The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers Book 1)

  “Oh, Seb.”

  Amanda's voice cracked. I made the mistake of looking at her. Tears welled in her eyes and I nearly lost my shit. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around my waist, an offer comfort in my time of need. Something I never did for her because it never occurred to me to do so. Not once.

  With my face buried in the neck of my ex-fuck buddy, I, Sebastien St. Clair, a.k.a. The Sinner, cried like a baby.

  13

  Kylie

  For all the women out there who didn’t already know, it’s revelation time! Everything anyone’s told you about pregnancy is an outright lie.

  I couldn’t get the advice from my most recent doctor’s appointment, out of my head. It was like one of those annoying Justin Bieber songs. You don't want to like it, but can't stop thinking about it. I kept repeating the words, and for whatever reason, always did it using the same placating “doctor knows best” voice. “You're only four months along, Kylie, don't worry so much. You’ve hit the second trimester, so it’ll be smooth sailing for at least another two to three months. Relax and enjoy the break. After that, well,” he chuckled, and I remember wanting to kick him in the nuts. “That's when the baby will really start to sap your energy.”

  I hustled toward the arena, looking ridiculous. Gasping for breath, I sucked in air as if the short distance from the car to the door were a marathon instead of across a parking lot. Stupid male doctor. He didn’t know what the heck he was talking about… smooth sailing. What a joke! A man does not, and never will, have a single freaking clue what it feels like to be pregnant.

  Ugh! My chest ached and with each inhale, the cold air felt like a billion knives in my lungs. Luckily, the staff entrance was in sight, less than fifty yards away. I had no problem getting in. Not only did I know all of the guards by name, I was also the proud owner of my very own official laminated Comets badge, which I kept tucked safely in my pocket. Most family members didn’t get one, only staff. Per his usual MO, Rocco went above and beyond with his helicoptering, and threw a massive hissy fit until Comets’ management folded and gave him whatever he wanted, probably to make him shut up and go away.

  Just a little further and I’d be inside, out of the below freezing temperatures. My lungs were on fire from both the exertion and bitter cold. I was seriously regretting having slacked off on cardio in the last few weeks in favor of moping.

  Daniel, the guard on duty, saw me coming and smiled. I opened my mouth to say hello but animated voices caught my attention. Glancing to my right I saw the outline of two people having an intense exchange of words. Hands made sweeping gestures and the volume of their voices steadily rose. None of my business. I turned toward Daniel and the beckoning warmth, when the man just about shouted. I stopped so abruptly, my foot slipped on a patch of ice and I almost landed face first on the pavement.

  “Miss Calloway?” Daniel asked. He reached for me, brow furrowed in concern.

  “Shhh.” I flapped a hand so he would be quiet. I wanted hear what the couple was saying, or more specifically, I needed to hear one of them, because I recognized the voice. When it came to everything Sebastien St. Clair, my response was on par with that of Pavlov's dogs. Seb sent my hormones—and my ability to make smart decisions—spinning out of control. I pressed a hand to my midsection and swallowed.

  The only reason I was at the arena was to find Seb and tell him about the pregnancy, but hearing his voice, knowing he was close by, made my resolve falter and my stomach queasy. It felt like my internal organs fell into a blender set to liquefy. I tried to identify who was with Seb, but it was dark and they were several rows away.

  Dan said my name again and, without tearing my gaze from the couple, I told him, “I'll be right back.”

  Seb spoke and the sound made my heart flap wildly. It knocked against my ribs, determined to break free of its cage and fly away. Despite driving to the arena with every intention of coming face to face with Seb, hoping to catch him after the game, in hindsight I should have chosen a different venue. Someplace other than where Seb—and Rocco—worked to break the news that in a few short months, like it or not, Seb would be a father.

  But I didn’t. I didn’t call or text him first, either, even though the topic would be better handled in private, with advance notice Seb’s place would have been marginally less idiotic, though I knew exactly what would happen the second the door closed behind us. We'd end up naked and sweaty and no words, other than “yes, oh god, more,” would be exchanged. As much as I wanted that—like really, really wanted that—it was time. Seb deserved to know about the baby and that Rocco, a man he despised like no other and vice versa, was my brother.

  As I walked toward the couple, the person with Seb spoke, and froze. My feet turned into blocks of lead, too heavy to lift. I couldn't see who was with Seb, but her voice was unmistakably female. Shaking off the concrete shoes, I took a few more steps. I wanted to hear what they said.

  Too little, too late.

  As I inched within earshot, conversation wrapped up. I watched horrorstruck, as they slid their arms around each other and embraced. I gasped, the sudden pain in my heart so sharp I struggled to breathe. I knew I shouldn’t watch, yet continued to stare, in spite of the nightmares that would likely plague me for weeks on end. They interacted with a familiarity typically shared by lovers. Whoever she was, he knew her intimately.

  I shivered and wrapped my arms around my waist, blinking back hot tears. I thought my situation couldn't get any worse, what with expecting an unplanned baby with a man my brother hoped would drop dead. Turns out I had no idea what I was talking about, because what happened next sliced me open from stem to stern. Seb reached out and the hands he used to worship my body cupped the woman's face. He leaned down and pressed his lips, which once mapped out every one of my erogenous zones, against the woman’s in a gentle kiss. Even in the darkness, I could see it was quick and perfunctory, like a kiss you gave a family member, but my battered heart felt the impact all the same.

  The ground heaved beneath my feet and I held back a surge of nausea. I shouldn’t be here.

  Humiliated, I backpedaled. Of course—because, why not?—I tripped over my feet and stumbled. Dan asked if I was okay. I ignored him. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t speak if I wanted to, which I didn’t. An enormous lump clogged my throat and the thick band around my chest pulled several notches tighter.

  One careful step at a time, I backed up until I stood under one of the tall halogen lights. The sudden brightness dilated my eyes, ruining my night vision so I could no longer see the couple. A sob choked me, but I swallowed it back. I didn’t want to break down where Seb, and his lady friend, could witness my destruction. After two or three raspy inhales, I collected my proverbial shit and swiped at my damp cheeks, which proved futile. As quickly as I dashed the tears away, more sprung up to take their place. I heard Dan’s footsteps and, not wanting him to catch me crying lest he report was he saw back to Rocco, I spun and fled to the protective bubble of my car. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and my entire body started to tremble. Throw an unplanned pregnancy on top of the flaming heap, and my mental state went into a free-fall.

  Between the shuddering, full-body sobs, and endless stream of tears, I have no idea how I managed to drive home without crashing. Engine off, I sat in my car and glanced at Rocco's empty spot. Prayer isn’t really my thing, but I closed my eyes sent up a quick thank you to whoever saw fit to give me a brief reprieve before I had to deal with Rocco, though he would be home any minute.

  Listless and depressed, I didn’t want to move. Maybe if I cried hard enough, I’d pass out. Then when I woke the nightmare would end and my life would be normal again, sans unattainable men and the stupid desire for danger and cheap thrills. It was Rocco, and the thought of him finding his pregnant sister a snotty, weeping mess in her car, that got my ass moving. I dragged my carcass to the elevator, rode it to the correct floor, unlocked the deadbolt, trudged down the hall to my room, and shed my clothes, and it o
nly took seven minutes. I ended my unsuccessful excursion under my rainfall showerhead, hoping the loud pounding of water would drown out the pitiful cries that tore from my chest. I got three whole minutes of solitude before Rocco knocked on the bathroom door.

  So much for taking a little time to process what happened.

  “Kylie? I thought you said you weren’t going to be here when I got home.”

  I did say that, because I thought I’d be with Seb.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  I rinsed the soap from my face before answering. “Plans fell through.” I cringed. My voice sounded like I gargled with straight up gravel. I closed my eyes and prayed for the second time that night.

  Please don’t let Rocco have heard that.

  “Okay.”

  I tracked Rocco's heavy footfalls as they exited my bedroom. Once I was sure he was gone, I let out the breath I had been holding. What had my life had come to? Hiding in the shower for a few minutes of privacy? I needed to find my own apartment, because thought of Rocco hearing me sob sent a bolt of fear down my spine. Rocco hated to see me cry. It made him beyond upset and he always overreacted.

  I wiped the water out of my eyes and glanced down at the small swell of my belly. No moving out for me any time soon. Not with a baby on the way and no one to help. That depressing little nugget brought on a fresh wave of despair. I wanted to hate Seb, but I couldn’t. Besides, I had no one to blame but myself. I accepted his invitation to meet in the hotel bar, knowing exactly who he was and his reputation with women. I chased the high of being with a man like Seb. The thrill that came from sneaking around behind Rocco’s back.

  I was such a mess, I cried until my fingers pruned and thick steam filled the shower stall. Then I turned off the water and towel dried. I sighed. Rocco would be waiting for me. I pulled on some comfy sweats, braided my damp hair and let it hang down my back, and went looking for Rocco before he came looking for me. Easy enough. I opened the bathroom door to find him sitting on my bed, handsome face creased with stress, mouth distorted into a frown.

  I took a deep breath and plastered on what had to be the fakest smile ever.

  “Umm, hey.”

  How lame. If Rocco didn't think something was wrong before, he definitely did after that.

  Right on cue, Rocco’s dark brows knitted, and the familiar wrinkle above his nose made its first of what would likely be many appearances of the evening.

  “Sit,” he demanded as he pointed at the bed. “We need to talk.”

  “Can we maybe do this tomorrow?” I made my way into the walk-in closet. “I’m exhausted.”

  After dumping my dirty clothes in the laundry basket, I whirled around, completely unprepared to find my brother practically up my ass. I ended up face to chest with a wall of muscle and squealed in surprise. Rocco stood just inside the closet, all huge and menacing with his big body towering over me and blocking the only exit.

  Rocco’s harsh expression faltered and he deflated a bit. Then he let out a long sigh, one that made me want to roll my eyes so hard they’d get stuck up inside my head.

  “Fine,” he snapped. “Tomorrow. But I mean it, Ky, no backing out.” Rocco thrust a finger at me. “Get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”

  Without waiting for me to respond, Rocco stomped off like a caveman, lumbering out of my bedroom, footsteps loud as he disappeared down the hall. Well, at least one good thing came out of Rocco's pissy attitude. With our impending “talk” hanging over my head, I was so good and wound up I managed to spend least ten whole minutes not obsessing over Seb.

  Tomorrow, I had to tell Rocco about Seb. A blot of fear shot through me. Rocco really would kill Seb. I was in a lose-lose situation, stuck between a rock and two prehistoric-minded, testosterone-fueled, hockey players.

  By the time I finished sobbing under the duvet, feeling pathetic and sorry for myself, I had squeezed out every last tear I could possibly produce and then some. Despite the fear, despite seeing Seb with another woman and chickening out, despite how Rocco was going to react, I knew what I had to do. A round of confessions and brutal honesty, for Rocco, Seb, and myself.

  Eventually, pregnancy exhaustion took over and I fell asleep, not that I got any rest. I tossed and turned all night, images of Seb and his mystery woman haunting my dreams.

  Seb

  Fuck. My. Life.

  I drained the last of the whisky from the tumbler and slammed the glass on the countertop. Everything was so fucked up. Kylie—my Kylie—is that bastard Calloway's sister. Hot Blonde is related to Sasquatch. I barked a sarcastic laugh and shook my head. God has one hell of a sick sense of humor.

  A quarter of the bottle of single malt was gone. I had a decent enough buzz going to find the fact somewhat hilarious. How the fuck did an asshat like Rocco Calloway end up the brother of such a stunning, kind woman? It boggled the mind. Then again, look at my piece of shit sperm donor of a father, the undisputed King of all asshats. Dear old Dad made Calloway look like Mother Theresa. My gaze flicked to the whisky and I frowned. Mon père loved to drown himself in alcohol. So much so, it permeated from his pores all hours of the day. I tensed at the similarities and clenched my fingers as I fought with my conscience.

  Did needing a drink to process the shitstorm mean I was turning into my father? No one would blame me for getting blitzed considering what I’d found out.

  I returned my gaze to the bottle and sneered at it. Knowing I might be more like my old man than I wanted to believe pissed me off. My lips curled back from my teeth and I snarled.

  I am not my father!

  Anger, shame, humiliation, and a shocking amount of self-loathing erupted to the surface. I whipped out an arm, snatched the bottle and glass, and threw them both at the sink on the other side of the kitchen. The glass exploded and the shards went flying. Whiskey splattered on the floor, the counters, and across the front of my shirt. Alternating between fury and despair, I slid down the cabinets until my ass hit the ground.

  The outburst helped clear the fog of alcohol. I pinched the bridge of my nose to lessen the pounding headache that hammered inside my head. It didn't help.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch.

  Christ on a bike! Motherfucking eye. Frustrated, I slammed my head against the cabinet. Lucky for me, it’s mandatory that hockey players have skulls made of titanium, or it probably would've hurt.

  Kylie was pregnant with my kid and I had to wonder, if I hadn't snatched Calloway's phone, would I have gone my entire life without knowing I had a son or daughter? I leapt to my feet and began to pace. Hands laced behind my head, I went back and forth, retracing my steps as I struggled to process how fucked up everything was.

  A thought hit me and I stopped dead in my tracks. My jaw unhinged and my hands fell to my sides. Holy fuck. All this time, Kylie… she knew who I was. No way did she not know about the animosity between me and her asshole brother. Kylie knew when Calloway or me figured out what was going down, it would turn into a complete shitshow, and she screwed around with me regardless.

  That was it. Decision made, I went to grab a shower and get some sleep. I needed a clear head for tomorrow, when I had what would likely be the most important conversation of my life.

  Kylie

  It was late morning by the time I rolled out of bed. Pleasantly numb inside, I calmly and methodically showered, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and even put on makeup. The panic didn’t hit until I left the safety of my room, then I had to force my feet to take me down the hall. I sniffed at the air and my stomach growled. Food.

  “Here.” Rocco pulled out a chair when I stepped into the kitchen. A bowl of soup sat on the table, silverware, a napkin, and a glass of water at its side. “You sit and eat,” he ordered. “When you're done, you and I are going to have a little chat.”

  My stomach did a somersault. I was pretty sure I knew exactly what kind of chat Rocco wanted to have. One with him hurling a ton of questions at my aching head. Questions I had, so far, refused to answer. T
he thought should have made me nauseous enough to put me off breakfast, but I was out of the dreadful, pukey, first trimester, and food was no longer something to avoid. It was necessary, to the point I ate all the time. I even started to crave strange combinations with sriracha sauce. I put it on everything, including a glazed donut once—don’t be a hater, it was amazing. I polished off the pile of eggs and bacon in record time, and did it without sriracha.

  It wasn’t until I sat back in my chair that I realized I should have drawn out the meal to avoid “the talk.” Rocco drilled holes in the side of my head, his way of letting me know not only was he done waiting, but “the talk” was happening right then and there and would be downright unpleasant.

  I glanced up. Just as I thought, Rocco was indeed glaring, gaze steady and determined. Despite the shower sweat dripped down my back. He relaxed his tense expression—even though it was too late. I knew Rocco wanted to preach hellfire and brimstone—he folded his hands on the table and took a deep breath.

  “Who is the father, Kylie?” Before I could answer, the bastard lifted a hand and gave me the face-palm, the face-palm! and continued. “And don't give me that song and dance bullshit about you being afraid to tell me because I'm going to beat up whoever it is that stuck his dick in my baby sister.” His jaw ticked, and I snorted.

  Yeah right, he so would.

  Rocco gave me a withering look and I hunched down in my chair. Naturally, the nausea I thought would come earlier chose that moment to make its appearance, after I filled my stomach to the brim. In retrospect, I was glad I skipped the sriracha. Nothing was worse than fiery sriracha reflux.

  “Kylie,” Rocco persisted, trying—and failing—to keep his tone from sounding threatening. He laced our fingers and those stupid pregnancy tears flooded my eyes. “You need to tell me who it is, Ky. I promise I won't be mad. You're having a baby. Not only is it not fair to you because, at the very least, this disgusting asshole should pay for his kid, but it's not fair to him to not know he's going to be a father. It’s also not fair to the baby to not give the other parent a chance to be in his or her life.”