by Elodie Colt
“You could just kick him out of your list of matches and be done with it. Why put him in the pillory?”
“Because he violated the terms,” I say through clenched teeth, the words scratching over my tongue like a jigsaw, but I ride the pain. If I want to ensure his safety, I need to go all-in here.
“I thought you liked him.”
That’s exactly why I have to do this. “He went too far.”
She gives me a wry look, silently communicating I should think this through one last time.
“Kate,” I say, gulping before lowering my voice, “you know how much I value my privacy. You know I only signed up for Silent Sins because eNtimacy guaranteed me absolute anonymity. Within six months, I’ve had two men tearing down my safe walls, and one of them went as far as putting you into hospital.”
My look is pleading as I wait for her response. I don’t want to screw Ross over, but I need to make a statement here. Dropping out of Silent Sins may not be enough to stop him. I need him to stay away from me. To forget me. To move on.
“Fine, then,” she says at last. “I’ll prepare the report. You’re aware that you won’t be able to have any more Silent Sins dates with him, yes? The algorithm will mark you two as incompatible for the future.”
Pressure builds inside my core as I pull my Silent Sins bracelet out of my bag and place it down in front of her. A bangle of black rubber that holds memories, broken dreams, and a piece of my heart. I already feel naked without it. “No Silent Sins dates altogether. I won’t extend my subscription.”
Kate looks puzzled for a moment before she opens a drawer and pulls out a stack of forms. She slides them over to me and hands me a pen. For a moment, I eye the printed letters, my mind far away.
“I’m sorry, Ella,” Kate says in hushed tones.
I bop my head. “Me, too.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m not a Silent Sins member anymore. My account is closed, the app only one of many that will stay untouched in my phone’s menu; storing messages, notifications, and invitations I’ll never receive.
A part of me is relieved that it’s over. Meeting Ross had always been a ride on a rollercoaster—thrilling and electrifying, but also dangerous, taxing, and unhealthy to some extent. All these secrets and questions had messed with my head. Before we met last time, I knew we’d come to a point of no return. Silent Sins liaisons are like friends with benefits—fun in the beginning but cruel in the ending. Not meant to last but always leaving a trail of broken hearts.
After purchasing a new phone at some electronics shop, I make my way home. The spring sun throws glowing streaks of light over my helmet’s visor, the warm wind whipping my hair behind me as I push my bike down the street. The weather is beautiful—clear, bright, promising. The opposite of the destructive thunderstorm wreaking havoc in my heart. Life from now on will be different, and I don’t have high hopes that it will turn out for the better.
After parking my bike next to the sidewalk, I take the six floors up to my apartment. I purposely avert my gaze when I step up to my door where the number six dangles directly in front of my face, and slip inside. Just as I set my helmet onto the counter, my old phone chirps with an incoming message, and I pull it out.
Unknown ID. Always a bad sign.
Anonymous: Well done.
I scoff. Doesn’t take a detective to figure out who sent the text. I’d signed my Silent Sins divorce papers not even an hour ago, and Luka is already in the know. He even went as far as communicating via phone.
“Guess my stalker is still an issue after all, huh?” I say to an invisible image of Ross, mocking him for his naivety.
With a grunt, I cock back my arm and smash the old device to the floor. A crack resounds as the display breaks, but I’m far from done. Fuming, I fetch a rolling pin from the top drawer in my kitchen, slap it against my palm once, and batter the device until there’s nothing left but broken bits.
It’s only a matter of time until Luka finds out my new number, but first, I need to cut all ties with Ross. That guy is resourceful. He sent that crazy dude to keep me from pulling the trigger that night at Prospect Park Lake. There’s no way he could have known where I was without tracking my phone or my bike or whatever. Well, I don’t have the heart to destroy my Honda Hornet, but getting rid of my old phone is a start.
When I’m assured that the thing is done for, I storm out into the hallway where the smart security camera records the entrance. Sneering, I flip the lens the bird—just in case Luka is enjoying some reality TV—and smash the thing to bits. Splinters of metal and plastic fly in every direction, but I continue my ravage until the camera sloughs off the ceiling.
The door opposite mine flings open, and I swing around to see a shocked Mrs. Smith hobbling out, a gnarly hand covering her mouth as I stand there with the rolling pin and a wicked smirk on my face.
“I’m going to call the police, young lady!” She points a warning finger at me, but I just snort.
“Mind your own fucking business for once,” I mutter before I vanish back inside.
A pent-up sigh escapes me as I fling the rolling pin onto the counter. Two heavy bags are packed, sitting lonely by the door. My aquarium is already set up at Zoya’s along with the rest of my stuff. I grab the package with my new phone in it, rip it open, and turn it on. When the device has booted, I punch in Zoya’s number that I know by heart and press the call button.
“Zoya Benson, hello?”
“It’s me,” I say. “I’ve got a new phone.”
“Got it. You ready?”
“Yeah, you can pick me up.”
“I’m on my way.”
Exhaling through my nose, I end the call and stuff my phone into my jeans pocket. Funny how a place that’s so familiar, a place I’ve called home, can feel so foreign and empty all of a sudden. Then again, nothing has ever felt like home since I left Belgorod. Home is where the heart is, right?
And where is your heart? the angel inside me wants to know.
In Russia, of course, I answer.
No, the devil tosses in with a dark chuckle. Don’t fool yourself, darling.
Dropping my shoulders, I grab my bags and walk out the door.
Home was him. Home was his voice and his body and his love.
And what did I do?
I turned the key and threw it away.
2
Nathan
A small hand wriggles down my pants, squeezing my package. My dick twitches, but other than that, he remains an overcooked noodle in my boxers.
I groan into Claire’s mouth (or is it Clarissa? Clara? Fuck, if I know), swallowing the taste of cheap rum, mint, and sexual desperation. Her tongue drills a hole into my throat as our teeth clash together, but we’re too tanked to make the kiss any less sloppy, eager to share a five-minute quickie before we go our separate ways, pretending we’ve never met.
At least, that’s my plan.
“Yes,” she moans when I shove my hand underneath her cherry-red dress to pull down her thong with a sharp tug that almost has me looking down to check if the string has cut her leg, but gathering from the way she tries to climb me like a tree, she likes it rough.
I hoist her up and smash her against the piss-yellow tiled wall. Her fingers claw at my hair, pushing me down to suck her cleavage that she presses against my face. I bury my nose in her skin. She reeks of Coco Chanel and sweet sweat. Slightly more pleasant than the citrus air freshener polluting York’s restroom, but not good enough for me to want to bottle her scent and sell it as a new perfume brand.
Not Ella’s scent.
I growl, biting into a chunk of flesh, and she yelps. The girl’s got the body of a supermodel and the sex drive of a porn star. Every man’s wet dream with a pair of perfect tits, fuck-me-heels, and a clit piercing, I realize when I brush the pad of my finger over a piece of hot, slick metal.
With a frenzied chuckle, she tugs at my tie, pulling my face up to hers, and our mouths clash once more. Her hands go on a missi
on to open my belt. The snap of the leather echoes through the room as she yanks it out of the buckle. Two seconds later, my pants drop to the floor.
Someone pounds against the door, making the lock rattle. “Hey, hurry up in there, will ya?”
We ignore the complaint as I grind my groin against her pussy. She’s so wet, you’d think I’d already been inside her, but alas, half-mast won’t do it.
“Hey.”
Her voice barely makes it through the haze in my brain, and I flick her nub in frantic movements. She grabs my wrist and pulls my hand away.
“Hey!”
The alarm in her voice brings me to a standstill, and I finally crack my eyes open.
She jerks her head down to my groin, clearly pissed. “What’s going on?”
Irritated, I follow her gaze as if that would help my case, but my dick stays as soft as the rubber ball Nick likes to squeeze at work when he’s under stress.
I lift my head in a daze, a brown strand of hair flopping over my nose. Claire cocks an eyebrow at me, waiting for an explanation.
Huffing through my nose, I frame her face. She’s a catch, this girl. A Miami blonde with sapphire eyes and a tiny birthmark below her nose. I move my thumb to her lips, pushing down her lower lip.
She yanks her head to the side. “What’s the matter with you?”
Frowning, I drop my hand. My dick goes completely slack.
“I can see you.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can analyze their meaning. Claire gawks at me as if I’d gone mental, unhooking her ankles from my waist and pushing me back.
“Not pretty enough for you, huh?” She juts out her chin when I continue to stare at her birthmark. She thinks it bothers me whereas it just reminds me of the pretty dots on Ella’s back.
“Well, guess what…” she mutters, adjusting her dress. “Your crooked nose could do with some plastic surgery, too.”
With a sneer, she plucks her clutch from the floor, shoulders past me, and unlocks the door before I can pull up my pants.
“About fucking time,” one of the girls waiting outside grumbles when Claire skirts off with her pride in pieces.
“Hey, get the fuck out of here, asshole,” another snaps when she storms inside, shoving me away from the basin and in the direction of the door.
With a huff, I secure my belt and stagger out, now even more irked than I was when I came here. Turns out that booze and pussy don’t do shit to take my mind off Ella for a few hours.
Frustrated, I pick my way through the bar and hurry outside. Sauntering down the sidewalk, I check my phone. A shit-ton of emails is waiting in my inbox along with a bunch of stupid notifications from my Silent Sins app.
Delete the app and be done with it, idiot. Ella is done with you, too.
After giving me the boot, she went the extra mile and reported me for violating the terms. Carl was furious. No clue why he didn’t kick me out of his fancy dating program. Maybe he’s hoping to get me back on the straight and narrow by setting me up with another match. He can go fuck himself. I’d found my perfect match, and now she’s gone. End of story. End of Silent Sins. End of the fucking world.
Persistent and obsessed as I am, I even went as far as sending her a message directly on her phone. She already knew I found out more about her than she was willing to reveal, so I figured it wouldn’t make a difference after she kicked me out of Silent Sins. My message never went through. ‘Unable to deliver.’ She must have gotten herself a new phone. I had the good sense to leave it at that and not grill Wayde for her new number.
Nick had warned me. He’d told me Ella might never forgive me if she found out I discovered her identity long ago. And what did I do? Confessing my sins shortly before I confessed my fucking love to her while my cock was still twitching inside her. That hadn’t been part of the plan, but the words just slipped out like the burp now gurgling up my throat, coating my tongue with the taste of scotch and misery. She thinks I couldn’t possibly feel that way, not after a handful of dates in the dark. She thinks I don’t know enough about her to fall in love with her.
She’s wrong.
I drag my feet down the sidewalk, too lost in my thoughts to take in my surroundings. My shoulder bumps against another, but I ignore the dude hurling insults after me.
Doesn’t matter if she believes me or not. Up until our last date, I thought there was a possibility she loved me too, but it seems hope has made me blind. She didn’t ask me who I was. She didn’t ask me about my name. She didn’t ask me where we met. She didn’t want to know one fucking thing. She said she just wanted to protect me, but maybe I didn’t get as much under her skin as she got under mine.
‘I thought that was what Silent Sins is,’ she’d said when we met for the very first time. ‘Leading the other on a merry chase.’
Back then, I thought I controlled the game. That I would be the one to lead her astray. Play with her a little, fuck her twice a month, and move on to the next vacant toy. Instead, she’d pulled the strings from the beginning. Fucked me twice a month and cast me aside as soon as she left the Room.
Sure, I’m simplifying things to patch up my bleeding heart with a thick layer of rage. Because I know it was never that easy, not with Ella Jenkins and her past that crossed the Atlantic to catch up with her.
Luka Sokolov.
We’d chased him off, but Ella thinks I just made matters worse. That he’ll never give her up as long as he’s alive. The thought unsettles me. I’m checking in with Wayde a couple of times per week. He confirmed that he left the city in his Nissan Rogue. No sign of him or his car ever since, also no activity in New York under his other five names, according to Wayde and Vincent’s friends at the NYPD. Sure, all this shit won’t keep the guy from taking on a new identity, but I have to trust Vincent here that his threat took roots. Wayde also told me that he lost the connection to Ella’s security system, but I’m not surprised. After everything that went down, chances are she got herself a new one.
Or she left the city, too.
Ella Jenkins isn’t a part of my life any longer. My dragonfly girl is gone. Cruelly ripped out of my heart like a chunk of plaster from a crumbling shack. No matter how strong the urge to hunt down her ass, I have to accept the cold, hard truth.
We’re done.
The thoughts keep tumbling inside my head when I arrive at Crawford Crescent. Trying to get the electronic pad next to the entrance into focus, I punch in the code and make my way up to my apartment.
Once there, I loosen my tie and discard my jacket. Ella’s Halloween costume she wore last year is still draped around the edge of the sofa—the only item of her that made her real. Ripping my gaze away, I shuffle over to the fireplace in the corner of my living area. Flames lick up behind the glass panel, softly cracking inside the gray-tiled alcove and creating a cozy atmosphere. But my place is still the same. Clean, lonely, empty.
A pent-up sigh escapes my lips as I pick up the items scattered on a small table next to the fireplace—Luka Sokolov’s phone, keys, and wallet I took from him when we paid him a visit. With a vacant stare, I toss them one by one into the flames, watching metal and plastic melting through the logs.
‘You think you know her,’ the fucker said to me. ‘You don’t even know her real name.’
And maybe I don’t. Ella Jenkins doesn’t sound Russian to me. If she changed her place of residence to escape that motherfucker, chances are she changed her name, too. A pity it had all been in vain.
My gaze travels back to her costume. I should get rid of it. Burn it along with all my memories of her.
Do it. Do it!
Someone knocks on my door. I briefly close my eyes. I’m not keen on having a heart-to-heart with Nick right now. He’s been bugging me with questions ever since I returned from my last date with Ella, pushing me to open up to him. I shut him out. His brotherly advices are nothing but tedious.
“Nathan, it’s me.”
I freeze. It’s not Nick pounding his
fist against my door. In fact, it’s someone who hasn’t set a foot inside this apartment for almost fifteen years.
I clear my throat. “Uh, come on in.”
The door opens, and Brooke walks in. I almost do a double-take when I give her a once-over. No strangulating-tight dress, no killer heels, no I’m-about-to-ruin-you pace as she carries herself in my direction. For the first time since I was a kid, she’s dressed casual—jeans, a black blouse, and a middle-aged face without make-up. The lack of sparkling diamonds on her wrists, neck, and ears—just like the fact that she’s here, in my room—is so surreal, I have to blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
And then it hits me.
“What happened?” I straighten in alarm. “Is Vincent—”
“He’s fine,” she cuts in with a smile that is as rare as chipped-off polish on her nails. “I came here to talk to you.”
“About what?”
She utters a soft chuckle at my skeptical undertone, motioning for me to sit down with her. Stunned, I inch toward the sofa and slouch down while she sweeps over to the minibar to prepare drinks. I hastily smooth down my tie, although I have no idea why. It’s not as if I have to make an impression inside my own four walls.
“Sanzhar Sharipova is visiting next month,” she announces, and it takes me a second to kick my brain into gear after staring at her blonde hair hanging uncombed down her back—not the usual perfect updo that always makes me wonder how many hours it takes her stylist to get it done in the morning.
“Sanzhar?” I repeat, confused.
She places a glass of scotch on the table and takes a seat opposite me—her back, for once, not rod-straight as she reclines in the backrest.
“Yes. He wants to invest in museums and is looking for pieces to complete his collections. Vincent has promised him a private tour.”
My head bops in a nod, but my mind only circles around one question, and it tumbles out of my mouth without my consent.
“Why are you here, Brooke?”
Her eyes are on me as she exhales through her nose—smoky-gray eyes that look so much gentler without tons of eyeshadow. Slowly, she lifts her glass to take a sip before she reveals, “I want to get you back onto the right track.”
