Sinners of Saint 04 - Scandalous

  She missed him.

  She fucking missed them.

  I’d turned around in the other direction, not bothering to hear the rest.

  The coffee I’d given Sonya was horrible.

  “Are you sure you put two spoonfuls of sugar?” She’d twisted her lips in disapproval, her eyes still on the brochures she’d been sorting through.

  I hadn’t answered her. I’d simply raised one leg under the desk and pressed the tip of my shoe between her thighs, separating them. She’d looked up for a second, her frown turning into a grin. My office was the only one without glass walls—I had one floor-to-ceiling window and it was dark outside and the blinds were shut. I was the only one out of my friends to not like an audience. Ironic, seeing as I was the guy to draw most of the attention.

  “Bend over my desk,” I’d said, my eyes and tone taciturn.

  “We still haven’t agreed on a sign language course.” She’d pointed at the brochures littering my desk on an excited smile. “By the way, I am so happy you’ve decided to initiate something like this. It’s absolutely…”

  I’d tuned her out. I hadn’t initiated shit. It was Edie’s idea, and it was a good one, so I’d taken it. Now she’d given me a bad idea—fucking someone else to make her disappear from my mind—and I was going to do that, too.

  “I choose this one.” I’d picked a random brochure and boomeranged it to Sonya’s hands, sitting back and dragging my foot to her groin, rubbing at her center. Her navy dress had flipped up, accommodating my derby shoe. “Now bend over.”

  She’d tucked the brochure into her shoulder bag on the floor and got up, sauntering over to me. She’d parked her ass on my knee and knotted her arms around my neck, leaning down for a kiss. But kissing was defeating the purpose. Besides, I’d never been too big on kissing. I fucked. Dirty, hard, raw—always. Painful—sometimes. Kissing was giving away something personal. And that was a courtesy I couldn’t afford.

  “Nah-ah, no one ever said anything about first base. You come to me, you know what’s on the menu. What are you in the mood for today?” Sonya liked my filthy mouth, though she often pleaded with me to stop using it when my daughter was around. I knew I wasn’t hurting her feelings. We were in the same place in life. The place where we didn’t have time nor anything to offer to a partner. We just wanted to concentrate on our careers, kids, and surviving this shit storm called life. I’d never asked her anything about her son or Roman’s father. I didn’t care.

  “I’ll take the dirty fuck, please.” She’d smiled, rising to her feet. I’d stood up after her. Flipped her skirt.

  Scratch that itch.

  Scratch it with fingernails.

  Until it bleeds.

  I’d slammed into her, and she was soaked, and ready, and wrong. The condom slid in and out effortlessly. My mind had drifted. I’d squeezed the back of her neck and watched her ruby red hair on her shoulders.

  Not the right hair.

  Not the right woman.

  Not the right anything.

  Then Edie had walked in, looking torn and guilty. Looking like she was going to try to fuck me over again. If I’d had any doubt in my mind what she’d been there for, it evaporated as soon as her eyes locked with mine when Sonya’s ass was in the air, with me spanking it, making her slam harder into my desk.

  I grunted, squeezing my eyes shut. When I opened them, I was at the beach again. I ran the five miles from Tobago Beach to the Morello reef. I didn’t even pant.

  I made a U-turn and jogged all the way back to my apartment building, not skipping a heartbeat.

  Turned out I didn’t need cardio.

  I needed to scratch that itch until I bled to fucking death.

  For the most part, I liked my friends’ wives. They were nice, classy ladies. Vicious’ Millie was the one I liked best, because she never shoved her nose too deep into my shit. Rosie, her sister and Dean’s wife, was pretty great, too. She did shove her nose into my shit—she was just this type of extrovert who always needed to know and talk about everything and everyone—but she always respected my decisions. Jaime’s Mel was another story.

  Because Mel had ideas.

  Her most recent one, ever since we’d all moved back to Todos Santos, was finding me a wife. Fuck knows where she got the notion I needed one. As I said before, at thirty-three, I’d never even had a girlfriend. Not even a month-long fling. I’d grown up in a poor home with parents who had a rich love. The kind of love that flipped the fingers on prejudice and social expectations. I’d never met a woman who made me as fucking crazy as Trish Schmidt made Darius Rexroth. I’d never wanted to work three jobs just so I could buy someone an engagement ring. Never wanted to ask someone to marry me on a boat trip even though I had seasickness tendencies because that was her dream.

  People think that children who are the product of a divorce have fucked-up relationships. They’re wrong. People who are the product of broken homes try really fucking hard not to repeat their parents’ mistakes, because they know the misery of a loveless house.

  People like me, people who saw their parents sneaking kisses in the park, and laughing under the sun when they didn’t even know how to pay for their next electricity bill or my textbooks for next year, were the bastards. I had high expectations, and so far, I hadn’t met a woman who was a candidate to meet them.

  Problem was, I didn’t need someone to meet them. At this point, with my baggage, I needed someone to smash them.

  Which was why I knew Katie and I were going to fail on our date tonight.

  I’d agreed to go out with Katie for selfish reasons. I thought by going and not speaking a word to her, and being a complete asshole, Mel would finally give up on trying to fix me up with her friends. Katie was the first date I’d agreed to and, if things went according to my plan, she was also going to be my last.

  Camila had Friday nights off. It was non-negotiable. Those were her nights with her grandson. So, I needed a babysitter.

  Which was the only reason why I stopped at her desk first thing in the morning.

  Edie’s head was bent, and she was typing something on her laptop, frowning. Her teeth rolled a pencil back and forth in her mouth, and I tried not to pay attention. I set my Starbucks down on her desk and snapped my fingers in front of her face. She looked up slowly, arching a questioning eyebrow.

  “Hey,” I said. Hey. I never greeted anyone like this. Not a co-worker, anyway. I usually dove straight to the point. She didn’t answer, but at least she looked calm. I wasn’t sure why I was expecting her not to be. So what if she wanted to fuck me? She was a teenage girl. She’d want to fuck any tall, dark, handsome type who didn’t smell like puke. And let’s not forget she was not exactly in a position to give me shit. I knew why she’d come into my office. My flash drive held all the files and spreadsheets to my connections and companies. I had big plans for my career, and her father wasn’t part of them. How he’d gotten her to help him, I wasn’t sure, but what I knew was that Edie Van Der Zee was not Team Rexroth, and therefore should be regarded with suspicion.

  “Are you going to say what you came here for, or just wait until your friends fetch you up from this spot for lunch?” she inquired, folding her arms over her chest.

  “I need a babysitter for tonight.” I ignored her snark. It was beneath me.

  “What for?”

  “I’m going out.”

  “Who with?”

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  “Au contraire, Mr. Rexroth. If you feel comfortable enough telling me who I should and shouldn’t sleep with, I think you at least owe me this.”

  I slammed my hand on her desk and leaned down, baring my teeth. “First of all, lower your voice before I really flip my shit. Spoiler alert: it ain’t gonna be pretty. Second of all, wrong again. I never told you who you shouldn’t sleep with. I told you you can’t sleep with anyone. Pay attention, sweetheart. That’s the second lesson you’re failing.”

  She threw her head back and lau
ghed, showing me her white, crooked-at-the-front teeth. They were beautiful. So was she, and there was no point denying it. I straightened my posture, ignoring my clenching jaw.

  “I love your double standards. Especially after yesterday. Has anyone ever told you you’re funny?”

  “No,” I grumbled.

  “That’s because you aren’t. What you are is seriously annoying.”

  This was getting out of control, and fast. I let loose a thin smile, smoothing my crisp white shirt. “In my office, Van Der Zee. You have ten seconds to follow me.”

  She huffed, but I heard her shoes clicking behind me. We got into my office. I closed the door. The floor was busy, and I knew people were going to start asking questions soon. I was the only one out of the four original founders who’d spared her a minute of his day. And she was in my office. All the time.

  “I expect you to be there at seven.” I fell into my seat behind my desk and jotted down my address on a Post-it note.

  She stood by the door, letting the handle dig into her back, and stared at me with murder in her eyes. “I’m not coming until you tell me where you’re going.”

  “I’m going on a date.”

  “You don’t date,” she retorted, no emotion to her voice.

  Finally, I looked up. “And why the fuck would you say that?”

  She wasn’t wrong, but she was stating something I didn’t exactly advertise. She worried her lower lip, staring at the ceiling like she hated herself for volunteering this piece of information. That she knew this. That she cared enough to look into my love life—or rather, lack of—in the first place.

  “I heard Vicious scolding Jaime the other day. He told him to get Mel off of your back when it comes to dating because you’re going to die alone and single. He said you hate people.”

  “He said that?” I brushed a finger over my lip, contemplating this. It wasn’t necessarily untrue. Though I was more indifferent than hostile.

  “You do. You hate me.”

  I don’t hate you. Not even close. Not even if I try really fucking hard. And I have.

  She sighed, looking behind my shoulder, over the L.A. skyline. “Don’t go on the date, Trent. I know what happened yesterday. This woman…she was your Bane. She was your pastime. But dating is different than sex.”

  “Seven at my place,” I repeated, jerking my chin toward the note on my desk. “Don’t be late.”

  “What makes you think I’ll do it?”

  “I’ll pay you well.”

  “How well?”

  “How well do you need to get paid for you to stop sniffing around my fucking business for your dad?” I laced my fingers together, propping my elbows on my desk. If she was taken aback by my candor, she didn’t let it show. Her forehead was still smooth of a frown, her full, Cupid’s lips still smeared in a smirk.

  “Twelve thousand dollars a month,” she said, unblinking. I hadn’t expected a specific number. I hadn’t even expected her to take my question seriously.

  I laughed. “That’s a lot of babysitting hours.”

  “Well, I have a feeling you’ll need a lot of dates before you find someone who is willing to put up with your behavior,” she retorted nonchalantly.

  I like you, you little diehard hustler.

  I like how you act like you’re equal to me, even though you aren’t.

  I like that you try to be a badass, when all you want to do is make my kid smile.

  I like your bark, and your bite, and everything in-between when we fight.

  “Seven,” I repeated for the third time, realizing that only Edie Van Der Zee managed to pull so many words out of my mouth—sometimes the exact same ones, and I made it a point to never repeat myself. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks an hour, which is far more than you’re getting paid for working here. I will add a generous bonus if you manage not to shove soda, or sugar, or fucking alcohol down Luna’s throat while I’m gone.”

  “Don’t go,” she said again. I wanted to know why she was pushing it, but asking her was admitting I cared. And I shouldn’t have. I was in a fragile position at work with only twelve percent shares in the whole company. Jordan held forty-nine. My career, my life, my hard work could all go down in flames because of this, because of her, if I wasn’t careful.

  “I’ll tell Luna she’ll see you tonight.” I ignored her.

  She sighed.

  I was a bastard, but I was saving both our asses.

  IT WASN’T A GOOD IDEA.

  The realization smacked me in the face when he opened the door to his penthouse in his ridiculously glitzy building that kissed Tobago Beach. One of the only skyscrapers in the city, and a new one at that, the building was two years old, max, and still had that fresh paint smell, with every fountain and plant looking like they were out of a catalog.

  Trent wore a white V-neck shirt that clung to his bulging biceps, dark jeans, and outrageously expensive-looking sneakers. He looked like an Armani ad. So ridiculously proportioned, symmetrical, and tan. Soft lips and hard jaw and chin. His eyes scanned me briefly before he took a step back, letting me in. Rather than greeting me, he called, “Hey, Luna, look who’s here for a playdate.”

  Playdate. I loathed that he’d said that, even though I had no reason to. It was just banter, right? I walked in, taking in his living space for the very first time: industrial shelves, a monstrous home theater system, one dark wall that looked like someone had thrown dark paint at it haphazardly, one exposed brick wall, dark wood floors, and pipe lamps, making the place look like a luxurious crack lab. Trent Rexroth might’ve been quiet, but his place definitely spoke volumes about who he was. Rough around the edges. Unconventional. Dangerous, even.

  Luna padded barefoot from her room, already wearing a yellow pajama set. Her hair was braided sloppily—probably by her dad—and I loved that he tried, even as I made a mental note to redo it. I squatted down and smiled, poking her belly button.

  “Hey, Germs.”

  She grinned, rolling her eyes at me.

  “Germs?” Trent asked from behind.

  “Yeah. Your daughter is a germ farm. And she likes to pick her nose, so I asked her not to shake my hand.”

  Luna’s eyes widened in horror. You could tell that no one ever tried to be silly with her. People were always serious when it came to her, and why wouldn’t they be? They wanted her to get better. But what they didn’t realize was that for someone to get better, they needed to feel better. My mom, case in point.

  People need something to fight for.

  I was going to give Luna a reason to laugh until it all ended—knowing it would end, badly.

  “I’m not going to explore this subject any further because I see Luna is finding it amusing.” Trent picked up his keys and wallet from the black island in his open space kitchen, and I remembered why I’d come. So he could go on a date. My skin prickled. “Luna’s bedtime is eight o’clock. She didn’t have supper yet. I’m letting her splurge because I won’t be here tonight. There’s spaghetti and FroYo in the fridge.”

  “Wait.” I dumped my backpack on his floor and kicked off my Docs. “Spaghetti and FroYo are supposed to be treats?”

  He stared at me, dead in the eye, not flinching. “Yes. Don’t give her too much of it.”

  “Wow, are you, like, on C-R-A-C-K,” I spelled, walking over to the island to stand next to him, “or are you simply a product of the Soviet regime? This is not splurging. I wanna order pizza.”

  He shrugged into his blazer. “You’re not. And by the way, she knows how to spell.”

  I stood there, wondering why I’d humored and indulged him in the first place. He was terrible to me. Rude, arrogant, and cold beyond words. And I was awful to him, too. Stealing, spying, and constantly snooping around him. But the answers were there, plain and simple. I needed the money, and I enjoyed hanging out with Luna.

  “It’s five past seven.” He glanced at his Rolex. “My number is on the fridge if you need me. Underneath it, you’ll find Camila’s number,
my mom’s number, and Sonya’s—her therapist. Luna needs to brush her teeth before she goes to bed, there’s a small lamp that always stays on at night in her room, and she gets a bedtime story which she chooses from the library next to her room. Any other questions?”

  Sonya? I had one question, but it wasn’t related to Luna. It was, holy-shit-are-you-actually-screwing-your-kid’s-therapist?

  “Are you sure you’re going?” The underlining question was—do you really not want me? Stupid. Pathetic. Thoughtless. Why would Trent Rexroth want me, and why would it make any difference? I was a high school graduate with a hole in my heart and problems bigger than my existence, and he was… the opposite of what I needed right now.

  “Give me one good reason not to,” he deadpanned, tucking his wallet and cell phone into his back pocket, his eyes still on his watch.

  “Because you don’t want to.”

  “You don’t know what I want.”

  “Do you?”

  He looked up, assessing me, before smirking. “By the way, I have more nanny cams in this place than your porking buddy Bane has tats, piercings, and STDs combined, so stay out of my shit,” he hissed it low so his daughter couldn’t possibly hear it. He walked over to Luna, kissed her crown, told her he loved her, and waltzed out the door.

  Leaving me to stand there, my jaw on the floor, drowning in the delicious, dark energy he’d left behind.

  I ordered pizza.

  Small, meaningless protests were my stock and trade. I often felt like a citizen of occupied Europe in WWII. Someone who wasn’t brave enough to join the resistance, but couldn’t completely bow their heads to evil. I paid for the pizza myself, even though Trent had left a few bills on the counter, just in case. And I let Luna have soda.

  Because it made her smile.

  And when we blew bubbles into the soda, she even snorted.

  And when I told her I was so full I could throw up but the pizza was so good I would probably eat whatever I’d puke out, her eyes lit up along with her smile.