The Perfect Score

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SILENT DESIRES

STARSTRUCK NOBODY DOES IT BETTER MOONSTRUCK NIGHT MOVES MAKING WAVES UNDERCOVER LOVERS

www.spice-books.co.uk

J. KENNER has always loved stories—reading them, watching them on television and on the silver screen, and making them up herself. She studied film before attending law school, but knew that her real vocation lay in writing the kind of books she loves to read. She lives in Texas with her husband, two daughters and several cats.

For Brenda, who gave this book a home.

And to the Temptresses, particularly whoever mentioned, all those years ago, the Internet Slut Test that sparked the idea for this book!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

“EIGHTEEN PERCENT!” I could hear my voice echoing through the cinderblock-walled laundry room. “Eighteen percent is for nuns and small children. Eighteen percent is not for twenty-seven-year-old single girls living in Los Angeles.”

Carla yanked open the dryer and started scooping her pinkish whites into her laundry basket. An hour ago, her whites had actually been white, but with Carla, these things tended to happen. “I still can’t believe you’re so upset just because you got a crappy score on some Internet Slut Test.” She flashed me a look designed to underscore just how much she didn’t believe I’d do something so foolish. Ridiculous, really, given that Carla had known me since kindergarten. I was Mattie Brown and she was Carla Browning, which meant that fate had pretty much destined that we’d sit beside each other in every class until graduation. Being relatively pragmatic, we figured we could either be best friends or vile enemies. We’d opted for the friend route. At the time, it had seemed the more prudent option.

Today, Carla was probably having second thoughts, a supposition that quickly proved true when she pulled out a pale pink bra and shook it at me. “You’re as bad as you were in high school, only now you don’t have Angie dogging your heels.”

Angie is my stepsister, although the “step” part has never really been part of the equation for either one of us. We were both three when our parents married, and she’s my sister, for good, bad or indifferent. And since we’re separated by a mere four months (she’s the eldest), we grew up sharing each other’s clothes, coveting each other’s boyfriends and busting tail to outdo each other academically, socially and every other way. I love her, but I’ve never stopped trying to beat her. And—damn the woman—the truth is that she usually beat me. In everything from boyfriends to grade point average. (In the latter, she edged by me with one grade point, taking the lead in our very last semester of high school, and wresting the valedictorian slot away from me. Not that I’m bitter or anything…)

I took a breath and tried to stop scowling. “I’m not trying to be the slut valedictorian. For that matter, it’s not even really about the test. I mean, another test said my perfect job would be analyzing actuarial tables, and how ewww is that?”

“Very,” she agreed, and we both paused for a moment, reveling in the mathematical horror. “But if it wasn’t the test, then what?”

I shrugged. “The realization that came with it, I guess.” I paused for emphasis, then spit out the horrible truth. “My sex life is boring.”

Carla’s perfectly plucked brows rose infinitesimally. “I thought you didn’t have a sex life?”

So much for slipping one past Carla. “Fine. You win. My sex life was boring. Back when I was with Dex, it was duller than dirt. And now that I’m single again, it’s not boring. It’s nonexistent.” Dex had dumped me about four months ago, a little fact that had pretty much blown me out of the water. We’d been together two years, and I expected we’d stay together, ending up with a marriage and two-point-five kids and a dog.

Yes, our sex life—and the rest of our relationship if you want to get right down to it—had been spiraling downward, but we were comfortable. Or, at least I’d thought we were.

But my dirty little secret? Even though I was blindsided by the breakup, I wasn’t all that disappointed. What I was, was angry. I should have been the dumper, not the dumpee. As it was, I’d completely lost face. With myself, even if with no one else.

With a dramatic sigh, I hefted an armful of white cotton undies out of my dryer, then frowned at the laundry basket, wishing it were filled with shocking bits of red satin and black lace. Underwear with a raison d’être more provocative than simply keeping my private parts hidden in the event of a catastrophic highway accident. Like every other normal mother on the planet, my high-powered attorney mom’s list of constant worries placed clean underwear higher than poverty, nuclear war or starving children in China.

Too bad for me, Mom had taught me well. There wasn’t a frivolous panty in the bunch. No satin, no lace, nothing even remotely Frederick’s of Hollywood about my unmentionables. Not even Victoria’s Secret. We’re talking K-Mart all the way.