A Slippery Slope Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  A Slippery Slope

  Tanya Gallagher

  Penchant Press

  Copyright © 2018 Tanya Gallagher

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations within critical reviews and otherwise as permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Edited by Nikki Ramsay

  ISBN: 0-9998620-0-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9998620-0-1

  Visit:

  www.tanyagallagherbooks.com

  For Ian, for everything.

  Contents

  Free Story

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Coming Next

  Your Opinion Matters

  Free Story

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  FREE DOWNLOAD

  Get your FREE copy of Lucky Me, A Slippery Slope Prequel, when you join Tanya’s mailing list.

  Get started here:

  www.tanyagallagherbooks.com

  Chapter 1

  We’re already ten minutes late for the surprise when my boyfriend pulls up short on the sidewalk with a skeptical look on his face.

  “La Morra again?” Matthew asks, seemingly immune to the smells of garlic and pasta drifting from the restaurant. “We come here every year.”

  I sigh, shivering slightly in my new silver dress. I hadn’t grabbed a coat before we left our apartment, wanting to savor Boston’s first warm spring night, only now that it’s dark the temperatures have dipped with the setting sun.

  I wrap an arm around myself and stare at the familiar red-and-green awning. “That’s why it’s called tradition.” I smell another waft of mouthwatering food and my stomach growls. God, it’s so much later than I expected. “Can we please go in now?”

  Matthew frowns. “I don’t know why we couldn’t go to Coppersmith. Gus from the office told me he’d be there for drinks at eight.”

  Why the hell would Gus say that? And why would I want to go to a bar notorious for its singles scene?

  I smooth a smile onto my face and reach for Matthew’s hand. The night feels close and damp, the ends of my hair curling in the humidity. The never-ending sound of traffic flows around us like a river. “I’m sure rubbing elbows with the lawyerly elite can wait for a night.”

  My thumb strays over the face of Matthew’s watch, a cold chunk of platinum he bought himself when he landed the job at Morrisey, Langston & Stern two years ago. I would never want to get between Matthew and his career, but tonight of all nights I wish he would just shut up about it.

  “It’s just that if I get in with Gus, I’ll be better able to angle myself in for a promotion.”

  If I have to hear about Gus from the office one more time I might scream. Especially because I know that Gus from the office happens to be waiting for my stubborn-ass boyfriend just past the doors.

  I remove my hand from Matthew’s. “The food is delicious here. And I got all dressed up.” I do a half spin in my dress and the fabric floats around my thighs.

  Matthew tilts his head to appraise me. “You look nice, Natalie,” he concedes. Sometimes I wonder if defendants ever squirm under his gaze, if they get the itch to confess to crimes they’ve never even committed just because he’s looking at them in that way. Matthew has a stare.

  “Good, then let’s go eat.”

  I swing open the door and the light from thirty cell phone cameras captures the shocked expression on Matthew’s face.

  “Surprise!”

  The group of his friends and coworkers dissolves into laughter as he turns to me, incredulous. “You did this for me?”

  I nod and stand on my toes to kiss him. “Happy birthday, babe. Go enjoy your party.”

  We step through the doors and the crowd swallows Matthew, pulling him toward the private room across the restaurant. I watch them go and let my shoulders drop.

  “You look like you’re going to stab him in the eye.”

  I giggle at the voice whispered in my ear and adjust my features. When I turn, smiling, my friend Mandy pulls me into a one-armed squeeze. We met the day Matthew and I moved into our apartment, and I instantly clicked with the bubbly brunette waitress next door. We swapped stories about waiting on customers and split a bottle of wine before the movers even left the building.

  “I wouldn’t pick any place that obvious.”

  Mandy offers a commiserating smile. “Fighting again?”

  That’s the thing about being friends with your neighbors. Thin walls.

  I shake my head. “I don�
��t want to talk about it.”

  “Sure,” she says, because she’s good like that. “Then you should probably get in there.”

  My favorite waiter, Braxton, hands me a glass of wine as I enter the private room, and I take an appreciative sip. Across the space, Matthew stands in a clutch of his coworkers, smiling, his face already flushed with wine. Maybe I should have sprung for the passed appetizers to sop up the alcohol, but it’s too late now. At least he looks happy, and the widening gulf I imagined as we stood on the sidewalk fades away.

  “So fill me in on the details.” Mandy steers me by the elbow to the corner of the room. I lose sight of Matthew and turn my attention to my friend. “You get him anything good?”

  I roll my eyes at her. “Other than this party, you mean?” At fifty dollars a head, booking the private room at La Morra just about wiped out my bank account, but this had to be the place. It’s where Matthew and I had our first date and where we’ve celebrated every special milestone in the four years we’ve been together. For tonight, nothing less than the perfect setting, the perfect food, and the perfect company will do. Everything has to be perfect.

  Mandy gives me a sheepish smile. “Oh, right. The party.”

  I grin and lean closer to her ear. “There might also be another surprise for him at home.”

  A shiver of excitement runs down my spine as I think of the small gift box waiting on Matthew’s pillow—the lube and the vibrator tucked inside, full of promise. It’s not like there’s been anything to complain about in our sex life, but there hasn’t been anything to write home about either. But lube and a vibrator? I’m hoping they can turn up the heat a little, especially combined with the new lingerie I splurged on at La Perla. Plus, I read in a back issue of Cosmo that having a shared experience can bring a couple closer together. Maybe a little experimentation will be just the thing to help Matthew and I reconnect.

  “A sexy surprise?” Mandy’s whisper falls warm on my face and smells like wine.

  I lean back and waggle my eyebrows at her. “Could be.”

  “You little minx, you.” Mandy takes a deep draw of her Cabernet Sauvignon, an amused smile playing across her features. Suddenly she knocks into me, jostled by the crowd.

  I let out a strangled cry as her wine splashes onto my dress.

  “Oh shit.” She stares down at the spreading stain. “I’m so sorry, honey.” Already I can feel the warm liquid seeping through the fabric and onto my skin.

  “Not your fault,” I grind out, waving away Mandy’s apology. I glare at the disappearing back of the guy who bumped Mandy. No doubt he’s headed for the open bar that yours truly happens to be funding.

  Prickles of panic heat the skin on my chest. Shouldn’t there be a napkin somewhere in this place? I can’t seem to find a damn napkin. Braxton, noticing the commotion, appears at my side and presses a towel into my hands.

  “You remember where the bathroom is?”

  I nod and look down at my dress. “Is it hopeless?”

  Mandy and Braxton shrug, but I know from their faces my chances of salvaging the dress aren’t good.

  “Go anyway,” Mandy says.

  “Cold water works best on wine stains,” Braxton adds as I weave my way through the crowd.

  I take the stairs to the restroom carefully, not needing to add a twisted ankle to my roster of injuries. The smell of Cornish game hens and fresh tagliatelle waft toward me as I turn the corner near the bathroom, making my stomach growl and reminding me that I haven’t eaten yet. I blot my dress with the towel, so absorbed in the task that when I trip I’m caught by surprise.

  It takes me a second to realize I’ve stumbled over a foot, and another second to make out the couple half-hidden in the shadows.

  “Sorry,” I yelp, an ingrained reflex of politeness, but my apology dies on my lips as the shadows shift to reveal them: first the secretary from Matthew’s office, her dark hair and smudged lipstick, and then the man. Just the back of his head at first—and his sharp, starched collar. His sport jacket is gone, and if I hadn’t tripped on him I might not have spotted his shape in the shadows, might not have noticed the cowlick that always makes me picture him at four years old, or five.

  I shouldn’t have had so much to drink tonight. The wine makes everything seem slow, makes me seem slow, and it takes me an excruciating moment to realize exactly what’s happening here.

  “Matthew?” I choke out.

  My boyfriend—my boyfriend?—turns to face me, his mouth rounded in an O. Behind him, secretary Wendy looks at me with slitted, satisfied eyes.

  “What’s with Wendy?” I asked Matthew once, a few months ago. “She’s always so frosty to me on the phone.”

  “She’s just busy,” he said, turning back to his newspaper. “We all are.”

  I hoped it wasn’t a silent dig at my job. Serving up the perfect cup of coffee to the under-caffeinated masses might not be as mission critical as prosecuting criminals, but still.

  “You should get to know her,” Matthew insisted. “You should get to know all of my coworkers.”

  But I didn’t want to. I had coworkers of my own, and Mandy, and my writer’s group from Tuesday nights. People who I could dream about my future with instead of dreaming about his. Only now I wish I had gotten to know Wendy better. Or at least paid a little more attention.

  Oh my god.

  My skin goes clammy and tight and the wine I drank earlier burbles in my throat.

  “Natalie, wait,” Matthew calls as I step back to leave, but there’s no fixing this, no changing it. My boyfriend is fucking his secretary. My life is a goddamn cliché.

  “Fuck you,” I say quietly, my jaw so tight it hurts. I don’t wait to watch the words land, don’t want to know if he flinches or not. I just turn on my heels in my freshly ruined dress and walk away from it all.

  Chapter 2

  Waking up to a two-inch penis being thrust in your face is about as appealing as it sounds. In fairness, the penis is only two inches because it’s a photograph on my best friend’s cell phone, and in real life the guy is considerably well-endowed, but still.

  I push the phone out of my face with a grimace. “It is way too early in the day for this.” Ordinarily I’d be able to appreciate the fine specimen of manhood, or laugh, or something, but today it reminds me all too sharply that there is no, uh, in-the-flesh penis in my life anymore.

  I drop my head into its spot on the couch, the fabric welcoming me back like a friend. Other than the miserable night I spent bawling my eyes out at Mandy’s—The Night We Shall Not Speak Of, as I’m now calling it—I’ve spent the better part of the last week lying on my dad’s couch sixty miles away from the scene of the crime. I’ve finally managed to mold the cushions into the perfect position for a nap. I wiggle my ear and sigh. The lure of the velvety fabric is way more appealing than getting up to face my new reality: I’m boyfriendless, jobless, and homeless for the first time in four years. Shockingly, morale is not high.

  “It’s never too early for a dick pic,” Abigail crows.

  I roll my head just enough to glare at her. “You’re insane. Dick pics are, by definition, almost always unsexy and unwanted. So, seeing as the acceptable time to send one is never, it can absolutely be too early for a dick pic.”

  “Whatever, party pooper. Either way, it’s five p.m. Rise and shine.”

  Last time I checked, the door to my parents’ guesthouse was solidly locked and I was settling in for my second nap of the day. The one good thing about being unemployed and off the grid is that no one expects much of you. It makes it much easier to hide, which is why I’m surprised to see Abigail here today. I know for sure I didn’t give her a key.

  “What are you doing here?” I glance around my parents’ guesthouse, trying to determine if Abigail has any coconspirators with her. I can see almost all of the small but stylish domain from the couch. A tiny, gorgeous kitchen just past the front entrance opens up to a living room with a lofted ceiling and exposed wood beams.
The L-shaped couch I’m sleeping on is deep, plush, and big enough to fit five people. On the other end of the living room, the house opens up into a bathroom and bedroom. From the look of things, it’s just Abigail here. Thank goodness for small miracles.

  “I believe this is called staging an intervention.” Abigail sinks onto the couch next to me, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders. “Your stepmom asked me to come over and make sure you weren’t dead.”

  “And you thought my reaction to a boner would determine if I had a pulse?”

  “I was working with limited options. It was that or a picture of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” She pockets her phone with a grin. “I thought the first picture was decidedly more compelling.”

  “You know, I always had a thing for Michelangelo.”

  “Brawn and a sense of humor,” she agrees.

  I groan, realizing she’s dragged me into a conversation despite my desire to go back to sleep. “I’m alive. Now can I go back to wallowing?”

  “Nope. It goes against best-friend code.” Abigail wrinkles her nose. “You know, if Gayle’s calling me to come rescue you, things are dire.”