9781618859617TheSecretLifeofanInvisibleGirlDeVere

THE SECRET LIFE OF AN INVISIBLE GIRL

Amie
DeVere

Erotic
Romance

Secret
Cravings Publishing

www.secretcravingspublishing.com

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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book

Erotic Romance

The Secret Life of an Invisible Girl

Copyright © 2013 Amie
DeVere

E-book
ISBN: 978-1-61885-961-7

First E-book Publication: November 2013

Cover design by
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THE SECRET LIFE OF AN
INVISIBLE GIRL

Amie
DeVere

Copyright © 2013

Chapter One

When I walk into a room men stop what they’re doing and
look at me, although not in the way you might think. If they’re swearing,
telling dirty jokes, or talking about women, they’ll stop and look
uncomfortable. If there happens to be a stray swear word that reaches my ear, I
will always, and I do not exaggerate,
always
get an apology. But still they don’t see me. It’s my super power, and like my
hero brethren with secret identities, men have no idea who I am or how much I
want to hear their stories and hear them use “Fuck” over and over again like a
cock pounding into me.

Nothing about me stands out. I wear Victoria’s Secret size
XS. It’s not the size the models wear in the catalog. I have shoulder length
wavy blonde hair. I don’t know the color of my eyes. They’re like a mood ring, some
days blue, green, hazel, or brown. I usually say they’re gray, and as Emily
Webb’s mother said to her in
Our Town,
I’m ‘pretty enough for all normal purposes.’

I’m twenty-four, but people think I’m younger, under
drinking age young, even when I tell the bouncer at the door of the club that it’s
a federal offense to counterfeit a passport. I sound young too. Not in a Minnie
Mouse kind of way, but young enough to have the guy at the other end of the phone
say, “How old are you, babe?” in a voice tinged with fear. The way he said it,
made me wet. The
babe
was what got me,
protective and liquid and sweet. He didn’t believe I was twenty-four and hung
up.

I couldn’t blame him. I work as a paralegal at a criminal
defense firm and know you can’t be too careful. We’ve defended some dumb fucks.
Strangest thing I ever read was an IM transcript of a male police sergeant
pretending to be a fifteen-year-old girl and a forty-year-old client pretending
to be a seventeen-year-old girl trying to convince the fifteen-year-old to have
sex with her friend who was, in fact, him. Those cops are good. The client was
too. They could have written a movie script together.

I do research and writing for the firm. The boss introduces
me to clients as ‘the brains of the operation,’ which they think is a joke, but
it’s not. Smart enough to get the boss’s kid into Harvard and smart enough to
get some of our clients off, although not in the way they originally intended.

I take the commuter rail to work each day. The conductor who
collects tickets on the inbound train has the most beautiful hands I have ever
seen, with long elegant fingers. I always buy my ticket on the train. I love
watching his hands while he punches the ticket, takes my money, and gives me
change. I imagine his fingers in my cunt, fantasize about his cock, and smile
when he hands me the receipt.

Outside work I smile a lot. I smile at people on the train.
I say ‘Hi’ to anyone who sits next to me. I don’t hog the train seat to myself
and avoid eye contact like people do to me. I don’t sit and flap my newspaper
or magazine in front of the person’s face. People respond to courtesy. I smile
at my fellow customers in Dunkin Donuts and at the counter people, and I don’t
complain when they get my order wrong unless it’s giving me regular coffee instead
of decaf. Why? Because their job sucks and unless my health is on the line, I’m
not going to make it suck more. I smile and say “Thank you.”

In the end, I’m invisible. At the office, I put my hair up
and cover my lingerie with efficiency. On the train, no one knows I exist. Most
of the time on the ride home, the conductor will not even ask for a ticket and
walk by me as if I weren’t there. Courtesy and a smile for strangers are no
more than momentary. By the time they fall asleep at night they don’t remember
me.

It had been three months since my boyfriend left me for a
job across the country. In these times a girl can’t compete with gainful
employment. He said he didn’t expect me to wait, meaning there were girls in
California, and he had heard they were plenty cute. Fine, but there is only so much
a girl can do on her own. It started with masturbation, then cyber-sex and then
phone sex. All great, gosh, sometimes amazing, but I needed something more than
just release. The online sex had some awfully sweet guys typing awfully sweet
things, getting dirty, and going down on me with more enthusiasm than I’d ever
experienced in real life, and the phone sex did have the voice. God, I love a
man’s voice, but in the end, technology and imagination cannot compare with the
weight of a sweaty guy on me with his cock in my cunt. Vibrators don’t have
arms, I can’t run my fingers through their hair, and they don’t appreciate
blowjobs. I needed a man.

It got to the point I was sizing up prospects at the train
station and staring noticeably. I realized I had crossed a line when guys would
move to the other side of the platform when I smiled at them. Wound tight did
not begin to describe my condition. I was peevish and distracted. You know the saying,
‘She needs to get laid,’? Yeah, there’s a reason it’s an expression, but no one
was coming up to the plate.

In the state I was in, I missed a service deadline on a
Motion to Suppress. I told the boss I’d take it over to the DA’s office, and it
shouldn’t be a problem. At the end of the day, I walked the short distance over
to the courthouse with a copy of the Motion and Memorandum. I asked the
secretary for the DA assigned to the case.

“Oh, that case has been reassigned,” she said. “John
Hawkins is now handling it. He’s in if you’d like to see him.”

I hadn’t heard the name before. “I don’t need to see him.
Can you just make sure he gets this? It was due yesterday.”

“Oh, if it’s late, I think he’ll want to see you.”

“Fine.”

By rule a copy of the filing was due to the DA ten days
before the hearing. Some lawyers brought it in the day of the hearing, really
not a big deal. She directed me to his office. I hadn’t allowed myself enough
time and was anxious that I might miss the train. I knocked on his open door,
and he looked up from behind his desk and said, “Come in.”

I just wanted to get rid of the damn thing and go. “
Here.
” I held the copies out to him. “It’s a day late. The
hearing’s next week.”

Instead of taking them from across the desk like any normal
human would have done, he got up and walked around. I tried to size him up, but
all my mind registered was tall, young, dark hair, and lovely eyes. He took the
papers from me with his left hand, smiled, and introduced himself, holding out
his right. I mumbled my name and shook his hand. He gave just enough pressure
to make me blush. I cursed myself for having my guard down. This was the enemy
camp. I had not even considered that there would be anyone worth my attention
in the DA’s office. I did not sleep with the enemy, and there were conflict of
interest laws that prevented such couplings anyway.

“Why’s it late?” he asked, flipping through the papers.

“It was my fault. I was…distracted.” He looked at me and
raised an eyebrow. I continued. “The motion has merit. It was a warrantless
entry and sweep of the premises. Setting up a sting in the apartment was a bit
beyond the scope of a search incident to arrest, don’t you think? There’s no
question of consent…to the search.”

I know what you’re thinking. ‘This is why she doesn’t get
any. She won’t shut up.’ You may have a point, but for me, that statement was
just a notch down from foreplay.

“I’ll have to look at it then.” He turned to put the papers
on the desk. “As long as you’ll have a drink with me.”

“You’re going to look at it only if I have a drink with
you?” I asked with some of my uptightness coming through.

He smiled then, which did not help matters. “No, I just
wondered if you’d like to have a drink.”

I looked at the clock on the wall. I had missed the train
and it was two hours until the next one. “Sure.”

* * * *

We walked over to the V-Bar where opposing counsel often
waited for verdicts and returned to celebrate their victory or swallow their
pride with a chaser. It was neutral territory, a demilitarized zone where overt
posturing stopped and covert operations began in an atmosphere of friendly
rivalry. Although technically opponents, John Hawkins and I blended into the
late afternoon crowd. The bar was three deep and raucous when we got there,
indicating the end to some significant case. John took my hand and led me to
the far side of the bar. I let him, the suddenness of the action robbing me of
the ability to protest. Was this a display of authority and possessiveness or
rather an impulsive and protective gesture to get us intact from point A to
point B? As my mind debated his intention and marveled at the warmth of his
smooth, dry touch, we surfaced into an air pocket, a relatively quiet corner.
He dropped my hand and turned with a smile that made me smile back and
squelched any misgivings.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t I buy the drinks, since I am the one who filed
late?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“No.” I paused. “Do you?”

He laughed. “Actually, I’m not used to answering questions.
Besides I invited you.”

“Invited? Is that what you call it? I’ll remember that the next
time one of our clients is accused of extortion.” He shook his head, and I
continued. “I’ll have beer, whatever’s on tap, nothing light, though.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he said and disappeared back
into the fray, while I kept the perimeter of point B secure and mused about
John Hawkins. He was confident. That was certain but not arrogant, a paper-thin
balance I sometimes thought unfair to ask of men. He seemed to have pulled it
off—so far. He also seemed genuine, willing to be teased, and spontaneous, in
short, an all-around promising prospect, except for the fact he was a DA. I let
out a heavy sigh as he returned with two glasses filled with russet colored ale
and handed me one.

“What shall we drink to? I asked.

“Wow, you don’t let up on the questions, do you?”

“Apparently, neither do you.”

“Here’s to questions then.” He held out his glass.

“And answers.” I raised my glass to his before taking a
well-deserved sip.

“Indeed,” he said and looked at me as though he could see
me and through me.

The conversation meandered and we asked and answered
plenty. He had moved from California, where he’d also been a prosecutor, only
three months before to be near his family and atone for his rebellious youth. The
human exchange between here and California did not escape me with my end of the
bargain improving as we continued our own exchange of guarded information and
the beer encouraged tentative confidences.

When the number of patrons dwindled, we moved to a secluded
booth where he sat beside me instead of across. We were on our second drink
when he leaned over and whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. “I
want to fuck you.”

That kind of declaration overwhelms a girl. I could have
pretended I was insulted. I could have walked away. I could have said,
You read my mind
, or
What the fuck?
Instead I said, “I can’t.
I’ll lose my job.”

Not an overstatement. The
Montagues
and
Capulets
had nothing on the doomed romance
between a prosecutor and member of the defense team. Undisclosed romantic
interludes have led to the reversal of convictions. The law demands full
disclosure of any such liaison to the client, and I didn’t think our clients or
my boss would be sympathetic to my desire to fuck the prosecutor.

He removed the clip holding my bun, and my hair tumbled over
my shoulders. Shifting closer to me, he slid his hand along the back of my neck
and bent to kiss me. If I had an operator’s manual his move would be under the
section on how to turn me on. His warm lips parted slightly on mine. I tasted
him and sighed.

“I can’t,” I whispered again, my eyes closed and my lips
hovering over his. It was downright embarrassing how much I wanted him, but
when I looked in his eyes I saw no judgment, only his understanding and need.

“Shit,” he said. “Okay, what if I can switch cases with
another DA?”

“You’re going to rearrange the DA’s office so you can fuck
me?”

“God, I love it when you say fuck.” He looked at me, his
green eyes steady and bright. Any remnants of resistance melted. He had me at ‘I
want to fuck you.’

“I have to catch the train,” I said and stood. He got up
and let me out. I didn’t trust myself to look at him again and turned to leave
the bar, conscious of his stare as I retreated because retreat was exactly what
I did. I didn’t have the energy for a battle of wits, words, or engagement of
any kind. My mind reeled with the sudden events, and I needed air and some time
and distance to sort my way. I walked into the cool air of the early evening to
the station. On the ride home, cradled in a corner seat and lulled by the gently
rocking train and the effects of the alcohol, I drifted off to sleep thinking
of him.