The Secrets That They Keep - New Adult - Thiller

The Secrets That They Keep

Written under the pseudonym: T.M. Lore

I’m excited to introduce you to my adult Thriller The Secrets That They Keep. This novel stands at 83K words. It is Gone Girl meets The Secret History meets Luckiest Girl Alive. Like these novels my book offers psychological tension, exploration of privilege, and the complex characters who get caught up in bad situations. Though it’s also a mix of the movie/Netflix series Promising Young Woman and Filthy Rich. It’s gritty and dark with morally complex characters. Money, sex, lunch, money, sex, dinner. Alyx Beck, caught in this web, navigates a treacherous world where sex and money intertwine, driven by her determination to care for her neurodivergent twin brother. As events spiral, her life hangs in the balance, and survival becomes the ultimate goal.

 

Alyx Beck has to fake it several times a day. Fake the desire, the lust, and the orgasms. What she doesn’t have to fake is her love for her neurodivergent twin brother or her allegiance to her employer. She’ll do whatever her handler requires of her. They’ve taken care of her since her parents died tragically, and they’ve never steered her wrong. They pay her well so she can take care of her brother’s needs, too. However, when Alyx’s driver/bodyguard—and only friend— Sasha, goes missing with Alyx’s daily take, her devotion can no longer shield her from the handler’s wrath. As events spiral Alyx realizes—a little too late—that she’s been backing the wrong people. She’s caught in a sticky web and there’s only one way out, she’ll have to become the spider.

The first few pages are copied below

 

 

This story is for the broken and battered.

The twisted and abused.

You are not alone.

I am in your corner, rooting for you.

You are strong. You are loved. You are a warrior.

Monday

Client One: Jennson

 

 

I’m up by 4:30 to start my week, dabbing concealer under my tired brown eyes.

It takes me hours to apply my makeup, but when I’m finished, I’m flawless. I slip into my black mini dress—the front is open down to my navel. My Louboutin Alta pumps will make today’s outfit pop. I’m out the door by 6:25. New York traffic is less busy at this time of day, and my driver—Sasha— knows her way around so we’ll probably arrive early.

“Mean girls suck.” Sasha laughs as she opens the car door for me. She greets me this way every morning.

“And nice girls swallow,” I reply with my usual quip as I slide into the backseat.

“Good thing you’re not nice, Alyx,” she says then closes my door.

I’m thankful for the warm tea that’s waiting for me. Sasha must’ve gotten up early to get me this drink. I hadn’t realized she’d left the apartment while I was getting ready.

Sasha and I live together. It’s a requirement from my handler—Estelle. Sasha is my driver, slash bodyguard, slash babysitter. She reports everything I do to Estelle. I must behave, so those reports glow like damn LED headlights. If not, I’ll quickly get demoted with a giant pay cut—no thank you.

Sasha stops at Mr. Jennson’s office building at 7:25; she hurries and opens my door. I’ll have just enough time to prepare everything. I wink at her then walk toward the alley beside the tall building.

“Go get’em tiger,” Sasha yells as I walk away.

I throw a thumbs-up into the air without turning. Sasha cackles and the car door closes. I can just imagine her short brunette hair bouncing as she laughs.

I’ve worked with Jennson for the last six months—what I do for him pays my brother’s medical bills so that’s why I continue. If my parents hadn’t… I stop myself; I need to focus, not spiral and ruin my makeup. Mr. Jennson requires me in his office when he walks in precisely at 7:52 AM. I have to be there before everyone else, and I have to be ready.

That’s just how it is; if you want to get paid, you do what you’re told.

There is a rear entrance—a secret door with a magnetic lock—that’s just for me. I wave the keycard and the door pops open. My entrance has a small gray foyer with a mirror and a black cabinet filled with supplies. The most important thing it holds however is money. I check the cabinet for the thick brown envelope.

Payment is required before, not after. I quickly count it.

The agreed Monday morning price is six-thousand-dollars. My handler gets seventy-five percent; the rest is mine. I’m one of the lucky girls. Most only get five percent—usually less. But I’ve been doing this for years, and my handler trusts me to do what I’m told. I think she’s preparing me to take over her position one day—another benefit of behaving.

After confirming the price has been paid, I shove the envelope into my bag. Next month’s rent and prescriptions for my brother are now paid for. Grabbing the required supplies from the cabinet, I head into the office.

Jennson has a closet about ten feet from his desk. It’s where I set up shop every Monday. I open the door and roll out the clear plastic self-adhesive film. I start up by the closet rod and roll it down the wall, covering the flooring, too. The plastic catches anything that may drop—hair, clothing fibers, skin cells, and such.

Rule number one: leave no evidence behind.

After the plastic is in place, I set various condoms on the top shelf, then put everything away. I quickly check over the supplies to make sure I don’t need to leave a list for Jennson. Hefty trash bags—check. One roll of thirty-six inch by two-hundred-feet self-adhesive film—I used the last of it today, so that’ll go on the list. And lastly, Jennson’s preferred brands of condoms—Caya and Magnum—there’s an entire shelf of those so we’re good there. I toss a Caya in my bag for my next appointment.

I walk over to his desk and grab a post-it-note—leaving a message on his monitor about the adhesive film. I have two other appointments today, but Jennson comes first because, let’s face it, he pays to get what he wants—and what he wants… is me.

After everything is put away, I undress, leaving my clothes and my bag in the tiny foyer of my secret entrance. I look myself over in the mirror. My mother always called me her little Snow White. It’s because—no matter how much sun I get—I’m pale. My hair is jet black, just like my mother’s was, and even without makeup, I look as though I’m wearing bright red lipstick. I see myself naked more often than I see myself clothed, but I look great naked, so it’s no bother to me.

Rule two: never tell them how old you are.

This rule is easy to keep and ninety percent of the reason I’m still employed. I’ve learned all the secrets on how to appear young, so I look about seventeen. However, if a John says, ‘how old are you now, fifteen, sixteen?’ The answer should always be the lowest number they’d offered, with a fraction added at the end. ‘I’m fifteen and three-quarters.’ The honest answer didn’t matter because the Johns I work with like young girls, and I like getting paid. Money is important when, like Snow White, I don’t have any parents to take care of me.

Stop. Focus.

I check my phone before I put it in my bag—it’s 7:48. I turn it to silent, leave the room, push the secret door behind the tapestry into place, and get into the closet—closing the door behind me. The closet is dark now, but I’ve been doing this long enough that I don’t need the light.

Rule number three: stay in position until told otherwise.

Jennson will be here in about two minutes and I have to be in place before he comes in. I sit on the floor, cross-legged, back straight as an arrow, chin up, with my palms flat against my thighs—just like every other Monday.

 

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