The Dare (Truth or Dare Book 1)

The alarm goes off way too early, especially after a night of virtually zero sleep. I’d had too much on my mind and Elle in my arms to get any real rest.

After grabbing her things, Elle had stayed over and even agreed to sleep in my bed. After I dared her to, of course. I’d figured one thing would lead to another and had been looking forward to finally getting inside her.

But after the adrenalin of the bungee jump had worn off and she’d asked me approximately seven hundred and thirty-two questions about London, Elle had drifted off into a dead sleep, squashing my hopes for a pre-trip shag as she tossed and turned. Even asleep, she’s active as can be.

And now, I’m keeping her busy as a beaver—another idiom that made me laugh particularly hard when I’d learned that ‘beaver’ was American slang for pussy. Though it’s not Elle’s fanny I’m occupying. It’s her mind, because I don’t want any last-minute second thoughts.

“The car’s waiting downstairs. Let’s go.” I don’t ask her if she’s ready on purpose because I don’t think either of us is really ready for this, but it’s happening. “Go, go, go.” I shoo her out the door, promising to buy anything she needs if Tiffany forgot it, but Elle seems certain that won’t be the case.

The drive is quiet, though I try to ask Elle a few questions. Even work-related inquiries get short, distracted answers. I will the driver to go faster. For the love of the Queen Mother, let us just get to the airport and on the plane. Once that happens, I’ll breathe easier, knowing that Elle won’t back out on me.

The security line moves quickly, and Elle and I step up to the conveyor belt together. I wiggle my toes in my socks, hating the way being nearly barefoot in public makes me feel vulnerable. I heave Elle’s suitcase onto the belt, and it disappears into the scanner, mine following closely behind.

Elle steps into the body scan machine and follows the directions of the TSA agent. Well, almost. He tells her to lift her hands over her head, but she places them behind her head, elbows wide, almost as if she’s preparing to get frisked. I wonder if she’s ever been stopped by the police and what crazy story she might have about it. After the machine beeps, she steps through, and I do the same, though I place my arms correctly the first time, experienced at the both the US and UK airport procedures.

“Ma’am, is this your bag?”

Elle turns to the agent and nods, her eyes a mix of nerves and confusion.

“I’ll need to check the contents. Something flagged on x-ray. This way, please.” Elle shoves her feet into her trainers, not bothering to tie them, and steps to the side. The agent has her bag hoisted onto a table, and the few people around are looking over curiously.

The agent unzips Elle’s suitcase, lifting the perfectly organized clothing and looking through it. Seems Elle was right about Tiffany. Toward the bottom of the bag, she pulls something out. Even from here, I can see the smile threatening the professional blank look on the agent’s face.

“Ma’am? Is this yours?”

“Oh. My. God.” Elle virtually screams it, and more eyes turn her way, where the agent is holding up a hot pink vibrator with a bunny-ear clit stimulator that’s wobbling back and forth. “She did not put that in my suitcase. No, no, no.”

Elle’s shaking her head like she can make the scene go away. And barring that, she looks as if she’s wishing she could melt into the floor and disappear.

There are snickers of laughter, and I see a couple of teenagers in line pull out their phones, aiming them at Elle. I try to go over to her, but the agent closest to me shakes his head and holds up a staying hand.

“She? Are you saying you didn’t pack your bag yourself? Do you have any reason to believe there could be any contraband inside?”

Elle growls. “Can you put that thing away? My best friend packed my bag because she’s better at it than I am. I guess she thought I’d need a little stress relief. Right now, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at that thing again and not see it waving around in your hand in the middle of the airport.” Elle’s hands are waving around much more than the agent’s but she’s made her point. Though it’s with a beet-red face. “Confiscate it if you need to. Just let me get the hell outta here so I can go die of embarrassment alone. Please.”

The agent seems wholly unperturbed by the whole thing, as if this is just a normal Monday morning for her. Hell, maybe it is.

“No need for that, ma’am. Just have to remove the batteries for flight. I’d recommend that you pack them securely in your purse instead of in the device.”

“Device? Oh, God.” Elle’s sweating with mortification, and people mostly look to be feeling bad for her at this point. The agent lays the vibrator back on top of the still perfectly situated clothes and hands Elle the batteries.

She rezips and taps the suitcase as she hands it to Elle. “If it helps, that’s not even the first one today, and not even in the top one hundred of size. No need to have shame in your game. Though I once pulled out a double-ended dildo the size of my arm.” The agent holds up her arm, showing Elle, and everyone who’s eavesdropping—which is everyone—just how big the dildo was. A pained shudder goes through all of us. “Have a great trip.”

Elle rolls her suitcase over to me and holds her palm up right in front of my face. “Do. Not. Say. A. Word.” I smirk, fighting the laughter down. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right? After that, I need a drink.” And with that decree, she stomps off, shoes still untied and face still a bit pink.

So fuckin’ cute, she is. And naughty.

It’s barely ten in the morning, but if she’s drinking, I’m drinking. I grab us two scotch on the rocks as she collapses onto a leather barstool. When I return, she’s got her phone pressed to her ear.

All hints of embarrassment are gone, replaced by fiery fury. “Yes, I am. I’m already at the airport.”

She’s quiet, listening intently with a straight back. She might as well be mid-meeting at the office for all the ‘yes sir’ she’s giving off. When I set the tumbler down, she mouths ‘thank you’ as she picks it up and then swallows the whole thing in one go. Impressive. And worrisome.

“Yes, Dad. We did talk about this. And you acted like your word was law and ignored me when I disagreed. You’ll be working in Tennessee. I’ll be working in London. I’ll see you back home next week when the proposals are done.”

Her lips press together and her eyes cut to me. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’s saying something about me. I sip at my scotch slowly, watching Elle intently and admittedly trying to hear what Daniel’s saying.

“I don’t think so. You don’t need that, Dad. It’s . . .” She pauses as if she’s searching for a word but then sags. “Inappropriate.”

Interesting. Dangerous.

I wonder where Daniel’s keen mind has taken their conversation and can barely wait for her to hang up so that I can ask. As he takes his conversational turn, Elle nibbles at her lip, a habit I haven’t seen her do much. At least not with this type of nervous energy.

Much like Daniel’s, my mind is churning. My proposal, his proposal, Elle, London, and though I hate to admit it, a significant portion of my brain is busy replaying how good Elle felt in my arms last night.

“I’ll talk to you later, Dad. We’re boarding the plane.” I raise a brow at her lie, and she shrugs at me like ‘what else can I do?’

“Yeah, I love you too.”

And with that, she hangs up. Her sigh is heavy and breathy, her head thrown back as she prays for patience to keep from killing a man. I feel damn lucky that she’s not currently contemplating my murder.

When her head returns to its normal position, she narrows her eyes. “Guess you want to pump me for information too?”

So that’s Daniel’s game. I’m not surprised. It was my first thought, after all. That Elle was a spy, and then that he would use her access to sabotage my proposal. But I can see the toll it’s taking on her, the fray around the edges as she dances between her father and me, gripping at her own integrity with scrabbling hands and morals. That she is fighting us both speaks to the woman Daniel raised, the good person Elle is.

And I make a decision. One I pray I don’t come to regret.

I don’t ask about Daniel. Not about the phone call, not about his questions, and not even about his proposal.

“Actually, I do have a question.”

Her eyes look tired, resigned, as if she already knows exactly what to expect from me. “Do you want to grab a bite before we leave? And some snacks from one of the shops here? It’ll be better than anything on the plane.”

“What?” she asks, confused.

“Food. What do you want?” I say, my mouth tilted up in an encouraging smile. I look around us. “At least we’re not stuck with breakfast only, unless you want breakfast? That’s fine too. I’ve developed an affinity for breakfast tacos, actually. Did you know they’re delicious cold, straight out of the refrigerator in the middle of the night?”

“What are you talking about?” she repeats. “Don’t you want to know what my dad was asking me? And cold tacos are disgusting.”

“Nope,” I say, sounding utterly American. I’ll have to remember to demonstrate that word for Lizzie for a laugh. “I heard you loud and clear, and I happen to agree. He’s working on his proposal. We’re working on mine. May the best man win. I happen to think that’ll be me, both because I’m me” —I run my hand down my chest— “and because I believe my proposal is better for Fox. Truly.”

She blinks. “Cocky bastard.”

“Thank you.” I choose to take it as a compliment. “So, breakfast tacos or are you feeling a burger mood? I’m going to suggest we skip the sushi. Something about airport sushi sounds like a bad idea before getting locked onto a speeding bullet of an airplane with a tiny washroom.”

“Was that a poop joke? The upright Brit makes a crass poop joke? Will wonders never cease?” Elle laughs, and I feel like a fucking champion for taking away the reservations lurking in her eyes.

We wander up and down the terminal in search of sustenance, but sadly, there are no tacos to be found.

“I dare you . . .” Elle says suddenly, stopping my search. She’s smiling big, as if she likes the idea she just came up with. I can’t wait. “Follow my lead.”

I don’t have a chance to ask a single question before she gasps dramatically and says too loudly, “We’re gonna miss it! Come on!”

And then she takes off running down the concourse, zigging and zagging around passengers, her suitcase remarkably rolling smoothly behind her. I have no idea what she’s doing, but I’m a man who can follow orders when need be, so I follow her lead and run after her.

“Pardon me . . . excuse me . . . pardon . . .” I say to the people we’re running around as I try to catch up with Elle.

People are looking at us, some jumping out of the way, and someone yells out, “You can make it.” The support for this weird and unknown destination is sweet and unexpected.

Elle runs up to an empty desk, nearly body slamming into it as her feet stop but the rest of her doesn’t. “No! We missed it!” She’s crying to the ceiling, hands spread wide in theatrical agony as if the flight we missed—er . . . didn’t miss—is a devastating blow.

Arriving two steps behind her, I gather her in my arms, running my palm along her hair. “It’s okay, love. We’ll get the next one. I’ll get you there, I promise.”

Still, I have no idea what’s going on, but the dramatics and pretend play are wildly fun. This feels different from the other dares we’ve done, more playful and public. Like the other dares have had some ulterior motive—getting to know each other while having fun being the primary. This is us against everyone else, and even if it’s not real, there’s something here that is.

“I believe you, honey. Well, if we’re stuck here, at least feed me tacos and tell me I’m pretty.”

She says it like a telly show I saw once where a character said to ‘slap her ass and call her Sally’. I didn’t understand that at all as a boy, maybe even less now, but Elle I understand just fine.

“Come on, pretty girl. Let’s get you fed.”

She laughs, and I can already see more ideas blossoming. She’s using them as a distraction from her father. I know that as sure as I know that we’re not going to find tacos before our flight leaves. But I’ll keep searching for whatever food she wants, and she’ll keep searching for a way to rebel against her dad. For now, it’s working.