What They Don't Know (Won't Hurt Them Trilogy #1)

(WON’T
HURT THEM) SERIES

BY
O.Y. FLEMMING

What They Don’t Know (Won’t
Hurt Them) Series

Book
One

Copyright
© 2016 by O.Y. Flemming

What They Don’t Know is the work of O.Y. Flemming. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

What They Don’t Know is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or events, and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Editor:
Peggy Hurst, Hot Tree Editing

Final
Edits: Mandy Pederick, Hot Tree Editing

Cover
photograph by Underexposed Photography

Cover
Designer: Bobbie Bohn

Formatter:
Jesse Gordon

• TITLE
  
• COPYRIGHT
  
• DEDICATION
  
• PROLOGUE
  
• CHAPTER 1
  
• CHAPTER 2
  
• CHAPTER 3
  
• CHAPTER 4
  
• CHAPTER 5
  
• CHAPTER 6
  
• CHAPTER 7
  
• CHAPTER 8
  
• CHAPTER 9
  
• CHAPTER 10
  
• CHAPTER 11
  
• CHAPTER 12
  
• CHAPTER 13
  
• CHAPTER 14
  
• CHAPTER 15
  
• CHAPTER 16
  
• CHAPTER 17
  
• CHAPTER 18
  
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
• ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  

Happiness is an attitude. We either make ourselves miserable, or
happy and strong. The amount of work is the same.

-Francesca Reigler

For
my children-

Even though
neither of you will be able to read this until your twenty-one, all I
do is for the two of you. My happiness, thrives on your happiness. No
matter what, my love for the both of you is endless.

For my family-

Even though, I
never want to damage the perfect image you all have of me. I can’t
stop you from from finding out, what I’ve been up to for a year and
a half. I’ve always lived a double life. I know guys will support
whatever I do. I love you all.

For Mrs Benoit
and Mrs Leverenz

Thank you.

Ms.
Bria Watts

If anyone ever told me
I would be a successful businesswoman back in college, I’d tell
them to get a life and buy a clue. All I wanted to do was live a
mundane life, simple and plain. If anyone ever told me my life would
turn worlds upside down, I’d laugh… I’d laugh hysterically.

Unfortunately, mundane
isn’t my life. I might say I don’t do complicated things; but in
reality, everything about me is complicated. Everything… What? I
said I
try
to live a
mundane life. I try like the heavens to, but it just isn’t plain
and simple.

I do have a small
circle of friends, but they are a part of my not-so-mundane life.
Most of them are men, very discreet, distinguished men. Ones I’ve
known since we were kids. Some I encountered through… Well, let’s
just say I didn’t just meet them. I chose them.

I do protect the ones
in my circle of chaos, because if I don’t I’m liable, and I don’t
need that. I like making people happy, and that is what I do. It’s
my side profession. I make fantasies come true. I would say it’s a
two-for, but it’s more like a three-for. Fulfilled fantasies,
temporary companionship, and sometimes sexual healing. When life gets
too complicated, call me. Bria Watts, aka Miss B because Queen B was
taken. Of course, as time has passed, I’ve been called other things
I won’t mention, but it’s okay. Being seen as a bitch suits me
too.

Being a successful businesswoman is
fun, but the success didn’t come from years of hard work. It was
inherited; only I didn’t know it. The success happened overnight,
and then shit hit the fan. If you are standing close enough, you’ll
be splattered. That’s why I never allow anyone to get too close. If
you do, you’ll be shit on.

As I said, I don’t do
complicated things. Complicated things do me. They find me and attach
themselves to me, like the plague. No matter how happy I am. No
matter whom I affect with my happiness, the complicated things rear
their ugly faces and simply smile… Fuck you, complications… Fuck
you!

The cold will be the
death of me, I swear. Minneapolis weather has a way of wrapping
itself around you and manifesting as a dormant state right down to
the bone. I can’t stand cold weather; my goal is south… like
Texas south. Yes, huge hats. Thick accents and big bucks. I could so
get stuck in the gutter with size analogies. I’ll leave that for
the imagination.

Mid-September in
Minnesota is where my body is taking an intense chafing as I walk
from the parking lot to the gym, which has currently taken a
forty-dollar a month liking to my bank account. All for what? Just as
I walk in, I’m reminded why? Tattoos, muscles, and stench. Yes, a
slight stench of BO is in the air. You’d think with as much money
as this health club has and the size of it, they could invest in some
stronger air freshener. Seriously, one that sprays every ten minutes
or so, one that deodorizes and lasts.

Anyhow, I approach the
front desk and hand one of the club workers my key fob to scan; she
eyes me a bit. I attend this club at least four days a week;
and…okay, I attend this club two days a week and she is staring at
me as if she’s never seen me before.

I smile and say,
“Hello.” She smiles and hands me back my keys and says, “You’re
very pretty. I like your haircut.”

Riiiight, I recently
cut my luscious brown asymmetric bob into a shorter pixie cut, just
tapered in the back. Throw in some honey brown highlights and call me
Mandy Moore. With my bronze complexion, I’m glad I don’t have to
sun bake or go to any of those tanning salons. You know, I read
somewhere that tanning under ultraviolet lights could increase the
chance of developing melanoma up to eleven percent. And that’s if a
person tans only four times a year. In Olmstead County, there
were quite a few cases from 1970 – 2009. I’m just saying, surely
it has increased by now. Thankfully, my part Seminole Indian roots
give me just enough tan skin tone that I don’t need any of that
shit. So I beat the odds. Eff you, cancer!

Scouting for an
available stepper, I am sideswiped by a lady who is pushing a
stroller, which nearly swipes my toe. I jump back as she scowls at me
and mumbles something in Spanish under her breath. “Excuse you,
too!” I state with attitude. Finding a stepper isn’t easy. The
gym has several types, but the ones with the incline do the most
damage. Those particular ones face the pool where my eyes seek a
treat, while my thighs feel the burn. As I start to wipe down the
machine handrail with a Sani-wipe, I notice a guy comes up for air in
the pool. He covers his face with both hands and clears away the
excess water. When he opens his eyes, he looks up and they appear
almost cat like. From where I stand, I’ll call them hazel. He
focuses for a second, and I notice I’m doing the same thing, with
my head cocked to the side, squinting like a ninety-year-old without
her bifocals. He shakes his head a few times; the first two times
seem like an “unbelievable, she’s going to stand there and stare”
type. Then it turns into “let me shake the water out of my hair;
I’m too sexy for this pool.” Hey, a lady can look.

After my ninety-minute
stepping workout, I decide to… Who am I kidding? After my
thirty-minute stepping, I decide to get some abs exercises in. I
don’t need them. I do them to stay toned. Nothing major. Except
afterwards, my stomach begins to convulse as if I’m about to dry
heave. I disregarded a trainer’s suggestion he threw at me as he
walked by. I should have lessened the weight and sat in the sauna at
least twenty minutes after. Yeah, Wonder Woman over here decided to
drink, pee, and leave. The dry heaving starts in the car. Which is
why I only go the health club two days a week. Ahem… one day a
week.

* * *

My workout isn't a
complete disaster, I revel in the knowledge I don't need to work out
as much. I'm not fat; I’m curvy where I need to be. Bryant scoffs
every time I mention I need to lose a few pounds. Ah, Bryant, my
sexual healer. I laugh to myself at the thought. He's no Mark
Wahlberg; however, he is a Jordan Schafer. The Jordan Schafer who
gained muscle over his career. “
Hmmmm,
Bryant
.” I open my laptop and sit for a second before I
start my informational journey. I notice my phone has a message; that
friggin light is annoying when you try to ignore it. Your mind plays
tricks on you. Your brain tries to ignore the obvious, but your
subconscious pulls at you not to. Ugh, who is this? A text from
Bryant. Ahhh, Bryant makes me smile.

There it is.

I wait a few minutes,
because I need what he's asking for, but desperate isn't my forte.
Although I spoke to him two days ago, it's been seventeen days since
he had me on his breakfast island, right next to the wine bottles. I
was forcefully trying to pop the cork. Bryant felt the need to pop my
bra and my tight little virgin ass. It was the most pleasurable pain
I've ever experienced. He was gentle at first and then got a bit
cocky. Not a figure of speech at all, he lifted me off my feet with
his cock. The force of his quick pelvic thrusts and the hardness of
his dick had me airborne. He must have noticed my feet were no longer
on the floor as he took me from behind. With his arm around me,
holding my throat, Bryant spun me around and pushed me onto my back.
I knew I would never be able to eat on that island again.

On my back, Bryant
raised my hips then placed my legs over his shoulders. He had no
mercy. His dick rocked in and out of my ass like a pendulum, forceful
with each thrust. My head spun out of control; I saw spots before my
eyes. My ass tensed and an orgasm shot through me. And the man didn't
touch a single part of my body. I mean, well… he was in me, but he
fucked me with no hands. I guess my orgasm caught Bryant off guard.
In the next instant, he let out a cursed grunt, pulled out, and shot
his release onto my stomach. He winced and gave me an apologetic
look. “I'll get you a towel,” he said and disappeared into the
bathroom.

That was a first for
both the anal adventure and unprotected sex. We'd always used a
condom, no way around it. Neither of us wanted the responsibilities
of children who would complicate this.

The light flashing on
my phone broke my daze.

Shit, I damn near forgot.