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“I’m not even dating anyone,” I grumble, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
“And?” Wren asks as he plops down on the sofa beside me.
I twist my hands together to keep from wrapping an angry fist around his throat.
“I hired a professional for my first time, too.”
“Jude, no.” Quinten gasps like a shocked church lady finding out someone brought store-bought cupcakes to the Sunday potluck. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t hire a hooker,” I answer honestly, grateful that he didn’t ask the right question.
I don’t want to lie to my best friend, but I also don’t relish the idea of talking about what has happened between Parker and me. It’s not that I’m ashamed; I just don’t know what we are. I have a million of my own questions in that regard, and don’t want to say I don’t know a million times when they start firing them off at me.
“There’s nothing wrong with women who work in the sex industry,” Wren argues.
We ignore him. The man could go off on a tangent talking about safe sex, testing, and regulations. We’ve heard it all before.
“So that’s why you’re so damned happy this morning,” Brooks says, not even bothering to pull his coffee from his lips when he drops down in the spot beside Quinten, who I find still watching me like he’s trying to read signals I don’t mean to be throwing his way.
“Actually, he’s been acting different for the last week,” my best friend says. It’s a betrayal I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive.
“Exactly a week,” Wren adds, but he doesn’t spill my secrets.
The man just likes to watch me squirm. I may have to go to Deacon when all of this comes to light—because I know it will—and have the boss put a leash on the computer jerk. We should have some semblance of a personal life without that asshole digging into it and using it as ammunition for his own cheap thrills.
“How was class?” Deacon asks, walking in to join us.
The man looks utterly exhausted, but somehow insanely happy.
“It was good. Gayle didn’t show up again.”
“We can’t force them to go,” Deacon says with a yawn, and I catch the look between Wren and Quinten.
They’ve got something going on where one of the class attendees is concerned, and that speaks of their worry. Quinten didn’t even want to do the classes. He actually begged Deacon to make anyone else do it, but he also won’t turn a blind eye to any wrongdoing either.
Deacon, distracted by the coffee machine, doesn’t ask about my own attendance, and thankfully, Quinten doesn’t offer my absence up either.
“I have to make a call, Jude, so give me ten minutes. We need to discuss your decision on those masks,” our boss says as he walks away.
“How are your wounds?” I ask Brooks in an effort to change the subject.
“Fine,” he snaps.
“Princess was a bad girl,” Wren says in a playful voice, making Brooks look ready to murder him. “I wonder if her daddy punished her.”
Quinten snorts because Wren is being his normal idiot self, but because I can no longer take what he says with a grain of salt due to the fact that he knows my secret, I keep my eyes on Brooks who is glaring daggers at him at this point.
Brooks has a secret, too.
And despite not wanting anyone to know what I’ve been doing, I’m desperate to know what he’s been up to. Brooks does a lot of wild shit. As the resident Blackbridge charmer, he gets paid to have a good time, party, and spend countless hours with absolutely gorgeous women. Getting laid is as common as taking a shower or shaving for him, so the secret can’t be about the act itself, but who it is.
“Don’t hurt yourself thinking so hard over there,” Wren whispers once Brooks drops his eyes to focus on his coffee like it’s the answer to prayers he sent up decades ago and are only now being answered.
“You need to stay out of people’s business,” I hiss as low as I can.
“You want to know his secret,” Wren teases.
“You shouldn’t know anyone’s secrets until they’re ready to tell you.”
Wren doesn’t even look the slightest bit ashamed. As far as he’s concerned, if he can find it through his computer, it’s fair game regardless of how many firewalls he has to breech to get him there.
“I’m not spilling your secrets, Jude.”
“Just knowing it is enough,” I argue.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you’re doing. If it doesn’t feel right in your chest, you can’t let your cock take control.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
That’s not entirely true. I felt nothing but shame last night when I noticed Parker’s panties on the floor when she left. I stroked myself and came in seconds—so fast that I don’t even think she’d made it out of my front door yet.
