I Love My Secret (Nicole's Erotic Romance) Read online

  I Love My…

  Secret

  (Nicole’s Story)

  By Sabrina Lacey

  Cover Image © Anton Oparin

  Licensed through Shutterstock.com

  © Sabrina Lacey

  Lacey Publications

  All Right Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  I LOVE MY SECRET Description

  Good girls love bad boys, and bad boys love no one... until it's too late.

  "There isn't one person who can tell me that what I'm doing with this man, is good for me. But some people move your soul and that feeling is so rare. What Can I Do?

  Because I love him more than I love myself."

  My story begins on the night of Jess and David’s first date… yes – that David. But this isn’t Jess’s story. It’s mine. I’m Nicole. And you need to know what I’m about to tell you, before we can go any further... before we can catch up to where my girls have left me, today. In order to understand me, you need to go back in time.

  On A Night Way Back When, In What Seems Like Forever Ago…

  “Stop fighting me. Why do you have to make me work so hard?” Grant whispers heatedly, holding me by both arms, lips close to mine despite my not moving in to meet them. I can smell his breath – beer before it goes bad –the heat of short panting whips of air hitting my skin. If he thinks this is how to woo me, the man must be out of his mind.

  “Let go before someone sees us,” I say with less volume and far more sanity. My head is straight and high, unwavering in my stare, my power stronger than his. Animal to animal is the only way with guys like him. I can see from his eyes – a familiar look I’ve seen before– that’s he’s teetering on the edge of self-control, can barely listen to reason, so I hit him where I know he can hear me. “Grant…You don’t want an audience, right? That would be humiliating, right? Imagine how ridiculous you’ll look if your friends find you manhandling your date in the kitchen… right?”

  He jolts with the image and lets go of me quickly, hands falling to his sides. He looks around to nowhere special in an attempt to make sense of what happened. He’s a money-guy, works on Wall Street. Always wears a button-up if he’s not wearing a suit. Looks clean, but something in his eyes is dark. It’s what drew me to him, if I’m honest. But that sexy stare of his is gone now as he teeters on the brink of sheepish and pissed.

  I’m planning my exit strategy, instantly. I have to get out of here. I reach up instinctively to touch the skin his fingers had pressed into, just above my elbows. He hadn’t squeezed too tightly, hadn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t do that. Yet. If he could have just controlled his inner beast, we’d be in there playing Balderdash for game night like everyone else…having a good time.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles, confused.

  He follows my glance to look over to the room where his friends are. Nice group of people, too. How’d they get mixed up with this jerk? I should be asking myself the same thing.

  “I wasn’t trying to…”

  “I know,” I interrupt, because I don’t want to hear it. I’m lying, though. I don’t really know. I have no idea what he was trying to do. I just know I came in here and he tried to pounce on me like we were alone. I’ve never met these people! What did he think? I’d be caught making out in the kitchen with him, by strangers who seem pretty nice, and who would judge the fuck out of me?

  He’s still got a hungry look in his eyes, and has the gall to follow up his brutality with, “Let’s get out of here and I’ll take you for a drink – just the two of us.” This is only our fourth date, and Grant’s a good lay, but I will not be held hostage by a man who wants to control me, so much so that he’ll lash out when he finds he can’t.

  “No, thank you. I think it’s time for me to go.” I step past him.

  He reaches for my arm. “Nicole!”

  I swing my head, yank my arm away quickly, and give him the look I got from my mother – the one that says, don’t even think about it, buddy. He pulls his hand back and lays it on his head. “God, what the fuck’s getting into me?”

  “Good question. You’ll have a lot of time to think about that. We won’t be seeing each other again. I don’t mess around with this shit.” I turn and as I leave the room, I catch a glimpse of fury flash across his eyes before his mask snaps back into place. That’s what I thought… this was a recipe for me ending up with a fist in my face when I least expect it, sometime when my guard is down.

  I stride into the living room, adopt a warm smile and slow down as I walk straight up to the host who’s standing amongst the group of twelve or so nice strangers I’ve only just met a half hour ago.

  “Danny!”

  The room’s chatter comes to a stop. I take both his hands in mine and smile into his sea-foam green eyes – normal for a redhead like him, but still beautifully compelling. “I’m so sorry. I just had a call from a buyer who wants to look at one of my paintings. I have to go, and I’m so bummed, because this is such a lovely party.”

  Moans of disappointment echo around us… mostly false. People were still sizing me up as to whether or not to like me, and now they don’t have to, so mostly they’re relieved. Everyone else is part of the group; safe. I could see it in their faces when I arrived, as I have so many times before: Who’s the pretty girl? Is she a bitch? Does my boyfriend want to fuck her?

  Danny looks genuinely sad to see me leave. His smile is real, and I appreciate it. I need a friend in this crowd right now, as I’m feeling shaky on the inside. He gives my hands a strong squeeze and pulls me in for a friendly, quick, goodbye hug. “You’re a painter? Well, we can’t argue with that. Hope you sell it. But it was so nice to meet you, Nicole. I’m sure we’ll see more of you in the future, with Grant.”

  I don’t tell him there will be no more dates with Grant. “Absolutely. I look forward to it.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  “Oh? Uh, sure. Of course… Here.” I pull out a card from inside my wallet/phone case and hand it to him. He smiles and examines it as I tell everyone in a voice I hope is sweet enough, “You all have a good night.”

  They chorus back, “Thanks.” “You too!” “Night.” Etc. Some of them even mean it.

  Danny smiles. “Thanks for coming, Nicole.”

  I wave to him and walk to Grant, who’s standing by the door waiting for me, looking like he wants to leave with me. Grant gets a hug and a kiss on the cheek, for the benefit of probing eyes. I hear them come back to life behind me, getting back into the game. Grant barely hides a glare, mumbles, “I’ll give you a call later.”

  “Night,” I say lightly, but my eyes tell him calling me would be a waste of time. His mask slips off again and fury stares back at me. I pretend like I don’t see, walk out and close the door smoothly behind me. As soon as I’m in the hallway though, I start walking fast, lest he decide to chase me down. As I speed down the stairs, my breath gains on my steps, remembering the one time in my past where I didn’t know these things – hadn’t learned to run from men like him until it was too late. Listening for the door opening upstairs… Nothing.

  As soon as I leave the building, I break into a jog. When I’m about a block away, satisfied he got his inner beast to stay at t
he party, I turn the first corner and stop to pull out my smokes. Men. Ever since I decided I need a break from relationships, men have been yanking my chain to bind me with it. They say they want freedom but when you give it to them, they’re shocked.

  I try to light one, but every time I hold a match to it, the match goes out. This happens four times! I mumble under my breath to my persistently annoying guardian angel, “Just one, okay? C’mon. Give a woman a break.” She must hear me because, like magic, the flame stays lit this time and licks the stick. I take a deep breath and gaze lovingly at the ashen end as it glows brighter in the night. Victory. I close my eyes and feel the nicotine-infused smoke fill my lungs. But after a few drags and a few more steps down the street – as soon as the drug in my system and the craving is gone – regret hits me. “I’m sorry,” I say aloud to my angel, if she’s still listening and hasn’t run off in disgust. I hate the taste in my mouth after I smoke. And the smell on my fingers; that’s the worst.

  I toss the pack in a trashcan, vowing never to buy another… hoping I’ll keep my promise. I keep the one lit cigarette, though. I had to work for it. I deserve this one. Fucking addiction.

  Reaching up and giving my hair a shake – straightened tonight and super shiny – I smoke my last stick like I’m Bette Davis, and stroll off toward Times Square. It’s only three blocks away, and I’ve not been in a year. We natives don’t spend a lot of time there. If you don’t have a reason to go, you stay away to steer clear of the tourists and sales/barkers. But tonight? I don’t know. I feel like the lights, glitz and noise will dull the throb of discontent fogging my mind.

  As I clear the last stretch and turn a corner, the lights come into view. It’s like a gazillion fireflies exploded and formed buildings, and the eye-candy draws a much-needed smile out of my soul. I walk to the center, next to the ticket booth for all the Broadway plays, and spin in a single slow circle, staring up at the glamour of it all. We can make some pretty incredible things when we put our minds to it, can’t we?

  My phone vibrates, and who knows how long it’s been ringing; the sound is muffled in my bag. I drop my cigarette on the pavement, give it a good smash with my boot at the same time I pull out my phone and see the name that gives me an even bigger buzz than ten cigarettes could on their finest day… Michael.

  “Hey you.”

  His deep, tingle-inducing voice is sleepy and music to my ears as he says, “Hey.”

  “Are you in bed? It’s only 9:30 p.m.” I cross the street quickly to get out of the way of foot traffic.

  “Had to take a nap.” His lazy stretch is audible and I picture his muscles breaking free of hibernation. Mmmmmm.

  Standing off to the side, I see there’s a graffiti sketch of a stick man that someone sketched on the cold cement wall of a looming skyscraper, a blip on its foundation. I trace the lines of it with my fingers as we talk, listening to him, like his voice is food and I’m starving. “Let me guess, you were up all night working, weren’t you?” I say.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think I had it in me last night. Felt like inspiration was gone.” He makes the sound whooooosh. “Just like that. Gone. And then I picked up my brush and let the anger rush out from me, the frustration… the pain. Before I knew it, I was obsessed. Hours passed. I forgot to eat.”

  “Sounds like heaven,” I say quietly as the tip of my finger runs over the stick man’s round head, over and over.

  “It was. But now I need food, Nic.” The way he pauses next, the intimate shift in his tone sends fire into my veins. “And you… I need to show you. Wanna meet me at the studio?”

  I lay my hand flat over the picture, covering it with my palm so I can’t see him anymore. I should say no. I know I should say no, because Michael’s pull over me is unhealthy. He’s the most amazing painter I’ve ever known – my work pales in comparison to his; a fact that hurts my own inspiration. I push my forehead against the wall, but the cool cement fails to extinguish the heat in my skin. Ashamed at my own weakness, I close my eyes, … first the cigarette, now him. “I’ll be right there,” I whisper, hanging up without saying goodbye. Michael, if I could say no to you, I’d have all the answers of the universe and of everyone in it.

  I push off from the wall and make my way to the nearest subway station to catch a train to The Meatpacking District. My Metro card slides through and instantly I’m sucked into the wave of people that overwhelm 42nd Street station. I make my way through them quickly, eyes glazed over so… I don’t hear her at first – don’t hear my name called until the third or fourth time.

  “Nicole!!” I look around – I know that voice. Jessica. My girl. A grin washes over me as I look for her in the crowd. She waves, catching my eye finally, and my arms open up to catch her as she runs over for a hello-hug. We do the both-cheeks kiss that Jess started ages ago (I have no idea why. I secretly find it pretentious and weird, but it’s Jess, so I forgive her). Then I hold her at arm’s length and look at her. “Wow. So good to see you.”

  She beams back at me, “You act like it’s been a year! I just saw you a few days ago.”

  I let go and adjust my bag on my shoulder, shrug and say, “Yeah, well… I don’t know. It’s good to see you, anyway.” I could tell her about Grant and his being a freak, how it scared me and that’s why it’s good to see her face…but Michael is waiting for me. “Why are you way up here? Meeting The Bitch at Bryant Park or something?”

  She wrinkles her face in disgust. “No! No way. I am off devil-duty, thank you very much.” She shifts to coy flirtation and exaggerates girlishness by playing with her hair for silly effect. “I’m meeting a guy for a drink. First time. Woohoooo!” Her eyebrows go up and down in a funny way.

  “Look at you! You’re really interested in this one, aren’t you?” I poke her stomach with my index finger a couple times.

  She laughs and swats at my hand. “Mayyyyyybe.”

  Some loser with his baseball hat on backwards and sideways, walks by and wolf-whistles at us. Jessica tells him to fuck off and I, without looking, give him the finger.

  Back to business. “What’s his name?”

  “David. Nice name, huh? A boyfriend kind of name…”

  I laugh, “It is! What does he do?”

  “Works in money. Investing or something. I don’t know. But I do know one thing – he’s made it VERY clear that he’s interested.”

  I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. “Why wouldn’t he be interested?”

  Her mouth squishes up and she waves me off. “I don’t know. I’m not you, Nicole. I’m just … I don’t know.” She slams two fists on her hips and exclaims, triumphantly, “Yeah! Why wouldn’t he be interested?!! I’m a catch!”

  I grin, fix a piece of her hair. “You are.” And I mean it. She really is. “You’re the best girl I know. You and Amber are my rocks and there is no man who really can live up to what you deserve – not the other way around. Do you hear me?”

  She smiles and nods. But an eye-roll quickly follows and she adds, “We’ll see!”

  “We’ll see, indeed. You never know. Well, whatever happens… we got you.” And by we, I mean me and Amber. The three of us are a team. Us against New York. If it were just me here without any girlfriend support, I think I’d drown in the electric separateness that is Manhattan. I met Jessica first, so she’s got a special bond in my heart. Amber, though, is a whip-cracker. She gives me gravity while Jess lifts me up into the clouds. The two of them, together? Balanced communion.

  A mass of people suddenly surrounds us - a train must have just arrived. We look around the swirl of motion, then back to each other. For some reason, we start laughing, swaying like we’re in an ocean and a wave just hit. When we finally get a hold of ourselves, I say, “Oh man, Jess. I was supposed to run into you. I needed some laughter. I have to go, though. Someone’s waiting for me… but are you free tomorrow, or the next night?”

  “The next night. Someone’s waiting for you? Who?”

  Without hesitation, I lie, “It’s n
o one. Just one of my guys… you know.”

  She bats her eyelashes, winks at me and sings, “One of your many! I’ll see if Amber can come, too, ’kay?”

  We hug, say our goodbyes and head for our respective trains. I’ve got more bounce in my step now; feel a lot more like myself. I don’t even let myself think about who is waiting for me. I want to feel strong for as long as possible, although this is all subconscious. I haven’t talked to her or Amber about Michael. Something in me wants him secret. They know I share a studio with another artist. But they’ve never met him, nor do I ever talk about him.

  Finding a seat on the train, I avoid the eyes of strangers who scan my face, wondering if they know me. I get that a lot. I’ve got my momma’s face, and none of her calmness – not inside, anyway. My height is my father’s. He played basketball for the Lakers back in the 70’s, not long after they left Minneapolis for Los Angeles. My momma was a model and they met at some glamorous party at some celebrity’s house, whose name I can’t remember. A passionate, hellish kind of love exploded from their introduction – one that included infidelity, screaming fights, and me. I used to sit in the dark and listen to them yelling, promising myself I would never get married. After they separated, I lived with both of them at varying times, but mostly with my momma, as she was the saner of the two. She had the type of control over her emotions that makes you feel by comparison that you were a volcano of feelings that was always active. The shame I feel for my inner monologue, all of its twists and turns and darkness, is another secret I keep. I fear I am more like my father, cursed with a violent temper waiting impatiently to explode. It comes out through my eyes sometimes and I see people’s spirits cower under it during those horrible moments. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be like him. I push it down; leash it and bolt it. I’m sure to others this seems like I walk the planet smooth and still, like a lake without a breeze. But it’s an illusion. Am I like her? Or am I like him? I don’t have any answers except when I ask myself who I want to be like? The answer always comes back, not like him.