The Sinner

  Seb chuckled. “You think it sounds good? Wow. That's a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one.”

  My cheeks ached from smiling so much. “No. I mean yes. I mean, I don't work tomorrow, so it works for me.”

  “Perfect, I'll text you to arrange a time to pick you up.”

  I think I stopped breathing. Pick me up? There would be no picking me up. We were having a clandestine affair. The kind with secret meet ups and stolen moments and awesome sex, not coming to my house and picking me up as if it were a… a date!

  Sebastien St. Clair could not pick me up in front of the building. Knowing Rocco, he'd have his nose pressed to the glass the minute I stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “Oh, that's not necessary. I'll just meet you wherever.”

  There was a brief pause before Seb replied. "It's really not a bother to pick you up."

  The way Seb said it reminded me of Rocco, the “end of story” implied. From experience, I knew there was no point arguing. In Seb’s mind, the decision was made.

  “Fine.” My stomach did a flip and a knot of butterflies exploded. I should have said no. This was such a bad idea. Yet I kept going. “Let me know what time you’ll be here and I'll meet you downstairs. You don't need to park and come all the way up.”

  If Seb refused to compromise, it meant the end of our very brief tryst. Hell would freeze over before I chanced Seb knocking on my door, potentially ending up face to face with Rocco.

  “That sounds good.”

  Thank you, lord.

  I exhaled in relief and ignored my racing heart and jittery hands, the result of a burst of adrenaline at the thought Seb and Rocco fighting on our doorstep.

  “G-great. Perfect.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, and Kylie—?”

  Damn, his voice was so freaking sexy, it just wasn't fair. It got my brain so scrambled I could hardly think. “Y-yes?”

  “I’m confident that by the end of the night… well, let's just say you'll be shouting that you’re my new number one fan.”

  By the time I thought up a witty response, the line went dead.

  Oh. My. God.

  He was dangerous. And bad. This was a bad idea and Seb was most definitely a bad choice. Everything about it was bad. The worst.

  I was never going to survive this affair intact.

  8

  Seb

  Practice took for-fucking-ever. Then again, I never noticed before. Probably because I never had anything to look forward to. Hockey was it for me. I never paid attention to how long I shot pucks or switched out various lines and plays or speed drills.

  Until Kylie.

  I glanced at the clock, again, which pissed me off. Thanks to my amped-up state, it took an inordinate amount of concentration to ignore Sasquatch and his bevy of judgmental grunts and dark glowers. In my effort to be a good little team player, I clamped my big mouth shut, put my head down, and did what I was told. By some miracle, I finished practice without jamming my stick down Calloway’s throat. Barely.

  I counted it as a win.

  Through the tunnel we trudged, and to my extreme annoyance, my inconsiderate teammates failed to use my catchy and, in my humble opinion, fitting nickname for Calloway—Sasquatch. Nope. The dirty traitors called him Rocky, which to my utter delight, Calloway despised, or the vomit-inducing nickname Calloway brought with him. One he earned—and yeah, I could begrudgingly admit he really is that good—his first year in the NHL.

  I remember during my brief time in the minors, I sat perched on the edge of my seat in the apartment I shared with three other guys, beer in hand, as we watched Rocco Calloway, the unstoppable rookie defender, take down forwards left and right. Hell, I'd actually admired the prick, until the following year when I got called up and had to play against him. I’d never admit it. Not even under threat of castration. I figure I must've had some kind of brain damage or been suffering from a concussion to think Calloway was anyone worth looking up to.

  Fast forward several years and in a moment I couldn't have plucked from my wildest imagination, I found myself in a supremely shitty position. I’d have bet money Calloway’s nickname would never pass my lips, let alone be said directly to his ridiculous, snarling, Sasquatch face.

  We’d always been on opposing teams, so what reason would I have to use it?

  Whenever I pulled up an image of Rocco Calloway, the names that came to mind were simple—Sasquatch and/or Asshat and/or Bastard. Oh, and a bunch of Québecois obscenities that probably wouldn't go over real well with management if I shouted them at their newest hire, especially since I’m not the only one on the team who speaks French.

  With Calloway officially a Comet, it was up to me give him the same respect I showed my other teammates, which kind of made me throw up in my mouth a little. What really ticked me off was that not one of my backstabbing teammates gave a single fuck that the man was literally the devil on skates. Management patently expected I would fall in line and do what any player worthy of the NHL did—suck it up and treat your teammate like family.

  I snorted. I’d rather be fucked up the ass with a broken beer bottle.

  Speaking of le diable.

  Calloway emerged from the showers, towel slung low over his hips, all his stupidly huge Sasquatch-like muscles on display. With an annoyed huff, I turned my back to him and jammed my feet into my favorite pair of lace-up boots. Behind me, I heard the loud smacks of backslapping and high-fives, while my supposed “family” praised Calloway. “Nice practice, Assassin,” or “Way to go, Assassin,” or “Great job, Assassin.” I thought Calloway was way more ass than assassin, but one thing I refused to hear Coach say was that I wasn’t a team player.

  Dammit, my team means everything to me. With the exception my little bro, they’re all I’ve had since I strapped on a pair of beat up used blades for my very first peewee league. The family I always wished I had. My escape. My safe place.

  Now, with the inevitable arrival of the token bastard relative—don’t laugh, you know who I’m talking about. Everybody has one. The pervy uncle or drunk second cousin you prayed skipped out on holidays, and instead not only crashed the party, but never left, predictably taking up residence in your spare bedroom. Thank you Rocco fucking Calloway for being the relative who rounded out my fucked-up family.

  I shouldered my bag and turned to leave. Unfortunately, I caught a perpetually scowling Rocco Calloway out of the corner of my eye. Fuck me. Where was that broken beer bottle when you needed it? I steeled my jaw and dipped my chin, swallowing several times to keep down the grilled chicken salad that threatened to make an unwelcome encore, and sucked up my pride.

  I met Calloway’s hostile glare and forced out, “Great practice, Assassin,” when what I really wanted to say was, “vas te crosser avec une poignée de clous,” which basically means “fuck off,” or, if you want to be literal, “go jack off with a handful of rusty nails.” Entirely appropriate for the situation.

  Sasquatch’s, I shuddered… I mean, Assassin’s eyes widened under his Cro-Magnon ridge. I never hid the fact that I hated his guts, so he had no reason to think I’d be cordial to him in any way. Calloway stood there a second, looking too genetically related to a true Neanderthal to be considered human, as he came up with what I knew would be a rude, cutting response. One that would undoubtedly humiliate me and make me wish I hadn’t bothered to put any effort into accepting him, especially since he regularly treated me like a scrap of toilet tissue stuck to his shoe. According to “experts,” I was supposed to be satisfied by “being the bigger man” or something idiotic like that.

  Which, we all know is a total load of horseshit. I can one hundred percent verify that being a dick feels way, way better.

  When Calloway didn’t respond—I wasn’t sure he even blinked—I pushed my way out of the changing room and stomped down the hall. Instead of shouting or pummeling the wall with my fists, I forced my head down and checked to see if Kylie sent any texts (she didn't).

  “Seb.
”

  I winced and sped up.

  Keep walking, St. Clair. Pretend you didn't hear.

  Hurried footsteps grew closer. “Seb!”

  Fils de pute!

  I peered over my shoulder to glance at Amanda and ended up doing a double take worthy of a Three Stooges episode as I scrambled to a halt. Whoa. If there’s one thing I can unequivocally, without a doubt, say is true about my ex-fuck buddy, it’s that she never stepped out of the house looking anything less than perfect. From the top of her silky, thick head of hair, down to her sexy painted toenails.

  I flicked my gaze up and down her body, and had to strain to not frown. She wore jeans. Jeans! With flat shoes, not a spiky stiletto in sight. Topped, not by her usual silk blouse, but a plain navy tee. Amanda pulled her shiny waves into a high, tangled knot I’d never seen on her before. The style took years off her face. To the point I felt a bit uncomfortable having screwed her senseless. Without the makeup and power suits, Amanda could pass as jailbait.

  I couldn't help but gape.

  “Mandy?”

  I locked onto her lush lips, which normally looked ready to suck my dick. Except they were pinched into a thin, tense line. I glanced up and only then did I notice Amanda’s eyes. They were all bloodshot and swollen, and around her nose was red and raw. It looked like she'd been… oh fuck. I cringed. Crying.

  I took a giant step back. I don’t do crying females. Nuh uh. To this day, thinking about it makes my skin crawl. I have no clue what to do or say around a weeping woman. It’s like handling a live grenade. One wrong move and they'd explode, zero hesitation in taking you down with them.

  “Do… do you have a minute?”

  Câlasse. Amanda sounded different, almost vulnerable. Being an idiot with a Y chromosome, I blurted out, “Sure.” The second it came out of my mouth I wanted to kick my own ass.

  “No one's in the lounge.” She pointed to a nearby door.

  Instead of saying, “no” and bolting for my truck, I nodded and followed Amanda into the media lounge, the one visitors and reporters use while they wait for press conferences and the like. She closed the door and I broke out in a cold sweat. Memories of the clink of the front gate at the detention center as it snicked shut, the finality of that sound and what it meant, sent ice trickling through my veins. Locked in for twelve months. Caged. Trapped. The day I got out of that shithole, I vowed I'd never let anyone trap me again.

  I took a shuddering breath. The walls of the media room shrank and a burning pressure pinched my lungs. I shivered and broke out in chills as nausea pushed its way up my esophagus. I swallowed several times just so I wouldn't puke. My nerves jittered and the prickly sensation of ants under my skin returned tenfold.

  “What do you want?” I barked. Amanda flinched, and I cursed under my breath.

  It wasn't my fault, it was just, that room. The perception of being imprisoned. My rational mind knew nothing bad was going to happen. I could reach out and open the damn door whenever I felt like it, but tell that to the fucked up part of my brain. For a second, I swore I heard the aaack, aaack of Henri Allaire as he cleared his throat over the thundering of my own heart. The tingling of an oncoming panic attack took root, ready to seize my lungs and shut down all but the most basic of bodily functions.

  What I really needed was to light a fucking Valium scented candle and huff that the fumes until pink elephants danced around me.

  “I, um…” Amanda twisted her fingers together and ducked her head.

  My jaw fell. I was beyond flabbergasted. Screw the panic attack. What was unfolding before me was shocking. I watched Amanda Brooker, a confident and powerful woman with a firm, no bullshit, take-no-prisoners attitude, nervously squirm and twitch. Awkward as fuck, she reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, then took a deep breath.

  “Look, I know I took things too far and you got upset.”

  I stared, wary, but decided to be honest. “Yeah, you did.”

  Amanda frowned, but didn’t look away. “I’m so sorry. I just… I was hoping maybe we could, you know, forget about it and go back to the way things were. I thought maybe tonight…” She reached for me, but hesitated and dropped her hand.

  My anxiety, fueled by the confrontation as well as Amanda’s bizarre behavior, made my racing pulse stumble. I stared in disbelief.

  “Let me get this straight. You… you’re saying you want to keep fucking? Even after…?” The I acted like a total bastard and treated you like a fuck toy was inferred.

  Amanda inhaled, held steady, and never broke eye contact. That was more like it. More like the assertive woman I met two years ago and found irresistible.

  “Yes.”

  Years upon years of being trained to expect every argument to turn violent, usually with me ending up cornered and verbally abused, or more often, nursing injuries, had honed my instincts to expect every confrontation to result in pain. Between the walls that were steadily closing in, Amanda’s tears, and her wanting to get back together, those were the instincts that took over. Unfortunately for Amanda, it meant I turned full-on defensive asshole.

  “Fuck no!” Amanda’s face fell and her wide, wounded eyes shimmered with fresh tears. Horrified by my complete absence of tact, I scrambled to fix Amanda before she broke. “I didn't… fuck. I didn't mean it like that.”

  See? That’s why I hate this kind of shit. I dragged my hands down my face and tipped my head back to stare at the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry, Mandy. It's not…”

  I couldn’t bring myself to resurrect the ol’ “it's not you, it’s me,” chestnut. She’d never believe it anyway. I needed something that didn't make it sound like my rejection was Amanda’s fault, and also let me escape without plunging the knife further into her spine. If she cried, as in really started to sob and get all snotty and messy… I wasn’t emotionally equipped to deal with that.

  An image of Kylie flickered in my head and again, mouth before brain, I announced, “I’m seeing someone.”

  Amanda's jaw fell and her eyes flared. But hey, at least she was no longer on the verge of tears. I double checked to be sure. Dieu merci. Yep. Dry eyes. In fact, Amanda looked kind of… oh fuck, Amanda looked pissed.

  “You bastard piece of shit,” she hissed.

  Shocked, I backed into the wall and held up my hands, which shook like I chugged six espresso shots in a row. Anxiety clawed up my throat and those damn ants skittered across every inch of my body.

  It was my worst nightmares come to life. Cornered. Trapped.

  Memories flashed hard and fast. I counted each breath to separate the present from my disturbing past. In, one… two…

  Amanda shifted closer, her lips peeled back in an ugly sneer. “Were you seeing her while you were still screwing me, Seb?” Amanda’s sweet, youthful face, a face I once enjoyed seeing in the throes of passion, twisted with rage.

  “We were never exclusive!” I lashed out, furious with Amanda for literally backing me into a corner as she dredged up a subject we discussed to death and then some. She was only one of my many fuck buddies and she knew it.

  My anger did nothing to displace the fiery glare she aimed at me, as she awaited further explanation. Forced to think on my feet, I yanked an excuse out of my ass, and put the final nail in my relationship with Amanda.

  “The girl I'm seeing, it's a new thing. I don't… I can't… shit.” I thrust my hands in my hair, then let my arms fall to my sides. “What do you want me to say?”

  “You and me, two years! The sex, the laughs and good times, did all of that mean nothing to you, Seb? Two goddamn years! Was I so unimportant that a couple of weeks after you left my bed you found a girlfriend? Something you adamantly insisted you’d never have, by the way.” Amanda's chest heaved and she bared her gleaming white teeth.

  I was at a loss and my silence sent Amanda over the edge.

  She got right up in my face and drilled a finger into my collarbone. “You're a real fucking son of a bitch, Sebastien
St. Clair. You know what?” Her expression grew a little hysterical and her voice pitched up. “I hope you fall in love with her.” Now it was my eyes that bulged. “That's right, love. That's exactly what I said. I hope you fall hopelessly, head over heels in love with this poor woman, and she dumps your pathetic ass. Then —” Amanda stabbed harder and I had to clench my jaw to keep from breaking her wrist, “—then you'll know what it feels like to want something more than anything, only to have it ripped from your arms."

  With that, Amanda spun on one of her non-stilettoed heels and flung the media room door open so hard it bounced off the wall and slammed shut after she stormed out. It felt like I got cross-checked by a runaway train. I closed my eyes and sagged against the wall as I attempted to process whatever the fuck just went down. Amanda had no right to be pissed at me for finding someone else. It’s not like I meant to hurt her.

  Deep down she isn't a bad person. Like I said, it wasn’t her, it was me. I simply didn’t want to be tied down. To anyone. In retrospect, thinking back on our lame excuse of a relationship reminded me how increasingly suffocating the air between us grew every time we hooked up. By the end, Amanda’s bedroom felt like a prison.

  Clammy with sweat, my NHL mandated tie tightened like a noose around my neck, and my dress shirt stuck to my skin, I escaped the media room and didn't look back. By the time I reached my truck, Sasquatch slash Assassin slash Asshat slash What-the-fuck-ever, was long forgotten. Amanda… well, she wasn't forgotten, but at least I was no longer on the verge of losing my shit, though I could really use a distraction.

  I snorted. Irony is such a cunning bitch. Getting cornered and yelled at by my ex-fuck buddy left me itching to call up a convenient outlet…you know, like a fuck buddy.

  I went to retrieve my phone to call one of my other, less fun but otherwise satisfactory, hookups. My cock throbbed and visions of Kylie flashed through my head. The phone slid back into my pocket, the mood for a random dial-a-fuck passed. What I wanted was to call Kylie to work out my aggressions. But we were too new, which sucked because it seemed, for the moment, my dick was fixated on her. I guess I would be going without. For now.