Read Online Books/Novels:
The Dirty Ones
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
1944475648 (ISBN13: 9781944475642)
They said write what you know so that’s what I did. I wrote dirty, I wrote erotic, I wrote the truth.
The Dirty Ones is a brand new, thrilling, standalone romance about the secret world of erotica authors by New York Times bestselling author, JA Huss.
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CHAPTER ONE – CONNOR
I used to read to her.
That’s the most prominent memory I have of Kiera Bonnaire. At the time it was anything available. Cereal boxes, magazines, instruction manuals, the dictionary. Ordinary, mundane things. She wasn’t particular. She didn’t need much. She just wanted to forget and the sound of my voice did that.
It was enough back then.
The stars aligned that night we all met up in the woods. That’s how someone explained it to me once. Things just… happened and then there was momentum. It became a living, breathing thing with a life of its own and there was no way to stop it.
Me and Hayes. Sofia, Kiera, and Camille. Emily and Bennett. Louise and… no, she was alone, I think.
People often assume that good things happen when the stars align, but that’s not always the case. Impossible events don’t always lead to positive outcomes.
I think about this weird combination of aligned stars and reading to Kiera with a strange sense of invested detachment the entire drive down to Charlotte, Vermont from the Montreal airport. I used to think that Kiera and I had something special once. That it meant something more. That the stars lining up were a sign of what we could become. That if we just believed in our dreams our future together would materialize and the magic would take over.
Didn’t quite work out that way.
I used to wonder if it was my fault, or her fault, or their fault.
But maybe it’s nobody’s fault?
Maybe no matter what you do or how hard you try, your dream and your future have nothing in common?
Maybe that’s just the way it is?
I don’t know. All I do know is that my trip down to Kiera’s cottage today has nothing to do with the dream and everything to do with the nightmare that brought us together.
I’d let go of that nightmare years back. Thought I was over it. Thought I’d moved on. But a wave of apprehension grows inside me as the GPS on my rental ticks off the miles until we meet again. Like a nervous lover, though lovers is not a word I’d have used to describe who and what we were to each other. We weren’t really friends either.
We were something else. Something in between. Possibly more like partners in crime, though we didn’t do any crime, so that can’t be it either.
I don’t think there’s a name for what Kiera and I were, but nonetheless, and for obvious reasons, she needs to be the first one I confront.
I glance down at the book in the seat next to me. I can’t see it since it’s in a plain white paper bag from the airport bookstore I bought it from. But I don’t need to see it. I lived it.
I just went in to buy gum, that’s all. Just some gum to chew on my flight back to New York. The snack store was crowded so I walked a few feet further to the bookstore, got my gum, stood in line, and then I made the mistake of looking to my left where two women were arguing over a book.
I glanced at the guy standing just behind me and we rolled our eyes like men united.
“Please,” one of the women said in French. “It’s the last copy. If you’re not going to buy it, just let me—”
“I’m still deciding,” the other one replied.
“I have to go. My flight is boarding right now. Please—”
“Will you just back off? Jesus. I had it first and it’s–”
But that’s when I stopped listening. Because that’s when I saw the cover. It wasn’t the image. The picture is some couple kissing or maybe just moaning in each other’s general direction.
It wasn’t the picture. It was the font. It was the title. It was—
—me, saying, “Excuse me,” in French, as I opened up my wallet, pulled out cash, fanning it so I could calculate how much I had. “I’ll give you three hundred and seventy-four dollars if you hand that book over to me.”
“What the hell?” the begging girl snapped. “I want that book!”
I ignored her and concentrated on the one with possession. She squinted her eyes at me. They were small eyes. Not attractive in any way. Kinda beady and forgettable—except that’s the only thing I remember about her now. “Why?” she asked.
“Because my girlfriend wrote it,” I said. Smooth, like whiskey. Confident, like my father.
“What?” they both asked. In English.
“You’re fucking with us.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m serious. Please, I’m on my way to visit her and I didn’t buy a copy. I don’t have time to stop and—”
“It’s written anonymously, dumbass,” begging girl said.
I ignored her. Kept my attention on the one still holding the book. “What’s her name?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you,” I said.
“Then I can’t sell it to you,” she said.