Secrets & Lies

By: Lauren Landish

The Complete Series


By Lauren Landish


Revenge never tasted so sweet…

The DeLaCoeur family destroyed mine, and ever since I was a little girl, I vowed I would have my revenge.

Now the time has come, and I've waited my whole life for this. The heir to the family fortune is first on my list. Jackson. It should be easy—he's just a billionaire playboy that's used to women falling at his knees. I'll play along, I'll seduce him, and I'll humiliate him. But the second his warm lips burn into my neck, I fear that I might wind up sleeping with the enemy…


She pulled my junk out in front of the paparazzi... now it's war.

Katrina Grammercy is after me for a crime I didn't commit. She wants to ruin my reputation—make me pay for my father’s sins.

But she doesn't know who she's f*cking with. In this game, I make the rules. She’ll be just like the rest—one taste of me, and she's done.

She wants revenge?

I'll give her revenge, by owning her sweet, tight little ass.

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Chapter 1


Red. He likes red. I chose this dress carefully, making sure to pick one that would be both classy and slutty at the same time. The fabric is skintight, and I can't wear anything underneath except for a G-string. I can't even wear a bra, and he'll notice for sure. Jackson always notices a woman's breasts. Mine aren't the biggest, but that's okay. He has a thing for nipples, and I've been told mine are perfect.

Next come the silk thigh highs. The dress has a slit that goes almost all the way up my right leg, revealing a lot of thigh. He'll notice the lace top, and the fact that I'm wearing something other than pantyhose will draw his attention. I put less care into selecting the heels I'll be wearing. We'll be in a car for most of what I have planned for him, so they're what I'd consider reasonable. They're just meant to draw attention to my calves, so they're only three inch heels. I like my calves. They're pure muscle, and extremely defined from all the training I do.

Now is the hard part, the wig. I don't want Jackson recognizing who I am at first, so securing my naturally brown hair underneath this platinum blonde wig is vital. I want this hair to look like it really belongs to me. It's why I spent nearly as much money on the wig as I did on the dress, and I've practiced multiple times with the spirit gum to make sure it all looks natural. My eyes... well, blue eyes go with blonde hair all the time, but the false eyelashes I'm wearing can partially hide my eye color for a while. A little bit of makeup will help soften my jawline. I've increased my food intake over the past few days, trying to add a little bit of body fat—at least enough that you can't see my jaw muscles flexing when I chew. I don't give a shit, since I like my body the way it is, but Jackson likes women with a little more meat on their bones. I'm glad at least I keep my hair short, not quite butch short, but it's still considered short for a woman. I don't have time to deal with that shit... I've got other issues to deal with besides worrying about my looks.

Okay. Dress, stockings, shoes by the door, hair... check. As for makeup, I'm going with sultry and dark eye makeup to help my eyes look larger, more doe-eyed. I made sure to spend extra time on my eyeliner, because when I make my big reveal, I want Jackson to know exactly who I am as he stares into my eyes. And I know he remembers my eyes. The lipstick I'm wearing matches my dress, and makes my lips look plump and pouty. Everything I'm wearing practically screams, 'Fuck me, Jackson DeLaCoeur!'.

I look at myself critically in the mirror. The woman staring back at me isn't Katrina Grammercy, the twenty-two-year-old orphan whose parents were ripped from her by a car bomb a decade ago. She isn't the Katrina Grammercy who did nothing but sob for weeks, living in a haze for months. That woman never heard the rumors, never had to learn that her best friend's father, Peter DeLaCoeur, had orchestrated the whole thing. I stare at my reflection, and I don't see any traces of the woman who swore vengeance on the DeLaCoeurs, the woman who no longer goes by Katrina, just Kat.

Instead, all I see is exactly what I want Jackson to see. He might have been my best friend ten years ago, but a lot can happen in ten years. The Jack DeLaCoeur I knew is gone. Jackson has followed in his criminal father's footsteps—partying, fucking, and ruining people's lives. While Jackson may not have had anything to do with my parents' death, this is the only way to put my plan in motion. Besides, I'm leaving him alive. That's better than what his father did to my parents.

Thinking about the bombing, the way the fireball rolled across the concrete ceiling and stained the parking garage by the convention center, singeing my hair even though I was fifty feet away, the smell of everything burning... knowing my parents were trapped inside, and I couldn't do anything but watch helplessly...

I shake my head. I can't let the blackness overtake me, not right now. I can't afford it. Before it sinks its eagle claws into my brain again, I go over to my dresser to retrieve a small plastic bottle. This isn't on any medical directory in the world, but this special concoction my herbalist connection makes for me works wonders. It's got GABA, a little THC extract, and some Chinese shit I can't even pronounce. Unscrewing the top of the bottle, I shake out four capsules. They look like rabbit food—little pellets of grass trimmings and yellow pollen sitting in my hand. I down them with a glass of water, then grimace. They taste like rabbit food, too. I lie down on my bed, the cheap springs creaking in complaint despite the fact I only weigh one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The bed's a piece of shit, but it's all the bed I need.

I made sure to leave myself enough time for this next part, and I close my eyes, starting my meditations.

There is no peace. Peace is a lie.

Freedom is a lie.

Happiness, love, and the future... are lies.

The rage is the truth. Rage gives me power.

Anger gives my power focus.

I have my target.

Rage... Power... Anger... Focus.

DeLaCoeurs... Vengeance is mine.

It takes me fifteen minutes exactly to run through my meditations until I'm calm and my pills kick in. I sit up and double-check my outfit, noting that everything's still in place. Good. My training is still strong. I am still strong.

I go to my dresser again and pick up my work phone. It's a cheap prepaid burner, and I make sure to switch out the SIM cards every four days on a rotating basis. I take a deep breath, then punch in the number to reach Domino. That's not his real name of course, but he lets me call him that. He understands my need for secrecy, as well as the meaning behind the nickname I've given him. Once I tip him over, the domino effect starts.

“Domino? Yeah... yeah, it's me, Mercy. You still want those pics of Jackson DeLaCoeur, right? Come on, Domino. You know once you break a scandal on the Big Easy's biggest playboy, you'll have a ton of website hits, and that's just the minimum. You know you can even sell some print copies if you work the angle right... Yeah, okay, I'm not gonna tell you how to do your fucking job, but I'll do mine. So you gonna be there, or not? If not, I can always call up Vicki at the Picayune. No? You know if you aren't there, I'm gonna come after you next... okay. That's right, Riverwalk, the event tonight. Don't sweat it, he'll be there. You'll get your money's worth and then some.”

I hang up with Domino and place a second call, this time to Vicki. She's probably going to be there anyway, but it doesn't hurt to make sure that she's cued in. Domino's going to be expecting it anyway, and I'll let them jockey for the best position for the pics themselves. They're both vultures, but at least they're useful vultures.

I swap out the SIM card on my burner and slide it into my tiny clutch along with a few other essentials. I also make sure to grab a pair of sunglasses for my getaway. Putting on my shoes, I check myself one more time in the mirror, then nod. “I hope you're ready, Jackson. Because tonight... I start to get my vengeance.”


She's moaning, her caramel-kissed skin dotted with sweat in the muggy New Orleans afternoon heat, begging me to fuck her, fuck her harder... give it to her the way she needs it.

“Oh Jacky, oh God baby, you're going to make me... Jackkkkkyyy...”

Her pussy tightens around my cock, and she's not faking it. I can tell that for sure. I've been pounding her like a machine for I don't know how many minutes, and she's barely coherent at this point. It's easier now to detect the syrupy accent of her native Acadian Creole, but I'm already bored with her. She might be beautiful, and she might be a student at Tulane, but this girl just isn't a good fuck. Besides, I hate being called Jacky. Jack—I guess that's okay, even though that's what I went by as a kid. Jackson's better. But never Jacky.

I speed up a little more, closing my eyes and letting my fantasies push me over the edge so I can come. All glove, of course. I wouldn't give her the gift of my come even if I believed her story about being on the pill. I can't take that chance.

She collapses on the bed next to her friend. The other girl's been passed out for a good ten minutes by my estimate—I played with her for a while, but she didn't have my stamina. They never do. I pull out and slide the condom off before taking it to the bathroom. I make sure to rinse it out in the sink before I flush it down the toilet. I'm not taking any risks. I don't need some gold digger saying I knocked her up or any stupid shit like that.

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