and classy like that.
Or fucking stupid, more like it.

“Love,” he said softly, lifting my chin with his fingertip. “Please stop crying. I never wanted to hurt you. I’ll leave you be, but I won’t be gone.”

He wiped my tears away with his thumb and walked out the door, which was when my playlist shuffled and “Gravity” by Sara Bareilles came on, piercing me with the pain of knowing he would never be gone. Because something always brought me back to him, and it never took too long.

***

I can feel myself slipping through fingers,

your fingers,

my fingers,

the slide feels the same.

I could’ve held on, gripped tighter and fought.

But you let me slip so easily.

I’d cried on and off for hours after he’d left and then finally pulled my diary out, rewriting one of the first notes I had ever written. I wrote it as a reminder that I needed to stay strong, that I was the one who had let myself slip, and that I would be the one to prevent it from happening again.

I wrote it as a reminder that I
did
have control. That I wasn’t going to slip this time, and that I definitely wasn’t going to fall. But I wanted to clarify a few truths with H before I said to him what needed to be said, so I sent him a message, hoping he’d still be awake.

Em: You awake?

Mr Happy: Yes. Can’t sleep knowing you’re upset.

Em: I need to know a few things.

Mr Happy: What? Anything.

Em: How did you find me?

Mr Happy: The website of the production you’re in,

it says you live in St Kilda.

Fuck! It does, too.

Em: But how’d you know I lived in this building?

Mr Happy: Can’t we do this face-to-face?

Em: No.

Mr Happy: Fine. Once I knew your name,

I followed you on social media.

You ‘tag’ yourself a lot.

It wasn’t hard to find you.

A chill seized my spine. I felt sick. It had been that easy.

Em: Were you ever married?

Mr Happy: Yes.

Em: Kids?

Mr Happy: No. My wife couldn’t have kids.

I closed my eyes and slowly breathed in and then out. In and then out.

Em: Did you ever live in Perth?

Mr Happy: Yes.

Em: When did you move here?

He didn’t answer straight away, and it made me nervous.

Em: WHEN?

Mr Happy: Just over two months ago.

The pit of my stomach dropped, and I all of a sudden felt dizzy. He’d been here for that long and I’d had absolutely no idea.
Whoa!

I needed to know more, but I couldn’t process or deal with anything else right now. Brad, Cori and Josh would be here in the morning, and I needed to focus on that.

Em: I have more questions I want answers to,

but I can’t deal with those answers right now.

I need to focus on Brad, Cori and Josh.

They arrive tomorrow and my mind needs to be with them.

Until then, please keep your distance.

If you care for me half as much as you say you do

you’ll respect that.

Mr Happy: Okay.

I didn’t text him back. I didn’t need to.

***

“You’re My Best Friend” by Queen blasted near my ear, wrenching me from slumber and into the early morning sunlight.

Reaching for my phone, I answered it, knowing it was Cori.

“Hello,” I answered, groggily.

“I’m sorry. I think I’ve called the wrong number. My best friend, Em, is never asleep at this time of the morning. Sorry to bother you.”

She hung up.
What the fuck?

I opened one eye, squinting to read the time. “Shit!” I said, flinging off my blankets and scrambling out of bed. It had just gone ten o’clock in the morning and they were due to arrive in less than thirty minutes. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

I slid into the bathroom—Tom Cruise,
Risky Business
style—tore my PJs off, power-pissed, and took the world’s fastest shower. Teeth were brushed. Hair was brushed. Eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss applied. All that was left to do was wait until they arriv—

“Honey, we’re home,” Cori called out from the front door.

My ears pricked like a rabbit’s, and I quickly put my bottle of perfume down and skipped to the threshold of my bedroom just as Brad stepped into the living room behind Cori.

“Where is she?” he asked almost desperately, dropping his bag on the ground.

Our eyes locked, and the smile that burst from my face could in no way be tamed.

“You,” he said, pointing his finger in my direction. “Do not take one more step out of that room.”

Brad prowled toward me like a hungry lion, a predatory grin on his face that said one thing and one thing only—
mine
. And with each step that he took, his pace accelerated until he scooped me up, carried me into my bedroom, and slammed the door behind him.

I squealed and laughed until his mouth touched mine and our tongues were entwined. “I’ve issed ou o uch,” I mumbled.

“Shh … iss an uck now. alk ater.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what he’d said, but my guess was to kiss and fuck now and talk later, which I was totally fine with.

Walking farther into my room, he pressed us against the wall and placed me down on my feet, taking hold of my hands and pinning them above my head. Fingers and palms slowly smoothed down the skin of my arms, tickling but tantalising until they cupped my breasts. My body hummed, my nipples and pussy the most vocal. They craved his touch, knowing the language he spoke was fluent in pleasure—his lips and tongue enunciating his prose. They journeyed away from my mouth, travelling across my cheek to just below my ear and then down my neck. I placed my hands on his head and threaded my fingers through his hair, gripping gently as he unbuttoned my blouse, coaxed my hands to my sides, and removed the cotton material together with my bra.

Cool air caressed my nipples followed by the warmth of his tongue, making me cry out and squirm against the wall. I needed to touch him, hold him … feel him underneath my fingers.

I reached for his head again, only to have my hands secured by his and placed against the wall, spread to either side as if I were to be nailed to a cross. I gasped. My new position was hot but overly vulnerable.

“Leave them there,” he said gruffly, taking a step back to admire me. He shook his head ever so slightly as his eyes roamed my face and chest, stopping when they landed on my denim shorts.

“They’re cute, baby, but I want what’s underneath them.”

He stepped forward and undid the button, releasing the zip slowly and sliding his hand into my underwear.

“Oh fuck!” I moaned, grinding against his fingers and closing my eyes.

Brad feathered his lips over mine, teasingly, while leisurely working my clit. I stretched forward, blindly seeking his mouth, wanting a taste, but he wouldn’t give it to me. “Stop it,” I complained.

His finger paused.

My eyes shot open. “NO! Not that. Keep doing that.”

“Then stop what? … This?” He repeated his teasing non-kiss move at the same time as dipping his finger inside me and swirling it around.

It was torture. Pure, heavenly torture.

“Yes … no. Just kiss me. I want your mouth. Please!”

He refused to give it to me, instead sliding his finger out and working my clit once again, only this time he worked harder and faster, causing me to pant uncontrollably as heat rushed to the surface of my face.

I held his stare, determined, and gripped the wall, the building pleasure too much. My jaw slowly dropped, my eyes fell shut, and my head flopped back as I cried out ‘OH GOD!’ when my orgasm hit.
Shit-fucking-fuck of a motherfucker.

My hands clenched, and my fingernails scratched the plaster, the fierce sensation tensing every muscle in my body. “Shit, shit, shit, that was good,” I breathed out, gasping.

The sound of his zipper undoing forced my eyes open to find his hard cock bobbing as he released it from his jeans. He stroked it quickly then used his hands to remove my shorts and panties and to pull on a condom. And just like the time before, I watched in silent voyeuristic awe, licking my lips as he rolled the latex over himself. “I want it hard, babe. I want you to show me how much you’ve missed being buried inside me.”

Brad clasped my chin with force but was gentle enough not to hurt, the look of passion in his eyes unmistakable as he held me there and seared me with a soundless promise. “You want it hard?” he asked, grabbing my leg underneath my knee and lifting it up, pressing it to the wall and opening me wide.

I nodded. “Yes! Hard. Deep. Fast.”

He let go of my chin and reached down, positioning his cock at my entrance before pushing inside,
deep
. He pulled back and pistoned into me,
hard.
He did it again, this time,
fast
.

“Yes!” I cried out. “Oh God, yes! Just like that. Just. Like. That.”

And he did. He drilled me to within an inch of my life against the wall, his body holding mine, his mouth covering mine, his pleasure mirroring mine.

And I loved every single earthshattering moment of it.

Brad and I eventually ended up in my bed where we made love, caressing and holding one another for hours until his fingers eventually stopped tracing circles on my shoulder and his breathing calmed to a peaceful lull beneath my ear.

Lying there on his chest, my hand over his heart, I admitted to myself that ‘making love’ was what we’d done, and it kinda freaked me out. It was far too soon for those feelings, yet I definitely felt something extra with him. Something deep within that could very well blossom into love. A strong love. And who knew—possibly an everlasting love.

But what was love, really? Was it definitive, the same for everyone who experienced it? Or was it unique, unlike any other form? Or perhaps love was Santa, a make-believe, jolly, fat sack-of-bullshit?

I glanced up at Brad, trying desperately not to make any sudden movements and wake him. He looked so peaceful, so sated … so happily fucked. He definitely didn’t look like Santa. And that was because love wasn’t Santa. Love was simply an opinion, a notion that could be judged, categorised, and of course, ridiculed. But love belonged to
you
and was how you felt about whoever or whatever. It was yours to give and detract. It morphed and transformed. It was Optimus Prime.

Okay, so love wasn’t the leader of the Autobots from the planet Cybertron, but it was the perfect transformer, and we played with it everyday.

Watching Brad breathe, I realised I was playing with it now, toying with the form of it I had for Brad because he had no idea what I did for part-time work, or about H.
Does he really need to know about H?

I thought about it for a second and decided that no, he didn’t. Because technically, I’d given the wrong part of H up when I realised Brad and I were an item, and what had happened during the past twenty-four hours hadn’t been my fault, nor could it have been avoided, or I bloody well would’ve avoided it.
Okay, so I need to tell him about the sexting, but when?

“Do you have worms?” Brad asked. He sounded sleepy and a teeny bit annoyed.

“What? No! Do you?”

His eyes were still closed, but a subtle smile played across his face. “I’m not the one fidgeting, pixie.”

“Neither am I. I’m a corpse.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel awesome.”

“Okay, sorry. I’ll get up and let you sleep.” I went to get out of bed, but his arms secured my waist and pulled me to him.

“Oh, no you don’t. There was attitude in that tone of yours. What’s wrong?”

I pried his arms away and stood up. “Nothing. If I’m annoying you, I’ll leave. It’s no big deal.”

“Back the truck up.” He turned to his side and rested his head on his hand. “We’ve gone from hot sex, to lovey sex, to sleepy cuddling, to worms, to this? Come on, baby,” he said, patting the bed for me to sit back down again. “What’s up? You due for your period?”

“NO! I can’t believe you just said that!”

“What’s wrong with saying that? You’re a chick. You get bitchy once a month when you bleed. It’s Mother Nature.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

And then the fucker smiled.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” His smile grew bigger.

“NO!” I turned around to look for my clothes. “Seriously, Brad, you don’t fucking know me at all, do you?”

Shit! What am I saying?

The bed sheets rustled behind me, and I guessed he’d sat up.

“No. Not really. But I’m getting to know you.”

“Great job of that you’re doing,” I snapped, sarcastically.
Oh, Em, you’re just making it worse.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him. “Where the fuck has this all come from?”

“Nowhere. I’m sorry. Don’t worry,” I answered, shaking my head dismissively and looking down while fastening my shorts.

“You’re not telling me something. What is it?”

It’s now or never, Em. Just tell him.

I let go of my shorts and straightened my shoulders. “There are things you don’t know about me. You might not like them, but they are me … they are what I do,” I explained, bending over to pick up my bra and putting it on. “I’m not ashamed of what I do. There’s nothing wrong with it. And anyway, I’m good at it.”  I found my shirt and poked my arms through the sleeves, fastening the first button.

“What are you talking about, Em?”

“Get dressed. I can’t do this while you’re in front of me, naked with half a mongrel,” I grouched, looking away from said mongrel of fifty per cent.

Brad glanced down, shrugged, then picked up his shorts and T-shirt, quickly putting them on. “Okay. Please tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Fastening my final button and turning around, I created as much distance as I could by leaning against my vanity unit on the other side of the room. “Okay. Shit! This is harder than what I thought,” I said, shaking my hands to get rid of the nervous tingles. “I’m a professional stage-performer. It’s my career. It’s what I’ve worked hard to be all my life, and it’s where my passion lies and I hope will always lie.” I sucked in a deep breath. “But it doesn’t always pay the bills, especially between productions.”

Brad squinted at me and all of a sudden looked nervous, his head tilted and his arms crossed over his chest. “I’m just gonna take a seat on the bed.”

“Yeah, you do that.” I smiled, but it wasn’t genuine. “So,” I said, taking a deep breath and pausing before letting it out slowly. “As I was saying, performing on stage doesn’t always pay the bills. Castings aren’t consistently guaranteed, which is why I have a part-time job as well, doing …”

Brad had sat on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his hand, eyes focussed solely on mine with an expectant look on his face that told me I needed to continue.

“I’m a sexter, Brad. A professional sexter. I have verbal ‘written’ sex with men, and sometimes women, pretty much on a daily basis. I’ve been doing it for just over two years, and I’m good at it.”

He didn’t say anything right away, his eyes shifting focus from me to random objects in my room and to me again. But it wasn’t long before red fury rose to the surface of his skin. “So you’ve been fucking people with your words the whole time we’ve been together?”

“Yes. Just as you’ve been fucking women with your eyes the whole time we’ve been together,” I retorted.

He stood up. “That’s different, Em.”

I stood up, too. “How so?”

“Because it is.”

My shoulders dramatically lifted, and I raised my upturned palms toward him. “Care to explain how? I’m listening.” I needed to stay strong, to let him know that I was not ashamed of my part-time job. There was absolutely nothing wrong with what I did, and he needed to realise that.

“Because I don’t talk sex with any of the women I pull from the crowd. That’s why.”

“Noooo,” I drawled, “You just touch them and let them touch you.”

He ran his hands through his hair and pierced me with his eyes. “This is different. You’re getting men off. You’re helping them imagine you while they blow their fucking load all over themselves.”

“Yeah, I do,” I yelled. “Big fucking deal. They can’t see me. They can’t touch me. All I do is get them off with my words. It’s no different to you getting women off with your looks and body. You get paid for it. I get paid for it. You have boundaries. I have boundaries. We’re no different.”

He shook his head at me, anger and disappointment blaring from his pores.

“Don’t look at me like that. Why is it different for me, huh? Because I’m a woman?”

It was Brad’s turn to give me the sarcastic shoulder shrug and open palms.
Oh no you didn’t.

“You sexist, hypocritical pig. Screw you.” I picked up Sir Pantsarehot—my Build-A-Bear teddy with technicolour MC Hammer pants—from his home on my dresser, and threw it at him. “So when a woman is confident with herself and her sexuality to the point of it being a talent she can safely explore and earn a living from, it’s deemed as sexual immorality. But when a man does it, he’s a goddamn king. Is that what you’re saying? Really? Because if it is, we have a major problem.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Em. I’m not saying that. I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know that I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to respect it like I respect what you do. Do you think I like seeing women with their hands all over you and your hands all over them?”

He sighed and picked up Sir Pantsarehot.

“Hey! You can’t touch him.” 

Brad furrowed his brow at me, sat on my bed again, and placed my teddy on my pillow. “We’ve already been through this. On stage, I’m acting. Just like you do.”

“Yes. Exactly. Just like I do … on stage and while sexting.”

His shoulders slumped, his head bowed, and I could tell by his avoidance of eye contact that he was struggling to come to terms with my revelation, and that hurt my heart. But then, deep down, I’d always worried that this very moment would end in him walking away, and if he did, I had to accept that.

“Look, Brad, be honest with me. How do you feel when those women look at you? How does it make you feel when all you see in their eyes is want, need, lust, and desire?”

He gripped his hair and continued looking down at the floor. “It feels fucking amazing. Like I’m on top of the world.”

“And why’s that?” I asked softly, knowing the answer.

“Because they want me in that moment. So bad. And they can’t have me.”

“Exactly. They. Can’t. Have. You. But you make them want you anyway. And that feels like nothing else. It’s powerful. And nothing trumps power, right?” I sat down on the bed next to him. “I feel all of that too, Brad. I feed from their want and desire. I hold it in my hands and it makes me come alive. What we do … it’s the same. Don’t tell me it’s not.”

He turned his head in his hand and looked at me. “I need some air, okay?”

I nodded and willed my tears to stay buried. “Sure.”

“I’m gonna go for a walk. Clear my head. I’ll be back later.” Brad stood and went to walk out but paused, bent down, and kissed the top of my head.

***

Not even five minutes after Brad left, Cori came bursting through my bedroom door. “What the hell was that all about?”

“I told Brad I was a professional sexter,” I admitted, bursting into tears.

She rushed toward me, sat down, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “You did what? Why on earth would you tell him that?”

“Because I am, Cor. I’ve been doing it for two years.”

Her grip loosened. “WHAT? I don’t understand. How?”

“I’m not addicted to Facebook games like you think I am,” I deadpanned.

“Oh. My. God!” I heard her whisper.

“It’s not a big deal. I talk sex. I get paid. End of.”

She was quiet for a minute, but I could hear her mouth open and close several times.

“Just spit it out, hon,” I encouraged her.

“Two years?”

I sighed. “Yeah”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t need to. My sexting didn’t concern anyone but me … until now. Now it concerns Brad, so I told him.”

“I would never have judged you. You know that, right?”

I rested my head on her shoulder. “Of course I do. I’m not ashamed of it. Really, I’m not. It’s a job. But others I care about might not agree with me, so I chose to keep it a secret. The less people who knew, the less chance I’d hurt anyone.”

“Oh, Em. You’re always thinking of everyone else but you.”

Tears ran down my face. “What if he wants to end it?” 

She sighed. “I don’t think he will. Give him some credit. He’s a great guy. One of the kindest and most understanding I’ve ever met.”

Through a wall of tears, I lifted my head and met her gaze. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am. Just give him time.”

“We don’t have much time. You guys leave in a couple of days.”

“Em, let me break this down for you. I’ve spent day in and day out with these guys for the past two months. You learn a lot about people when you spend
that
much time with them. That said, I’m very confident Brad will come back here after a few hours, smelling of beer and smoke and being happy because he’s either watched a game of footy or played pool at the pub.”