The Sinner
St. Clair Brothers #1
Heather C Leigh
Shelbyville Publishing, Inc.
Copyright © 2018 by Shelbyville Publishing, Inc. for Heather C Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Ebook ISBN 978-0-9970928-9-9
Created with Vellum
For those who struggle to overcome their demons.
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Quebecois
16. Also by Heather C Leigh
Thanks
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Cover Photo by Wander Aguilar
Model Andrew Biernat
Cover Art by Mayhem Cover Creations
Editing Robin’s Red Pen
Proofreading Charlotte Lynn
1
Prologue
Seb
Ahem. Ahem. Acchhh-chhemmm.
I yanked the pillow further down on top of my head, but nothing could block out the nauseating, God-awful, “this close to punching you in the balls” sound of my roommate’s compulsive throat clearing.
Accchhhemmm. Cough. Cough. Acck.
I dug my fingers into the pillowcase and my knuckles actually hurt from squeezing the damn thing so hard.
Ahem. Aaacckkk. Cough.
My left eye began to twitch, the non-stop spasms nearly as maddening as Henri “Ahem” Allaire and his motherfucking phlegmy throat lying in the bed next to mine. Some days, I just wanted to snatch the plunger out of the communal washroom and suction the damn thing over the kid’s mouth, then pump that bastard until the permanent, sticky ball of mucus came flying out of Henri’s overtaxed lungs.
Ahem. Cough. Cough.
Oh God. A wave of exhaustion slammed into me, hitting so hard my eyeballs literally ached. Speaking of which… twitch, twitch, twitch. That damn left eye continued its little dance, the one it did whenever the stress levels got to be too much, which was pretty much all the fucking time in this shithole. The twitching grew exponentially worse whenever Mr. Mucous fell into one of his hacking spells.
Despite not believing in spiritual woo-woo bullshit, I was so desperate for sleep, I even went so far as to attempt a ridiculous relaxation technique one of the dozen interchangeable counselors showed me. I closed his eyes…twitch, twitch, twitch.
Fuck! Concentrate, Seb!
One muscle at a time, I forced my limbs to unclench and began the exercise. Breathe in through the nose, hold for two, then out through the mouth, hold for two. I continued with the stupid breathing, even though every time I inhaled, the sharp scent of antiseptic cleanser and the musty odor of institutional blankets assaulted my nostrils. In…one… two. Out… one… two.
Ack. Ahem. Accchhhemm.
I ground my teeth together, convinced I’d end up with at least two cracked molars by the time I got released. In… one… two. Out… one… two. Two more months. Just two fucking months and I’d be out. I’d already done eight, which, granted was a hell of a lot easier to endure before phlegmy over there ended up assigned to my room. The clueless asshole made an Olympic sport out of ejecting a lung every night. But still, only sixty more days, well, fifty-nine to be exact. I could do that. Then no more Henri “Ahem” Allaire. No more tasteless, colorless, and unrecognizable blobs that were deemed food. No more shapeless, saggy blue scrubs and white, lace-free slippers. No more group therapy. No more of any of that shit.
Cough. Cough. Cough. Accckkk!
I cringed as my left eye spazzed and did the Riverdance. That fucker twitched so hard my cheek muscle jumped right along with it. Apparently, the rhythm was catchy.
Fuck. In… one… two. Out… one… two.
I’d never been more miserable—no, scratch that. I had. Even that miserable place was a dream compared to my life before. So, phlegmy roommate or not, in my mind, every single day spent confined in the bowels of the white-walled government institution was worth it. When I got out I’d finally be able to see my little brother, Rèmy. Then, for the first time in my life, everything would be good. Normal.
No longer would I have to stay alert, tense and watching over my shoulder at all times. I’d be able to relax at Mémère’s house, where Rèmy lived with our grandmother, or so I’d been told. Rèmy wasn't allowed to visit, and that was more than fine. In fact, Mémère said she didn't tell Rèmy the truth about where I was or what happened a little over a year ago that ended up sending me away. Mémère told Rèmy that I was spending a year at a boarding school in Nova Scotia. That I had to get away due to undue stress. Keeping my little brother in the dark was fine as far as I was concerned. Since there was no chance I could erase the images in his own head, the least he could do was ensure that sweet, innocent Rèmy never suffered the same, or found out what really went down at our house that night.
Hack. Cough. Ahem.
Fucking Hell. I stared at the ceiling, eye twitching away.
Fifty-nine days. It couldn’t come soon enough.
2
The next time we meet on the ice, I’m going to bash that fucker Rocco Calloway’s brains out. And why shouldn’t I? It’s not as though it would be the first time I killed a man.
Seb
“Seb. You gotta stay calm.”
I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it as if it might come to life and take a bite out of my face, which wouldn’t be all that surprising. Technology and I are not friends.
“This is calm,” I hissed at my younger brother, Rémy.
Dammit.
Everything around me shone with a hazy shade of red, a clear sign I was getting precariously close to throwing a fit. Then, as if I weren’t already furious, one wheeze from Rémy and I nearly lost my mind.
“That’s it. I don’t care what you say, the only way that prick is going to live through the next game I play against him is if you insist that I drop what I’m doing to be with you at the hospital. Management will probably say no, but I can try and persuade them to let me fly to Charlotte, then meet up with the team later in DC. It’d be a tough sell, though.”
Gritting my teeth, I snatched a paperweight off an end table and tested its weight in my palm.
A muffled moan floated through the receiver and my left eye did its thing. Twitch, twitch, twitch… Near to bursting with barely contained rage, I cracked my neck and paced in front of the windows in the main living area of my Atlanta condo, a slick modern unit on one of the upper floors of the W Hotel. Outside, the roof of the new Mercedes Benz Stadium caught my eye, its odd octagonal shape, all shiny metal and glass, sticking out from the skyline like a billion-dollar sore thumb.
My stupid eye continued to twitch, so I closed my eyes and focused on taking deep breaths. Oh, and not putting the paperweight through the window. Yeah, I put the heavy projectile back down before I actually did it.
“Seb…” Rémy paused for so long I nearly bit my tongue in half in anticipation. Patience isn’t one of my virtues. In fact, I don’t have any virtues to speak of, and if it weren’t so tragically true, I’d laugh. Unless beating the shit out of opponents on the ice counts for something. That’s a pretty handy talent considering my lin
e of work, but hardly virtuous.
When my little bro continued, his words were punctuated by ragged, noisy breathing, a result of the cracked ribs, courtesy of Rocco Soon-To-Be-Deceased Calloway.
“I don’t… need you to come here… I need you to play… your game and… stay away from… Rocco Calloway.”
My grip on the phone tightened and I turned my back on the windows. Honest to god, I feared I might actually go ahead and punch the glass. “I can’t do that, Rém, and you know it. He broke your fucking rib!”
“During a game, Seb.” Rémy sighed, or tried to anyway. The cracked rib made his breath hitch and the pained grunt that followed made me seethe. “Please, I know you’re upset, just… just don’t get… kicked out of the league… okay?”
“I won’t get kicked out of the league,” I snapped. Over the course of the conversation my temper had steadily risen until it hovered somewhere around nuclear meltdown. “But don’t expect that bastard to walk away in one piece.” I flexed the fingers of my free hand, itching for something to hit. “And I’m not upset, I’m fucking furious. What Calloway did was nothing more than a cheap, illegal hit and you know it.”
“And he got fined… for it.”
In my head, I plotted the many different ways to incapacitate a man during a professional hockey game. I’m a right wing, and since Rocco Calloway is a defenseman, whenever our teams played the two of us got up close and personal. Made it pretty easy to find an opportunity to, oh I don’t know, maim the guy, or at least inflict some serious damage. Considering the previous scuffles we’d gotten into and our antagonistic history, I wouldn’t even have to make up an excuse to stuff the business end of my stick up his nose.
We exchanged a few more words, me placating Rémy as usual, not wanting him to worry. Lying sucked, but I went ahead and promised not to do anything that would get me in trouble. It was for Rémy’s own good. Promise or not, I had every intention of doing whatever the hell I wanted the next time I set eyes on Rocco Calloway. Also as usual, before I hung up I told Rémy I’d call and check on him in the morning.
The second the line disconnected, I threw myself face first onto the couch and screamed into the cushion while punching the side of it over and over in an attempt to soothe the boiling fury. After ten minutes, give or take, most of it subsided, but the remaining agitation made my skin crawl and the muscles in my neck were strung tight enough to give me a headache.
My brother, who I vowed to protect, was hurt. Sitting in the hospital with a broken rib. Because of Rocco Calloway.
On instinct, my hand moved to my side as memories of my own broken ribs sent a sharp pain straight into my heart.
Twitch, twitch, twitch.
Ugh! Wonderfuckingful.
To top it all off, my shit-tastic left eye wouldn’t stop, which caused the anger to flood back into my body. It slammed into my chest with the force of a SWAT team with a battering ram. Knowing even as I did it, that I would regret my decision, I skimmed through my contacts and pushed Send. It took four agonizing rings before someone answered.
“Can I help you with something?”
Normally, the seductive, raspy voice had me raring to go. Normally, the sound of it made my cock hard and put a wicked smile on my face. Normally, I responded with a few filthy words, describing exactly what I was going to do to Amanda the second I got within reach of her hot little ass.
That night was different. I was a volcano about to erupt, and if I didn’t release the growing pressure of the churning, steaming mountain of red-hot lava that pressed against my insides, and soon, I’d lose my goddamn mind. Then I’d do something even dumber that hooking up with Amanda.
Again.
After I swore I wouldn’t do it.
Again.
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
“I’m coming over. Be ready. I’m not going to be gentle.”
No further explanation needed, I hit End, grabbed my keys and wallet, and left the condo, visions of a bloody and broken Rocco Calloway providing an array of entertainment the entire length of the drive.
Kylie
“Who the hell was that just now?”
It was a testament to my ability to stay calm that I held back my instinctive reaction to shriek. Instead, without betraying the fact that Rocco just scared me half to death, I closed the front door behind placed my keyring on the hook. With full knowledge it would drive my brother bat-shit crazy, I toed off my shoes one at a time and slowly let my messenger bag slide off my shoulder to the floor. Only then did I turn to face the immense, fuming man standing in front of me with a thunderous expression and his hands on his hips.
In preparation, I sucked in a breath and did a mental eye roll before I spoke, then made sure to pour every bit of my annoyance into mimicking Rocco’s voice.
“Oh, hi little sister. How was your day?”
Rocco snarled, not finding my exaggerated peppy tone amusing in the least. I ignored his attitude, and continued the conversation between fake Rocco and me.
“I had a great day, Rocco. Thanks for asking,” I said as myself.
“Oh really? It was that good, huh? Did you get an A on your Mass Media Law exam? I know you studied hard.”
“Why yes I did, big brother.” I fluttered my lashes and got a grunt in response. “How sweet of you to be so concerned.”
“Wow, Kylie. Great going. I’m so proud of you.”
Rocco looked so furious, I honestly thought plumes of smoke might billow from his ears. Immune to my improv skills, Rocco didn’t crack a smile. Nope. He crossed his arms over his massive chest and, though I didn’t think it possible, those dark, heavy brows of his scrunched up and got, uh, scrunchier, and his grimace became more… grimacey.
“It’s not funny, and I’m not joking,” he growled, his volume rising with each syllable. “I asked you a question. Who dropped you off?” Rocco threw his arms up in the air. “And on a motorcycle of all things! They’re death traps, Kylie. Are you out of your damn mind?”
As Rocco worked himself into a lather, I slid past him into the kitchen. It had been a long day, I did get an A on my exam, and I was ravenous.
“Hungry?” I asked, leaning halfway into the fridge so I wouldn’t have to see Rocco as he had an apoplectic fit.
I gathered the ingredients to make our mom’s chicken marsala. I might have chosen it because it’s Rocco’s favorite and I knew it would go a long way toward smoothing out his ruffled feathers. It’s not that Rocco intimidates me, per se. He doesn’t. He does, however, look incredibly scary when he’s pissed, but I know without a doubt he would never, ever physically hurt me.
Not to say he can’t hurt me. Rocco’s gift is his ability to inflict excruciating mental anguish. He had it down to a science and guilt trips were his specialty. To the point that when he got started, I pretty much immediately cowed to every last one of his ridiculous demands. It sucks, but it’s not entirely Rocco’s fault. He can’t help himself, being annoyingly bossy all the time. Around a decade ago, our parents died in a car accident. Rocco, only nineteen at the time, stepped up to the plate and became my guardian.
The harping and dictating was all well and good when I was thirteen, but as a twenty-one year-old college student, his overbearing, controlling, and borderline rude helicopter act drove me right off the short end of a pier.
“What if that asshole crashed his bike? Huh? What then? What if I lost you?” Rocco’s voice wavered and my resolve cracked right along with it. I closed my eyes as the wave of remorse seeped into every nook and cranny of my soul. With my back to him so I wouldn’t have to see the wounded look on his face, I placed the bottle of wine on the countertop.
“No, Rocco. Don’t think that way. I’m fine, I swea—Hey!”
Two large hands grabbed me by the shoulders and Rocco spun me around. It was so unexpected, if he weren’t holding me up I would have wiped out on the kitchen floor. Irritation crawled across my skin and I tried to jerk away but couldn’t g
et out of his gentle, but firm, grip.
It pissed me off. I opened my mouth to shout a few choice words about being manhandled, only I made the mistake of looking up at Rocco glistening, puppy-dog eyes. Any argument I had flew right out the window.
My dear old friend guilt plowed into me with as much force as my six foot six, two hundred-fifty pound brother would hit an opposing player. My nerves sang and my palms grew clammy as the flight or fight response took hold. A burst of adrenaline urged me to run. Not because Rocco would hurt me, but because I always, always gave in, and if I didn’t have to look at him, I could maybe hold my ground this one time. When I take in his sad, disappointed face, I can’t find the strength to tell him off. Dealing with a panicked, overwrought Rocco, exhausted me, and it felt worse and worse every time I let him down.
Despite the cortisol telling my feet to move, I stayed where I was. Not only because Rocco held me in place, but because if I ran, my stubborn brother would follow and continue to argue. Rocco’s intense stare penetrated right through my pathetically weak outer shell, right through any attempt at standing up to him. As predictable as the sunrise, I looked away first, unable to withstand the torture of seeing those sad eyes for another single second.
“Ky…”
“W-what do you want me to s-say?” I sniffed back a sob.
In complete contradiction to the anger and guilt he expertly wielded a moment ago, Rocco spoke calmly. He put a gentle finger under my chin and lifted until once again, I found myself staring into his fearful expression. The one that made me want to throw up. The room went blurry behind a sheen of tears and my lungs felt tight.