Dirtiest Lie Read Free

and one of the men opens the door.
    “Miss Yorker,” he says, extending a large hand.
    For a moment, I don’t move. Yorker is my legal last name, but I haven’t used it since I was sixteen. The last time I heard it was a little over a week ago, when I was abducted by one of my grandfather’s henchmen.
    Before that? When I was sixteen, before I learned how to set up a decent alias.
    Sadly, my first impulse upon hearing the sound of my name is to knee someone in the nuts and run in the opposite direction.
    Not that kneeing these guys would go far. They have the smooth, plastic faces of fashion dolls, and I wonder if all their bulges are smoothed over in the name of practicality.
    I give the man my hand, and he helps me onto the sidewalk. Romeo comes around, and the four of us walk into the office building.
    I’m boxed in by big, muscular men.
    People stare. Eyebrows go up. Someone says to a friend, “Do you know her? I think she’s from a reality show.”
    The men come all the way up to the office, where they install themselves in the chairs near the elevator. Their cool efficiency makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
    “You’ll be with Hawthorne today,” Romeo says. “Good luck, and see you after lunch.”
    My heart sinks into my stilettos.
    I knew I was going to get some mysterious training in the morning, but I hoped Hawthorne wouldn’t be first.
    Stiffly, I walk down the hall and knock on Hawthorne’s door.
    “Mr. Tarraget isn’t in yet,” Andrea says. “The door’s unlocked.”
    She’s telling me that I can go in, which means Hawthorne has added me to his official schedule.
    Which means Hawthorne has cleared his morning just for me. 8:00 to noon , he might have written. Train Lindsay sexually. Whip her into shape.
    Should I be flattered or terrified?

    ~

    Hawthorne’s office isn’t quite as large as Romeo’s. In fact, it’s exactly the same size as Slade’s, which is down the hall. Hawthorne has a much bigger office in another building, but I don’t think he uses it much these days.
    But what do I know? I haven’t been around for the last week, and before that I was swamped with work.
    The office is furnished in the standard rich guy way. He really could have ripped a page out of a magazine expo on any random CEO and used it as a template.
    The room’s focal point is the massive desk, an intimidating monstrosity of dark wood. The padded chair behind it might as well be a throne. The bookcases lining the walls and the black sofa sitting on a shaggy black rug almost seem like afterthoughts, like props to give the impression that it’s really an office and not a pulpit from which the executive can hand down life-and-death decisions.
    But maybe I’m projecting based on what I know of Hawthorne’s personality. Romeo’s office isn’t so very different, but it doesn’t give the same impression.
    There’s also a freestanding wardrobe.
    Curious, I open it and see a simple black dress and a pair of classy black shoes. No heels. It must be my outfit for the afternoon.
    It’s a nice dress, though not my style. I wonder what would happen if I hid it.
    I cross to the window and peer out. From up here, it’s impossible to see the street, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
    For the moment I’m safe, but that does little to assuage my worry. After all, I was abducted from this building once, and I can never let my guard down again.
    My thoughts wander to the night before. Slade said he has a secret, and he wants me to guess it, but I don’t even know where to start. I assume it’s about sex—I was naked, my arms and legs restrained, when he teasingly brought it up. The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s not something bad or scary; he was too upbeat for that.
    Muffled footsteps approach the office, then stop.
    I hear the deep growl of Hawthorne’s voice. Andrea says something in return.
    Hawthorne steps into view, holding a coffee mug.
    He’s wearing one of his many