Dirty Little Secrets: MMF Menage Romance

By Sierra Riker

What happens when the bad boys are innocent?

After losing a few high-profile cases, defense attorney Lily Alden's career is on the verge of destruction. So when she gets the news Nick Prescott, her ex-boyfriend, has been arrested for a huge digital bank heist, she's sure it's a mistake. Getting Nick off will be a slam dunk, giving her a win she desperately needs. And it'll give her a chance to maybe see what happens now that they both have some real life under their belts. What she doesn't expect is to find that Nick has a partner—Jackson Reece, a gorgeous hacker who's been more than just a work partner. And that both men seem to be equally eager to make—or renew—their acquaintance.

Nick has always been bisexual, but he's never forgotten Lily, even after things fell apart. The fire, the passion, the need is still there, but after spending years with Jackson, he's not sure what to do. They've built a life together hacking into negligent corporations to out their dirty little secrets—corporate malfeasance, endangering the environment and their workers—and bring justice to the victims. But they certainly didn't hack into a bank and rob it. Someone's trying to frame them, and while Nick's not sure seeing Lily is a good thing, he knows he needs someone he trusts to help them.

After growing up in a rough part of the city, Jackson Reece is a man used to taking care of himself—and Nick. But when he finds himself drawn to Lily, he's certain the world has gone nuts. He's been trying to get Nick out of their risky corporate game for some time, and Lily might just be the kind of change they need. The three of them share something special, and it's not just the amazing sex. But with a prison sentence hanging over their heads, time is running out. And Nick has dirty little secrets of his own that just might ruin everything...


Reader note: contains MMF menage and hot romance elements including male male love

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Hill Publishing
• Release date: Mar 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215177891

Book preview

Table of Contents

Cover

Table of Contents

Look for these titles from Sierra Riker

Title Page

Copyright Warning

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

About the Author

More Romance from Etopia Press

Excerpt for And Bailey Makes Three by Lea Cruz

Look for these titles from Sierra Riker

Now Available

Dirty Little Secrets

Dirty Little Secrets

Sierra Riker

Etopia Press

Copyright Warning

EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Published By

Etopia Press

1643 Warwick Ave., #124

Warwick, RI 02889

http://www.etopiapress.com

Dirty Little Secrets

Copyright © 2018 by Sierra Riker

ISBN: 978-1-947135-70-3

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Etopia Press electronic publication: March 2018

CHAPTER ONE

Lily

That desk in court had become my second home for the last three weeks. My hands were folded in my lap, my lips pursed as I ground my teeth, determined not to let anyone see the rock-hard tension in my shoulders. I glanced at the pages from my yellow legal pad that lay sprawled all over, covered in my huge, messy handwriting, half cursive, half-scribble. This was all I had left of my closing statement, a heartfelt speech I had delivered just hours before. Now, after a lunch of cold pasta and nerves, I was back in the courtroom. The jury had already decided.

I glanced over at my client, an internal medicine doctor in his fifties. I had a soft spot for doctors. But this one was charged with manslaughter. He sat back, his legs spread apart, and his hands folded in between them, his fingers tightly clutched. His thin, chapped lips were folded into a frown, forming a harsh line above his chin. His sunken, gray eyes held a distant stare, shadowed by his thick, white eyebrows. He had experienced more stress in the last three weeks than his entire medical career, and it was showing.

All rise.

The shuffle of bodies, the groan of chairs, and the collective hush pressed against the walls of the courtroom as the heavy wooden door behind the bench creaked open and Judge Wilson stalked in, a leather-bound notebook in one hand. He coughed, lifting his large fist to his mouth, then sat down at the bench, his thick, dark hair trembling at the movement.

There was that shuffle again as we all sat down. I gulped, sucking in a breath, the frigid, stale air filling my lungs before coming out of my mouth again. Here it was. My client scribbled something on his own notepad, one he had insisted on keeping at every court date. It was his little way of maintaining control.

I have a bad feeling about this, he wrote.

I shot him a tight-lipped smile, then scribbled back: You have nothing to worry about. You didn’t do it.

At that point, Judge Wilson turned to the jury, a collection of middle-aged people—some perplexed, some staring intently, others looking dangerously uninterested—who had sat throughout the entire case. Do we have a verdict?

The jurors glanced back and forth, exchanging looks with the judge, the prosecution…but not my client or me. That wasn’t a good sign.

My heart lurched into overdrive, a million thoughts speeding through my mind, regrets I didn’t even realize I had until that moment. The entire case flashed before my eyes, a cold sweat sprouting on my forehead. But I clenched my jaw just to make sure my face didn’t change, that my client didn’t see me worry. I wanted to give him his last few moments of peace.

We have. A man with a receding hairline and a tweed blazer stood up. We find the defendant guilty…

My heart skipped a beat. I sunk deep into my chair as the rest of the courtroom erupted into a fit of murmurs. My client stood up, his daughter reaching over the short banister behind us to wrap her chubby arms around his neck. My head was spinning, hot blood sloshing through my veins as people started leaving the courtroom, as the officers came for my client, gently placing his hands behind him.

Finally, I found it in myself to stand up and look him in the face, as thin streaks of tears sliced down his cheeks from his tired gray eyes. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything useful, nothing that could soften the blow of several decades in prison, and the end of his career.

He held out his hand for me to shake. You did everything you could, he said.

I blinked. Somehow that made it worse. I hoped that he would have been angrier with me, because then, maybe, I wouldn’t have been so angry with myself. I’m sorry, I said, the words buried in the ever-increasing sound of that courtroom.

I watched as the guards took him away through a separate door. The mother of the girl who had died on my client’s watch scurried out of the courtroom, her body drowned in those of well-wishers and strangers who had been following the case. The line of law students who had religiously attended every court date slipped out. I was sure they’d be discussing this to death in a stuffy lecture hall at Northwestern.

Miss Alden.

I looked over as Jim Reade—the prosecutor who had just beaten me and put my client away for what was effectively the rest of his life—walked over to me, his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, his reddish face brandishing an accomplished smile I wanted to slap right off him.

You got an afterthought? I said, hastily scraping together odd notes, my legal pad, pictures of evidence. I wanted to be away from the sight of my massive embarrassment as soon as possible, but at the same time, I knew the longer I stayed in that room, the longer I could avoid the press.

He shrugged. Nah, just that you played a good game.

I shook my head. Yeah, well, it’s not a game, Reade. That woman was just looking for someone to blame.

Even so, she lost her daughter, and I can say I’ve given her closure. I gotta say, maybe you should rethink this whole criminal defense thing. I don’t think you or your clients can handle the disappointment anymore.

I rolled my eyes, finally done gathering all my things and using my run-in with the ever-annoying Reade as motivation to get the hell out of there. The grand hall just outside of the courtroom was airy, full of excited chatter from the public, voyeurs to this very private and personal struggle. My eyes grazed over the sight of all those people, picking out the clusters of reporters almost immediately. They hadn’t even realized that I had left the room at this point, so there was still a chance to escape. However, I only made it a couple of steps when I was plucked right out of the crowd.

Oh. Lily Alden! Lily Alden?

Fuck. I hustled a little quicker.

Could I have a quick comment on the outcome of the case?

Do you feel justice was served today?

Do you have any plans of winning the defendant a lighter sentence?

How do you feel about losing your third high-profile case in a row? Are you a little worried about what’s next?

That one cut deep. I stopped right outside the front doors, letting the media gather around me. The clicks of their cameras, the sounds of their footsteps, the silence of their anticipation surrounded me, suffocating me. I had to squint to see the face of the daring reporter who had managed to ask me that last question. No comment.

The late afternoon sun cut at my peripheral vision, blinding me. I felt exposed out there with all those people. I shoved my way down the stairs of the courtyard, fighting the urge to run all the way to my car. As I got in, shut the door