Page 15 of Dirty Little Secrets

K ristina hands me a bottle of water, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “I still can’t believe you’re staying here with me.”

I twist the cap, take a sip, still reeling from the fact that I went through with it without telling Brent. “I know.”

She plops down on the couch beside me, her energy buzzing like static. “Has it said you had a match yet?”

I glance at my phone for the fourth time since I left work, fingers tapping the screen more from nerves than expectation. “Nope.”

“It will,” she assures me.

I shrug. “It’s no big deal. Maybe it’s a good thing. I can focus on me.”

“Why don’t we go out? Have some drinks.”

I smile, touched by her effort to lift my mood and get me to go out.

It feels good to have someone in my corner.

I want more than anything to chase something normal.

Something safe. But the truth? I’m not normal.

Even if I did as she asked and actually found someone, I was broken long before I left.

My experience with Landon made me realize how deep the cracks go.

How hard it would be to find someone who understood me or bothered to take a deeper look.

Another reason, I would be afraid to go dancing at a club, people would be drinking having a good time and I would probably find myself sober or feel awkward when I tell the guy who wanted to buy be a drink that I prefer water.

“I’m not big on drinking,” I say quietly.

She nods slowly, the empathy softening her eyes. “Right. I forgot.”

Images of my mother flicker through my mind—her slurred words, the empty bottles, the chaos. I hate to be a buzzkill. “What did you have in mind?”

Her face lights up. “We could go dancing. No drinking. Or find a late-night diner. Something spontaneous.”

I’ve learned a lot about Kristina these last few days since I moved in, like how she hates staying in. She’s not quite a party girl, but she thrives on motion. Connecting with different people and trying new things because she needs to feel alive.

“You hate being home, don’t you?”

She leans back on the couch with a sigh, gazing at the ceiling. “It’s not that. I just think there’s so much to see, to do, you know? We’ll have plenty of time to sit around and stare at the walls when we’re old and bitter. But right now? I want to live. Meet people. Travel. Fuck.”

I laugh. “Depends.”

“On?” she grins.

“Who it’s with.”

I’ve seen enough to know that sex can be many things—intimate, manipulative, violent. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Agreed.” She wrinkles her nose. “A bad fuck ruins your week.”

My phone buzzes with a sharp chime, different than usual. I glance down at a notification from Obsidian.

“What is it?” she asks, leaning over.

“It’s the app,” I say, stunned. My finger hovers over the screen.

“Well?”

“It says I have a match,” I say in disbelief.

Kristina does a little victory dance, bouncing on the couch. “See? That didn’t take long. Girl, what did you do in that room?”

I laugh nervously. “Enough, I guess.”

The contract was clear: no screenshots, no screen sharing, no explaining the process to outsiders. Obsidian demanded secrecy and to give it in return. The mic and camera permissions weren’t invasive; they were protective. The app keeps everything sealed inside its digital gates.

I open the app. A message blinks:

Congratulations RED. You’ve been matched. Please press the button to fill out the next set of questions.

I press it.

A pops open: hard limits, soft limits, likes, dislikes, safe words. But one question stands out: Would you like your identity hidden from your partner? Would you like your partner blindfolded?

My thumb hovers.

Yes. I select both.

I fill out the rest with trembling fingers, Kristina watching me with curious eyes.

When I finish, she claps. “We need to celebrate.”

“Why not?” I smile, the nerves fading into anticipation.

We head to a club not far from her apartment. It’s more underground than mainstream, tucked away like a secret. We pass the line without issue—Kristina knows people. She always knows people.

The bass pulses through my ribs before we even enter.

Inside, the air is thick with sweat, smoke, and neon lights.

Fog machines billow above us, casting everything in a haze.

The place is made to look like a warehouse with raw metal, exposed, industrial.

Bars stretch along both sides of the massive space.

A DJ spins at the back, bodies grinding on the dance floor under strobe lights.

In the shadows, some people are making out against the walls. Others lounge in velvet VIP booths.

Women in latex, chains, and dark makeup move unapologetic to the beat. They look wild, beautiful, and utterly free.

Kristina leans in. “Isn’t this place amazing? Met a guy at a coffee shop who knows the bouncer.”

“Yeah,” I say, absorbing everything.

She stops at the bar and flags down the bartender. “Rum and Coke,” she shouts. “And a water.”

I try to hand her my card, but she waves it off. “It’s on me.”

We start dancing. The music snakes through my body, every beat loosening something tight inside me.

My red spandex dress clings to my skin, the one Kristina found in the back of her closet.

I hadn’t planned to wear it, but it matches the club’s energy.

Dangerous and alive. My mind drifts when a guy passes by wearing a leather jacket.

I could smell the Whiskey off his skin. Brent’s hand always smelled the same when if forced my chin up.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers. “You’ll ruin it.”

I hate that smell. The way my knees trembled when he pushed my leather skirt up, spread me open.

Brent never let me wear panties when I was with him.

It was an unspoken rule but gave in because I had no choice.

My pussy had to be available at all times.

Especially when I turned eighteen and he finally took me in front of the others.

It was customary. A claim in the club. A way to mark me as his as tears slid down my cheeks hating the moment. Knowing I would never forget.

“You cry like a virgin,” he joked to the others.

They laughed. I hated that they didn’t care. In their eyes, I was just another girl too dumb to know better with no one who would give a shit.

But I knew.

And I stayed because it was the only way I could that shitty town in Seattle.

My phone buzzes bringing back to the present. I fish it out from between my breasts.

I frown, wondering who would text me at this hour. Unlocking the screen, I catch Kristina’s curious glance. Then, roll my eyes as I read the name.

Asshole Boss: My driver will be downstairs in fifteen minutes. Pack light. We’re catching a red-eye flight in forty-five minutes.

I blink. He has to be joking.

“What’s wrong?” Kristina yells.

“It’s Drazen.”

“What the fuck does he want?”

“Apparently work. Because weekends don’t exist for him.”

I show her the screen.

She scowls. “Tell him you’re out.”

Nori Summers: I’m not home.

Asshole Boss: Where are you?

Nori Summers: Out.

Asshole Boss: Be outside in five minutes.

I freeze. “How the hell does he know where I am?”

Kristina’s eyes widen. “You didn’t tell him?”

I shake my head. “No.”

I grab her hand and push through the crowd toward the exit. He must be joking. But he isn’t because outside, a sleek black Bentley idles at the curb, its polished exterior glowing under the streetlights. The line of clubgoers staring like it’s a celebrity waiting to be let inside.

“Shit. He’s serious,” Kristina says.

“He said we have to fly out somewhere in forty-five minutes.”

“And that involves you because…?”

“He probably can’t tie his shoes without me.”

Kristina snorts. “His last secretary said she quit because she was pregnant. I had no idea she had no life, and now you’ve inherited his.”

“This sucks.”

“At least he’s hot.”

My phone vibrates again.

Asshole Boss: Get in.

I turn to Kristina. “I’ll make sure he gets you a ride.”

She shakes her head. “I’m good.”

“I hate leaving you here.”

Another buzz.

Asshole Boss: A car will be available for Ms. Henry when she’s ready.

I show her the screen.

“See? He plans everything.”

I hug her tight. “I owe you a night out.”

“Damn right you do.”

I slip into the Bentley, the door closing with a soft, final click.