Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) (6 page)

Chapter
9

          I look down at my
phone. My heart is beating fast. I can't believe this is happening to me. It
doesn't even feel real. How is it that Philip LaFleur is so commanding, so
authoritative, so cold and cool and businesslike one moment and so erotically
thrilling the next? One second, he's berating me for thinking I'm “too good”
for that humiliating dog food story he's assigned me.

The next, he's sending me to his
house to show him around LA and telling me how attracted he is to me. Not to
mention all that about “punishing me in several ways”. My breath quickens as I
recall the tone of his voice, his words. As I recall how much he wants me. Is
that some sort of sex thing with him – him wanting to punish me? To “make sure
I feel it?”

          I'm hardly sure what to
think. On the one hand, I'm appalled. This guy is my boss. He has a
responsibility to treat me like a professional, with respect. To keep his sex
life out of the office – something he clearly has trouble doing if the leggy
blonde adjusting her blouse and hair on her way out of his office is any
indication. He has a responsibility to treat me, if not like an equal, then at
least a colleague: someone whom he respects, somehow whom he treats as a
professional peer, whom he trusts to do real stories. Not this dog food
bullshit. Even Tegan never sent me on a story like that. “You've got chops,”
she said to me, always. “And you should use them for stories worthy of your
skill.”

          And yet...the idea of
being punished by a guy like Philip LaFleur – so powerful, so desperately
commanding – is insanely and mind-numbingly sexy.

          I've always been good
at spotting the men who would treat me badly. Good at staying far away from
anyone who might ever hurt me. My life with Kendall at the LaFleurs taught me
that much. People are dangerous. You can't let them hurt you, even a little, or
they'll seize the advantage. They'll destroy you. That's what I believe. And
yet like a moth to a conflagration I'm drawn to the person who can hurt me most
of all. And the idea of him hurting me – I like it. My feelings scare me,
overwhelm me.

          I look down at the text
message from Philip. He gives me his address. No pleasantries, just details.

          Then another message.
A
car will pull up in front of this building in five minutes. Get inside. It will
take you home. At 5:45 pm precisely it will reappear to take you to my
apartment. I hate waiting so don't be late. And wear your most seductive dress.

         
I feel sick.
Wear your most
seductive dress?
He's no longer being coy with me. No, now it's clear. My
boss expects to fuck me – and I don't even know if I'm allowed to say no. He is
making me submit in every way imaginable.

          I get in the car. I'm
still hyperventilating, buzzing like a hummingbird. I don't make eye contact
with the driver – Philip's driver. How many women has he chauffered like this
before: delivering them like baked goods straight to his master's door? Offered
up on a silver fucking platter, I think.

          The driver asks my
address and I tell him. I'm almost ashamed. I am pretty sure most of the girls
Philip beds don't come from this part of town. But the driver says nothing,
only grunts, and then we are on our way, driving home.

          I haven't been home in
days. I never thought I'd miss this shitty, mold-infested apartment, but
somehow even the smell of mildew is comforting right now. It smells like home.
Like all this with Philip and Tegan and Kendall and Pepper has just been a bad
dream, a nightmare trip, and now everything is normal again.

My old clothes are here. My own
bed. My own everything. Right now I just want to lie here on the floor as long
as I can and not get up ever again. I wonder how many days I can wear the same
pajamas before someone gets creeped out and I start to smell? Probably not a
good idea to find out. Philip LaFleur wants me “seductive,” after all. Well,
fucked if I know what “seductive” means. Probably means something that isn't
sneakers.

          “Hey, girl!”

          It's my new roommate,
Kiley. She's in her underwear, as she usually is around the apartment. It's
like something out of a lesbian porno: a supermodel who hates wearing clothes
indoor. But that's Kiley for you. Brash, sultry, and full of fun, with that Aussie
laid-back charm that means you can forgive her for keeping you up until 3 a.m.
when she stomps all the way back from her bartending job.

          She looks at me.
“You're all red. Are you okay?” She envelops me in a bear hug, which would be
nice if she were actually wearing any clothes.

          Well, Kiley probably
has tips about how to be seductive, I think.

          “I'm fine,” I say,
looking down. I don't feel like explaining everything right now. “Just got this
weird head rush from riding too fast. I've just gotten back on my feet for the
first time since the accident.” I decide not to mention the car.

          “Why the rush?” Kiley
starts making a sandwich. “You have a breaking story to catch or something?”
She leans in excitedly. I haven't known Kiley nearly as long as I've known
Johnson, but already she's one of my closest friends. My biggest cheerleader,
my truest supporter. Plus she loves to hear celeb gossip. Sometimes I even find
myself preferring to spend time with her than with Johnson. Johnson's great,
but sometimes his manner is a little...jealous? Possessive? Intense? With
Kiley, I can really be myself.

          “I wish,” I admit. “My
new boss – he gave me a real dog of an assignment. And I mean that literally.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “My colleagues are
going to Tokyo and Berlin? Me, I've got to figure out Amy Brand's dog's food
preferences.”

          Kiley's mouth falls
open. “
That's
your story?”

          “That's my story,” I
sigh. “I know. I think they've got it out for me.”

          “I mean, you could at
least write about what
she
eats...”

          “You'd think so. But
he's on my case...” I don't want to give away too much. “He's pretty damn weird
actually.”

          “The new owner of
FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY you mean?” Kiley asks. “I've been hearing rumors about
him.” Kiley knows everything. I'm surprised she doesn't know what kind of food
Amy's Shitz-Zhu eats. “I hear he's one cocky son of a bitch, huh?”

          “Why do you say that?”

          “Nothing,” says Kiley.
“Just to assign you a story like that. What could you have done to be on his
shit list?”

          “I don't know,” I
admit. “Especially after he put me in the hospital. Even the lower level
staffers are getting...ordinary celeb stuff. Whose dating whom, etc, etc.”

          “At least you got
something...different?” Kiley tries to be helpful.

          “I'm not going to let
him break me,” I say. Saying it out loud makes me feel more determined. “I'm
going to get the best damn dog food story out there.”

          “What, you're going to
stalk her at Trader Joe's? I hear she hangs out there.” Kiley's been an
invaluable source more than a few times.        

          “Who knows when she'll
be going next?” I ask. “Maybe I should try and get into her kitchen.”

          “And how will you do
that?” Kiley asks.

          “We could pretend to be
plumbers? Or...do you know anyone who knows Amy?”

          “Everyone knows
everyone in this city,” says Kiley. “It's just a question of knowing who to
ask. And how. When's your deadline?”

          “I don't have one,” I
say. “But I know Philip, he likes things to be...punctual.”

          “Phii---lipp” Kiley
drags out the words. “He sounds like a real character. First he runs you over,
then he gives you shit assignments? What did you
do
?”

          I decide not to mention
Kendall. Nobody would believe me even if I did say.

          “Not to mention – he's
got you running around like this, all flushed and sweaty and red – if I didn't
know better, I'd say you were...”

          “What?”
Can she
tell, too?

         
“Never mind,” Kiley says. “Just
that you seem out of breath.”

          I shrug off what she
says and head to my closet. I look at the clothes I have.
“Seductive...seductive...seductive...” I mutter. But nothing looks right. Black,
right? Little black dresses? Those are classic, standard? I have a black dress
that's ankle length. A little lace at the collar. That must be seductive. I
grab it and put it on. Add some cheap fake pearls. Put on some lip balm. I look
at myself in the mirror.

          “Seductive, huh,” I
mutter.

          I go back out to use
the hallway mirror, where there's more light.

          “Who died?” Kiley is
chewing gum loudly, popping bubbles at the kitchen counter.

          “What?”

          “Whose funeral are you
going to? In that dress and those flats – you look like you're going to bury
the dead.”

          “Oh,” I flush. “No. I
have a...”

         
Date? Assignation?
Work assignment?

          “
I need something seductive,” I
admit sheepishly.

          “For a date?”

          “Not exactly.” My mind
searches for a lie. “For work.”

          “You want to wear
something seductive for this Philip guy?”

          “I'm going to a
nightclub where Amy's supposed to hang out,” I lie quickly. “Figure I might be
able to run into her that way and start a conversation about dogs...”

          “Clever,” Kiley raises
her eyebrows. “But not in that dress. She'll assume you're the maid or
something. Here, borrow something from me.”

          She goes into her room
and grabs a hot pink bodycon dress that looks more like a shirt.

          “Try this on.”

          She doesn't leave the
room. Clearly she expects me to change in front of her.

          “Um...okay.”

          I put it on. It barely
covers all my bits. I have no idea how Kiley, who is even curvier than I am,
manages it without flashing it.

          “This is my sex dress,”
says Kiley. “I have never
not
gotten laid wearing that dress.”

          “Ew!”

          “I mean, I take it off,
first!” Kiley giggles. “Usually.”

          “Gross, Kiley!”

          “Stop being a prude, Sid.
It's dry cleaned. And you can borrow some shoes, too.” She pulls out what can
only be described as “stripper heels.”

          “I can't walk in those!”

          “You don't have to do
much walking. Just lean against the bar and let hot guys buy you drinks.”

          Just what I need right
now
, I think.
More
men bothering me for sex.

         
“Okay,” I say. “I think I'm ready
to go now.”

          “Please,” Kiley rolls
her eyes. “We haven't even started on the makeup...”

Chapter
10

          Kiley starts to put the
makeup on me. It feels strange, somehow. Surreal. Like the body she's touching
isn't mine at all, like it doesn't even so much as belong to me. My flesh feels
like a stranger's. How strange it is, I think. That I am trying to become
someone I'm not – for
him.
Kiley puts my face in her hands, tracing my
cheeks with her fingertips. She closes my eyes and smears sparkly glitter
eyeshadow on the lids, a darker color for the creases. She highlights with a
pale sky blue. I never wear makeup, and the feeling of the slick smooth powder
on my skin is uncanny. Like I'm covering myself up. Like I'm hiding beneath
this dark chocolate-colored eyeliner and the waves of blue mascara with glitter
that Kiley is applying on my lashes. A safe mask, I think. Something that hides
who I really am. Who makes me into....I don't know? Someone else? The girl that
Philip LaFleur wants to humiliate, wants to degrade, wants to
fuck?

         
What does Philip LaFleur want
anyway? I wish I knew. When I first met him he was kind to me, jocular. He
seemed to care about me – at least enough to keep checking in on me the whole
time I was in the hospital. But maybe he just felt guilty about hitting me with
his car. Maybe he was just afraid I'd sue him if he didn't take care of me. I
should have sued him, I think. Probably would have given me the money to retire
in comfort. But I didn't. I'd been so bamboozled by his wicked smile and his
piercing blue eyes that I hadn't even thought about anything. I'd been putty in
his hands from the second I met him. I'd let him do anything to me – anything
he wanted. I'd let him assign me that crappy dog food story, hadn't I?

With Tegan I would have spoken up
– been forceful.
Demanded
a better assignment. And she would have liked
that about me. Respected my spunk. But with Philip I'd been so submissive. And
the way he made me call him sir...

          I sigh. Is he getting
off on this, I wonder? This hot and cold, controlling behavior? Making me come
to his place after hours. Insisting that I wear something “seductive?” Part of
me is angry. How dare he do this to me! How dare he put me in this position of
risking my whole career...just on
his
whim. Because I know that no
matter what happens tonight, he is going to walk away scott-free. No
consequences. No nothing. Philip LaFleur isn't going to be the slightest bit
affected by whatever happens between us. He'll put another notch onto his
bedpost, and then file me away in his category of half-pleasant memories. Stuff
he'll fantasize about when he's old and decrepit and can't get it up for young
girls anymore. The girls he used to be able to get into bed with just a look,
just a word, just a command. I feel angry. My cheeks flush; they burn.

          “What is it, honey?”
Kiley looks down at me, her face a mask of concern. “What's wrong?”

          “Nothing...” I say.

          “It's not something to
do with...uh....your nightclub assignment, is it?” She looks at me with an
expression that makes it clear that she hasn't believed my earlier words about
Amy.

          “No,” I don't meet her
eyes. “It's nothing, really.”

          “Sid,” Kiley says. “I
can tell something's wrong. I'm worried.”

          “I'm just stressed
out,” I say. “My new boss, the new way FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY is working. I'm
worried about everything. I really don't like the way things are turning out at
the office.”

          “Well, I hope you have
a good night tonight,” Kiley says, flicking a final cat's-eye onto the edge of
my lashes with her eyeliner pencil. “You deserve it after all the stress you've
been through with the job switch and the accident.” She grins. “Maybe you'll
even get laid.”

          “I hope not,” I say,
too quickly. Too hastily. My cheeks flush redder.

          “Why not?” Kiley
laughs. “Oh, Sidney, you're such a virgin. Maybe you should let yourself have a
little fun for a change.”

          “Maybe,” I say. I just
wish I could have
fun
, instead of worrying about my job, my career,
Kendall LaFleur, every single consequence of the LaFleurs acquiring FILTHY
DIRTY LAUNDRY magazine.

          Kendall fetches me the
final touches of my outfit. A matching clutch to shimmer alongside my gemstone
stilettos. She's curled my hair, and now she fans it out on either side of my
face, brushing it through once more with her fingers.

          “There!” she exclaims
triumphantly. “You look absolutely perfect, Sidney! I'm so proud of you.”

          I look at myself in the
mirror. My mouth drops open. That isn't me, I think. Not that girl staring back
at me out of the mirror. The girl I see is some A-List movie star, used to
nights at the Chateau Marmont and bottles of Moet and caviar and all sorts of
luxuries. The girl in the mirror goes to red carpet events regularly, Ball
galas, premiere parties. She's always the most beautiful girl in the room.
She's....a lot of things. A lot of nice things, even. But she isn't me. I can't
even feel proud of looking good. I look like so much of a stranger that I can't
even associate the girl I see with
me.

          “
Why, Sidney, you're
beautiful
,”
Kiley looks at me admiringly. “I mean, you always look nice, but you really
clean up good, huh?” She teases out my hair just a little more. “I'm sure
you'll have a great night. Just remember:
you have all the power.
Especially
when you look that that.”

          I take one last look at
myself in the mirror. My bodycon dress just barely covering my ass. My legs
which look so much longer than ever before in these stiletto stripper heels. My
chest looking
enormous
as a result of the dress's flattering cut. My
hair long and curling over my back, over my shoulders. I look exactly like the
sort of girl Philip LaFleur would want, I think.

The idea is both exciting and
infuriating. I want him too, I can't deny that. But I hate feeling like desire
is all on his terms. I hate feeling like he gets to be the one who decides what
I feel, what I want, who I am. His control over my body is so terrifyingly
absolute. And he's never even touched me. Never even held me. Never kissed me,
not once. And still somehow I feel that I am his. And the feeling makes me
drunk with desire and need.

          My phone goes. Another
beep.

         
My driver is
downstairs.
Philip's customary brusque tone.
Proceed downstairs
immediately. Don't be late or you will be spanked.

         
I can feel the heat rise in my
cheeks.

          “What is it?” Kiley
leans in, her brows furrowing close together.

          “Nothing,” I say. “I
have to go.”

          “Good luck,” she calls,
as I head downstairs.

          The black Audi SUV is
there to pick me up. Probably the first time such a car has been seen in my
neighborhood, I think bitterly. Maybe they think it belongs to some drug dealer
or something.

          The driver gets out.
Opens the door for me.

          “Miss Stone?”

          He doesn't even look at
me when he speaks.

          “Y-y-es,” I say
nervously.

          “Mr. LaFleur is
expecting you.”

          I sit with my hands in
my lap, trying not to fidget, as we make the drive to Philip's residence. The
sun is setting all around me, and as we pull off the main road towards the ocean,
I gasp at the sight. These houses aren't just luxurious, they're over-the-top
splendid – the pink and gold and orange lights of the setting sun reflected in
the sparkles of the sea.

          We pull up to the most
splendid house of all: located right on the waterfront. I cannot hold back a
gasp. I never even realized houses like this exist, not in my wildest dreams,
let alone thought that I'd ever be actually invited to enter one. When the car
comes to a stop I sit like an idiot in the back seat, in shock. I'm not able to
move.

          “Miss Stone?” the
driver says.

          “Oh, uh, sorry.”

          “Do you want me to help
you get out?”

          “Yes, sorry, sorry...”
I blush again.

         
Then the door opens. Philip
LaFleur emerges. He's dressed casually, in expensive, tight-fitting jeans and a
freshly-laundered black T-shirt – a far cry from the formality of his office
attire.

          Philip goes to the
driver and hands him an envelope. The driver nods and goes to another of the
cars in the driveway, taking off in that. Then Philip and I are alone together.

          He looks so different
in his civilian attire. So...nice. Normal, even. Not the S&M-loving boss
who looked like he was about to spank me. I wonder if I was imagining
everything, misinterpreting his jokes as something dangerous.

          “Let me take a look at
you!” He smiles a broad, beaming smile. “All dolled up and ready for the
night.” He holds out my hands, checks me out from head to toe. There's
something almost clinical about the way he looks me up and down. Still, I find
myself getting flushed and aroused from the feeling of his eyes on me. He is
silent for a while. Then the words escape his lips. “Wow,” he says. “Look at
you.”

          Something rebellious
rises up in me, a defiant streak I didn't know I had. I'm not going to let him
just be the boss around here – at least, not without a fight. The words Kiley
said earlier come back to me: an echo, a dream.
You have all the power
around here
, she said. I only hope her words are true.

          “So, I take it you
approve of my seductive dress?” I say. I meet his eyes. I do not blush. I speak
like I'm talking about work or the weather.

          He looks faintly taken
aback, slightly pleased. “Yes,” he says. “Very much so.” He twirls me around,
his eyes lingering on my ass. “Every inch of you pleases me.”

          Inside, I'm glowing. I
allow myself to smile – just a little bit. I don't want to give too much away.
“I'm glad,” I say. “Sir.” I imbue the word with mock submissiveness.

          His eyes narrow
slightly when I say those words. Like maybe he's more turned on than he
expected.

          He grabs my wrist,
pulls me into the house almost roughly.

          “Now,” he says. “We're
away from the prying eyes of neighbors – and papparazzi...” He shuts the door
behind us and pushes me back against it. He leans in with one arm, cornering me
in the hallway. “What I do in my own place, in my own home, is my business,
isn't it, Sidney? Not the world's?”

          I keep my voice steady.
“Yes, sir,” I say.

          He squeezes his eyes
shut, clenches his teeth. “That sounds so good when you say it, Miss Stone.
Your lips, making those sounds....it makes me want to lose control.” His hands
find the front of my dress, his fingertips tracing the valley of my breasts. I
can't resist a little moan.

          “Oh, Miss Stone,” he
whispers throatily. “The fun I'm going to have with you.”