Getting Dirty: A Second Chance Menage Romance (Hard n' Dirty Book 1) Read online

  Getting Dirty

  A Second Chance Ménage Romance

  Aubrey Cara

  Getting Dirty

  Hard n’ Dirty

  A Second Chance Ménage Romance

  © Aubrey Cara

  Created with Vellum

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Getting Dirty Copyright 2018 Aubrey Cara

  Published by Aubrey Cara

  Cover art by Simply Defined Art

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Getting Dirty

  PRELUDE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Hard n’ Dirty Series

  More by Aubrey Cara

  Free book

  Getting Dirty

  Perfection isn’t always so perfect.

  All I’ve done since I was seventeen is try to prove my father wrong.

  Try to prove I am better than him and his perfect lineage. His perfect name.

  Anyone who has gotten in my way of attaining that goal I consider collateral damage.

  Now my life has spiraled so far out of my control, I’m free falling, and for whatever reason they feel like a safe haven.

  They’re not. They're two blips from my past. And that’s where I should have left them.

  We come from different worlds.

  Whatever we have can only exist in this moment.

  They’re just two dirty mechanics.

  And I’ve spent my whole life avoiding getting dirty.

  Perfectionists demand perfection from themselves first and foremost. ~Joyce Meyer

  PRELUDE

  “Your work here has been exemplary.”

  “It’s the only reason we’re not firing you outright.”

  I appreciate Dave’s bluntness more than Franklin’s dog-and-pony show of diplomacy.

  They blather on, and the buzzing in my ears grows. The last time this happened was yesterday when I trashed my office, shattering the glass to the hall with my computer monitor. It was quite the scene.

  I don’t cause scenes.

  I don’t like things messy.

  This entire week reeks of messy.

  “Go home, Madeline. Mourn,” Dave says with a level of guileless compassion I’ve never heard from him before. It makes me uncomfortable.

  “Maybe book an extended vacation,” Franklin suggests. “In a few months, we—”

  His words knock the air out of my lungs. “Months? Did you say months? What about my accounts?” My voice is rising, and I fight for calm. “I’m supposed to leave for LA in the morning and be in Tokyo by Friday. Don’t tell me you’re giving the Nagasawa account to Tristan. He’s not ready.”

  They say nothing, and my stomach fills with dread.

  “Cynthia? You’re giving one of our biggest client assessments to Cyn?” I hiss. “That’s bullshit.”

  My two bosses, the CEOs and founders of Dominus enterprises, do not react. Franklin has his hands folded on Conference Room B’s long glass table. His favorite platinum Cartier cufflinks wink out from where his navy-blue suit jacket has ridden up on his crisp white sleeves.

  Dave is lounging back, his hairy fingers drumming on the arm of the office chair. His charcoal-gray suit jacket is carelessly open over a light-blue shirt, no tie. Dave hates ties, and the only reason the suit isn’t off-the-rack is because he pays someone to dress him.

  They hand-plucked me out of an internship at their competitor’s offices my senior year at Columbia and instead of grad school, I worked my way to Chief Risk Analyst of Dominus. I’ve traveled the world with and for these men. I’ve been their right hand and representative for years. I know at this very moment Franklin is calm, while Dave is growing bored.

  Both reflect the exact opposite of the storm raging inside me.

  “Madeline, we’re not here to discuss business,” Franklin says, refusing to address my concerns. “For your health, it’s time for a break. A long overdue break. You’ve been fighting burnout.”

  “I’ll take a four-day weekend.” That’s saying a lot for me. It’s a reasonable compromise. I haven’t taken so much as a sick day in seven years.

  “For fuck’s sake, Madeline, your father just died.” Dave’s tone is full of exasperation and too much pity for me to sit here any longer.

  I burst out of my chair. “You think I’ve forgotten?” My voice is too shrill. Bordering on hysterical.

  Franklin’s brows rise. Dave spreads his hands as if to say, see, this is why we’re asking you to leave.

  I smooth my tailored houndstooth jacket, a fidgety move normally beneath me, and take a deep breath.

  I will not create another scene.

  I will not.

  “Fine. I’ll take a break. Get some good old R&R.” I can’t imagine what I’ll actually do with myself, but…

  Dave and Franklin both sigh in relief, and I grit my teeth.

  “I hear Bali is amazing this time of year.” Franklin offers this suggestion with an optimistic smile.

  He knows damn well I’d hate Bali any time of year.

  I make a humming sound and nod. I’ve never taken a real vacation. Not in college. Not as an adult. The idea of downtime makes my stomach twist. I’ve never not been working toward some goal.

  “If I remember correctly, your father was a man of some means. I can have Celia forward some contacts who can help settle his estate,” Franklin says when I do not move.

  Celia is his assistant. He stole her from me. The only good assistant I ever had. I’m assuming my current assistant has quit in a fit of nerves like the one before him.

  “Go home.” Dave stand and walks around the table. He pats my shoulder and guides me to the door. “Get your father’s estate in order. Learn how to relax.”

  Home. I’m not sure if he’s talking about my one-bedroom penthouse five blocks away or my family’s sprawling five-bedroom lake house in Connecticut. I’ve avoided going to the latter “home” for over ten years.

  And that when it hits me.

  I have to go home.

  The buzzing in my ears has returned. I’m unmoored as I make my way on shaky feet to the elevators. I manage to hold my head high even as sweat trickles down my back and makes my silk blouse cling to my skin.

  Most of my coworkers avoid eye contact as I pass, but a few brave souls give head nods. I endeavor to remember who they are for when I come back. And I will come back.

  I have to come back.

  My chest constricts, and I’m afraid I can’t breathe, but I swear I will not cause another scene. One was
unacceptable. Two in one week is unfathomable.

  I scramble off the elevator and into the sumptuous ground-floor lobby of Dominus. Sunlight pours through the thirty-foot floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Dots swim before my eyes.

  I think I’m having a panic attack.

  My heart pumps wildly. I take slow, calculated breaths and put one foot in front of the other.

  Rationally, I know I need to stop this nonsense, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I stumble out onto the Lower Manhattan sidewalk and let the rush of exhaust fumes and loud sounds of the city wash over me.

  I raise my hand for a taxi even as a dark tidal wave sweeps over me. I’m falling, blacking out from a ridiculous anxiety attack, yet aware of one thing.

  I’m about to cause another scene.

  1

  The pursuit of perfection often impedes improvement.

  ~George Will

  M adeline

  I should have rented a car.

  I should have paid someone to take care of my father’s estate matters.

  I shouldn’t even be here.

  It’s been eight days since I woke up in the hospital to some doctor telling me I was likely suffering a nervous breakdown. A nervous breakdown, like some nitwit, shit for brains. She wanted to start me on medications and suggested I start taking up meditation, yoga, and or a myriad of other things I am not going to do.

  It’s been seven days since my town-car service dropped me off in the land of twelve-hour diners and grocery stores that close at nine.

  And it’s been five days since the handful of my father’s past associates who bothered to show up, dabbed their eyes with tissue as they told me they were so sorry for my loss.

  Five days since he was lowered into the ground.

  Five days.

  And I’m still here.

  I’ve put his house on the market. I’ve packed most of his belongings, and now I have to sell his cars. Rather, car, singular now. His Mercedes S Class, with soft gray leather interior, navigation package, and night vision of all things, was sold for a fraction of its market value to a sixty-five-year-old woman who is likely going to town and back, like my father did.

  But, who am I to judge?

  Unfortunately, that leaves me driving his precious old hobby car. Or at least I had been driving it until it died on the side of the road. One minute the engine was...well, purring is too refined a word for a 1967 Pontiac GTO. It was roaring obnoxiously with life as it barreled down the road before sputtering in death.

  Which brings me back to the fact I should have rented a car.

  An insect buzzes in my ear. I swat at it and walk a little faster, the crunchy gravel on the shoulder of the road slippery under my nine-hundred-dollar Jimmy Choo ankle boots.

  My boots paired with designer skinny jeans, flowy silk blouse, and loose merino-wool knit blazer aren’t exactly trekking clothes.

  I hold up my phone like Shera’s sword and do a little spin, almost losing my balance on the loose gravel. Still no fricking signal.

  Ugh, who would choose to live out here?

  While I’m looking up at my useless phone, my toe snags. I teeter, throw my arms out, and fall.

  “Umph.” The wind is knocked out of me, and I’m rolling. Dirt, grass, and rocks prick and poke me on my way into the ditch.

  I flip one more time and land smack in the center of a bush.

  A prickly, awful bush.

  Wonderful.

  I stare at the blue sky for a second or ninety and take a mental inventory of my person. My cheek stings from where I smacked the ground, and I know from all the throbbing points of pain over my body I’m going to have more than a few bruises. The bush I’m sprawled on is stabbing me in at least twenty places through my thin blouse, and I’m sure my gorgeous wool jacket is ruined.

  Go home, they said.

  Rest and relax, they said.

  Bastards.

  The prickly branches pull at me as I try to sit up, and then I hear it. It sounds like thunder, but not quite.

  Motorcycles!

  “Hey!” I wrestle my way free of Satan’s shrubbery, waving my arms, and shout, “Down here!”

  I try to scramble up the side of the ditch too fast. My feet slide out from under me, and I’m face down, clutching grass to not slide farther.

  With a deafening roar, the motorcycles pass. My shouts are lost. My chance for rescue gone.

  I scream into the dirt and grass. Take a deep breath. Then push myself up. Dust myself off. Straighten my jacket and carefully make my way up the slope to the side of the road.

  I don’t belong here.

  Country air sucks. Small towns give me the hives. They remind me of a time I’d rather forget.

  There is nothing for me here other than to contemplate how my very existence at Dominus is being erased, and if I don’t exist there...

  The stress ball lodged in my chest gives a panicked squeeze at the thought of losing my job.

  My identity.

  My existence.

  I stop myself.

  It is not going to happen.

  I am Madeline Elaine Fitzpatrick. I was not born to be less than winningly perfect. Didn’t my father remind me of that fact again and again?

  Gravel finally gives way to sidewalk, and I do a walk of shame through the little town of Clover Creek. It’s quaint as an Andy Griffith episode, and small enough you’d miss it in a blink while driving through.

  I hold my head high as I limp along, nodding to the elderly couple gaping at me as I pass.

  Wallace & Sons garage comes into view as I drag myself round the bend, and my entire body tenses with apprehension.

  The garage doesn’t look anything like it did when I was growing up.

  The gravel drive has been replaced by paved asphalt. A new building with black siding and a red metal roof stands where the ramshackle garage of peeling white-and-blue paint used to be. They have three cars being worked on in the front, two on lifts.

  The sign says Wallace & Sons, but maybe it was bought out by a franchise.

  I can’t imagine the Wallace brothers doing all this…my mind stutters for a moment.

  Jess and Jace Wallace. The bad boys of Clover Creek.

  There were so many rumors going around about them. And maybe in another life I’d have discovered if they were true or not.

  In high school, they were good looking enough in that rough-cut way. Their clothes were always dingy and rumpled. Their hair a little too long. Their hands always grease stained, presumably from working at their father’s garage. They were on the football team, but not star athletes. Yet they were always trailed by a flock of girls, because yeah, there was something magnetic about them.

  My stomach knots at the thought of seeing them again. Which is idiotic. If they’re still around this hellhole, they’re likely sporting beer guts, trashy ex-wives, and a combination of five kids they’re paying child support on.

  When I get close enough to smell the uninspiring bitter stench of engine and exhaust, I have to fight to keep my lip from curling in distaste.

  A grizzly fellow wearing stained beige coveralls gives me a side-eye from his position over an older Buick sedan. His glance goes from my tits to my toes and back to my tits before he returns to his task. It seems he’s dismissed me when his voice booms out over the zip, sang, clank sounds of cars being worked on. “What can we do you for, hun?”

  What can he do me for? Charming. “I need a tow. My car broke down about a mile back.”

  “Chow,” the grizzly man bellows.

  A younger guy with a thatch of silky black hair falling over one eye in a teenage heartthrob kind of way, jerks to attention from where he’s working under the hood of a dated silver Civic. “What’s up?”

  “Go tell boss, a lady needs a tow.”

  Chow looks like he’s about to say something but sees me, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, and heads to what appears to be an office. The other mechanics in the place keep working
, but I can feel curious glances being cast my way.

  My foot and ankle throb. I glance around, looking for a waiting area or somewhere to sit down but don’t see anything. I try not to fidget.

  Less than a minute later, a tall form strolls through the door and my breath catches. I’m not sure who I was expecting to see when Chow had gone to tell the “boss” a lady needs a tow, but nothing could prepare me for the adult version of Jess Wallace.

  At least I think it’s Jess. He’s changed so much, it’s hard to say. If it is Jess, his hair is a bit darker than the sandy brown it used to be. He’s also broader, taller, and more…everything than I remember him.

  Definitely not the potbellied person I’d been uncharitably imagining.

  His eyes give him away. They are the same bright blue that always seemed to be lit up from within.

  He wipes his hands on a rag then stuffs the cloth in his back pocket. His brows pull together as he looks at me from head to toe. “You get dragged here?”

  I wince and straighten my spine. “I fell.” And rolled down a ditch. Into some bushes. Then dragged myself out.

  His brows go up. “Sorry to hear that. I’m assuming you’re the lady who needs a tow?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Let me get the keys. You can follow me. I’m Jess, by the way. In case you don’t remember me.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’m flattered, Madeline Fitzpatrick.” He winks, and I’m too shocked to be offended.

  “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  He chuckles. “Oh, I remember you.”

  I’m mentally unpacking that simple statement full of meaning and step wrong. “Ow, shit.” I stumble into his back.

  He turns with agility and grace, catching me before I yet again face plant. His big hands bracket my shoulders, before he reaches up and pulls a twig from my hair. Entrancing eyes scan me from head to unsteady foot.

  “So, quite the fall, huh?” He shoots me a lopsided grin.