The Young & the Sinner: An Age-Gap Romance (The Entangled Past Series)

by V. T. Do

  Sunday morning, I woke up early and came downstairs for breakfast only to find Max already there, making a vegetable omelet. I pulled out a barstool, resting my head on my hands while I watched him cook.

  “Hey, kiddo. Rough night?” He grinned, his eyes taking me in.

  I grunted, and he chuckled.

  “Ah. You’re just hungry, eh? I have just the thing to perk you right up. And it’ll be done in two minutes.” That was Max’s solution to everything. In a bad mood? A good breakfast would fix it right up. Happy? A celebratory meal was required. Tired? A good steak dinner would give my body much-needed energy.

  My “bad mood” this morning was obviously in reference to my unbrushed hair. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet either.

  But I wasn’t in a bad mood. It was my natural disposition in the morning, despite being such an early riser. Or maybe, it was because of it? I couldn’t help but wake up early. My internal alarm clock went off at six-thirty every morning, and once I woke up, it was nearly impossible for me to fall back to sleep.

  Max put omelet on a plate and slid it over to me before he made himself one. “Thank you for breakfast,” I said, taking a huge bite.

  “Anytime, kiddo.” He grabbed the seat next to me, and we ate our breakfasts in companionable silence.

  I finished my meal before him, and I sat there, sipping my tea when his phone vibrated with an incoming text. Max was always conscientious about not answering the phone when we were eating together, but when Mason’s name flashed on the screen, he grabbed the phone.

  “Sorry, kiddo. I need to check this. It might be important.”

  I shrugged, because no cellphones during meals was his rule, not mine. I always tried to respect it, but I wasn’t going to police his phone usage.

  Max read the text quickly, and then let out a smile.

  “Good news?” I asked him.

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah. An old friend of ours is back home after spending months traveling. He wants to meet up for lunch today.”

  “Really? What friend?”

  Max bit his lip, as if he was trying to stop from smiling. “Do you know Brody Frost?”

  The name sounded familiar to me, yet I couldn’t remember where I had heard it before. “I think so. Is he famous or something?”

  His grinned, and I couldn’t help but mirror his expression. Max seemed pretty excited to see his friend again. “I’m actually surprised you don’t remember him, considering you had his poster hanging in your room when you were twelve.”

  Poster in my room? My eyes widened when I remembered, and my cheeks flamed red, losing any hint of a smile that was on my face just seconds ago. “The hockey player?”

  Max laughed. “Yeah. I think you told me you wanted to marry him when you got older.”

  “Oh, my God. Stop talking.” In my defense, I didn’t remember his name because Brody’s last name used to be something else. “Isn’t he known as Brody Reed?”

  “Yeah. That’s his ice name. His legal name is Frost, but he changed it to Reed, his mother’s maiden name, on the ice because his dad is a famous former NHL player.”

  “He doesn’t want people to know who his dad is?”

  “No. He didn’t want his chances of making it to NHL be associated with having a famous father. I guess he wanted to make it on his own merits. Not that it mattered, anyway. They discovered who his dad was his second year of playing professionally. But since he had already made the team, I don’t think he cared all that much.”

  I nodded. I could respect that.

  Max winked. “I can introduce you to him.”

  And just like that, my cheeks went from normal to flaming in one-point-two seconds flat. A Bugatti Chiron couldn’t even reach top speed that fast. “I’m okay,” I answered primly. “In fact, I would appreciate it if you never, ever mentioned this to anyone, ever again. Especially not to Brody Frost, or Reed, or whatever his name is.”

  “That’s good. He’s too old for you, and you, my beautiful girl, are way too good for an old bastard like him.”

  His statement didn’t help with my red cheeks. Brody couldn’t be much older than Mason or Max. Probably somewhere in between the two. And if Max thought Brody was way too old for me, what would he say if he ever found out about my feelings for Mason?

  I rolled my eyes. “You think I’m too good for everyone.”

  “That’s right. And don’t you forget it, either.” I smiled, even if I was a little embarrassed about the compliment. “In all seriousness, would you like to come?”

  “To lunch with you, Mason, and Brody?”

  He nodded. “We might see some of his teammates there as well. I can’t promise how clean their language will be, but I think you’ll enjoy it. And I’ll even promise not to say anything to Brody.”

  I shook my head. Lunch with a bunch of dudes I didn’t know sounded intimidating as hell. If I was as fearless as Lizzie, or even social like other normal teenagers at my school, I might say yes, but I wasn’t any of those things, and my social ineptitude tended to make its appearances at every social gathering I ever showed up to.

  “I’m good. I think I’ll just stay in and read.”

  Max frowned at this. “Are you sure? I don’t like the idea of you staying in by yourself so much.”

  “Don’t worry. I do it all the time.”

  “Okay. But if you change your mind, I won’t be leaving until Mason gets here.”

  I began to nod, then the rest of his sentence came into focus. “Mason’s coming here?”

  “Yeah. He wants me to go help him pick out some furniture before our lunch. As if two guys know what the hell they’re doing at a furniture store.”

  “What happened to all his furniture?”

  “Ah, when he moved back to Chicago, all of his furniture stayed in New York.”

  “New York?”

  “Yeah, he, uh, left most of his furniture behind in storage, but now his, uh, ex-girlfriend is using it.”

  What happened between Mason and this infamous ex-girlfriend of his? And did he still have feelings for her? My interest was piqued, but it wasn’t like I could show it. That would be too obvious. Besides, I had a more pressing matter to attend to. Mason was coming here. And I hadn’t washed my face this morning yet. Or brushed my hair. Or teeth!

  How was I going to leave the kitchen to get ready without making Max think I was getting ready solely for Mason?

  I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat, then I grabbed my plate and placed it in the sink. “Since you cooked, I’ll do the dishes. But I think I’m going to head upstairs and ready myself for the day first, okay?”

  “Why? You can just do the dishes now, since you’re already downstairs. Wouldn’t that be more convenient?” It would be, except Mason could walk in at any moment.

  “Oh, yeah, it would be but…” What kind of reasons could I give that would sound believable? My heart beat hard in panic and I said the first thing that came to mind. “We should let the dishes soak awhile.”

  Max frowned. “Let them soak? I hardly think an omelet meal requires soaking.”

  Why was he so insistent on making me do the dishes now? What the hell? Max was usually more easygoing than this.

  I stared at him, not knowing what to say. Then he grinned and I knew he was pulling my leg. “I’m just kidding, Olive. You can go get ready.”

  I didn’t say anything. I practically ran up the stairs. Did Max know about my feelings for Mason? Was it that obvious?

  I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know. It was just like that saying Lizzie liked so much: Ignorance is bliss.

  I wished to remain ignorant to the fact that I might not have been so subtle when it came to hiding my feelings for Mason.

  I hid my face in my hands and let out a loud groan.

  Great. Just great.

  In the end, my effort to appear put together in the morning was all in vain. Mason came in the house for five minutes tops, squeezed my shoulder in a greet
ing that nearly put my heart on overdrive, and then left quietly with Max.

  Considering how much effort I put into my looks this morning—to appear like I hadn’t put much effort into it—his appearance at the house was anticlimactic at best.

  I frowned at their retreating backs, feeling a little regretful that I wouldn’t be going with them to buy furniture for Mason, but I really didn’t want to go to lunch, especially with Brody Frost, my celebrity crush for close to a year in my adolescence.

  A little more than curious how Brody looked now, I searched him up online. I found out that he was twenty-nine years old, he was drafted to Colorado’s NHL team right out of college, before he was traded to the Blackhawks two years later. That was about the same time I discovered his existence and begged Max to buy the signed poster of him for me at the hockey game we went to. I was pretty mortified to think back to it now. I hoped Max would soon develop selective amnesia and forget all about my infatuation with the rising hockey star of Chicago at the time.

  After feeling like my cheeks would fall off from embarrassment, I closed out all Brody-related tabs on the browser of my laptop and ended up searching for artwork for the next hour. But I couldn’t lie to myself and say I was doing it because I enjoyed looking at the artwork done by local artists. No, I was doing this because I wanted to find something for Mason’s place. I wanted him to always think about me when he hung up whatever it was that I was getting him.

  And then I ran into K.H. Knight and my heart fluttered with excitement. The artist, gender unknown, debuted their first work two years ago. I ran into the painted mural in the worst part of Chicago when Lizzie and I took the bus downtown, because one of our favorite playwrights, Mark Salinger Ling, was putting on his newest play at the youth center to raise awareness for homeless teens.

  The mural took up an entire brick wall that was partly decimated from either the weather, time, or humans. But that didn’t take away the magic of the mural. No, if anything, it enhanced it, giving the experience of something worldly, something much more important than the lives being lived by anyone who looked upon it.

  It was a mural of a lady with black hair, her eyes filled with sorrow, and her mouth open in a silent scream. She appeared to be coming out a lotus flower, its petals wilted and dying, yet I didn’t feel all that hopeless looking at it, even if there was just something tragic about it all. I couldn’t look away. And just in the corner of the wall, small enough that not a lot people would notice, was the name K.H. Knight.

  Many people could draw and paint, and they can do it well. But very few could make you feel insignificant with their art.

  K.H. Knight was one of those rare gems.

  I was instantly enamored with the artist’s work that first time I came across it. I took a picture of it, printed it out and framed it. It now hung proudly on my wall in my room, but the picture couldn’t do the mural justice.

  I must have come back to that mural every day for two weeks after that, before the city finally put in an order to paint over it. And it felt like I was the only one heartbroken over its destruction.

  It took seventeen months before K.H. Knight resurfaced again, and this time, on a local website for artists to put up and sell their work. But Knight didn’t sell their work that often. And even to this day, I still haven’t owned a K.H. Knight original. So, when I came across a painting of a hummingbird feeding from a tulip by Knight, I placed an order right away, despite the outrageous price.

  It loaded and I anxiously waited, hoping it hadn’t sold before I bought it. And when my order finally came through, I climbed off the couch and jumped in excitement. Today was my lucky day. And the painting was due to arrive in five days.

  Five long days until I could hold the painting in my hand. Five days to debate whether or not I wanted to give this rare find to Mason.

  I sat down, thinking. I could always find something else, but any painting I bought for him after this purchased would feel empty. I guessed it all came down to how important I thought Mason was in my life. And so far, our interactions with each other were friendly at best, and distant and polite at worst.

  Was I giving too much weight to this little attraction?

  I shook my head. There was nothing little about my attraction toward Mason. If anything, it seemed to multiply on a daily basis.

  I feared I might be setting myself up for a world of hurt later on, because even as I told myself not to hang onto the hope that Mason might feel for me the way I felt for him, the hope was still there, no matter how minuscular it might be.

  The doorbell ringing took me out of my musing. A quick look at the clock read three o’clock. Max and Mason had been gone for most of the day, and I felt about as productive as a fruit fly.

  I walked to the door and made the mistake of opening the door without checking the peephole. Lorenzo stood there, in his usual style, with his wavy auburn hair styled to perfection, his clothes wrinkle-free and on trend. The black sweater and dark jeans he wore really brought out his green eyes. Eyes that were focused intently on me, with something dark brewing in them.

  I always felt like I had to look nothing but my best whenever we hung out, mostly because Lorenzo didn’t know the meaning of casual. Even his casual clothes screamed pretentious. And now, I was in front of him in one of Max’s old shirts and comfortable jeans. I wished I was still wearing the clothes I had on this morning when I was trying to impress Mason. But I’d changed out of them as soon as the men left.

  I shifted awkwardly on my feet.

  After what happened yesterday, both before and after work, I wasn’t sure how to act around him. “Hey,” I said.

  He seemed unnaturally subdued. There was something different about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “Hey. Can I come in?”

  I hesitated. “Um, Max isn’t home right now, and I don’t think he’d feel comfortable with me inviting you in.”

  “Oh, come on, Olivia. Don’t be such a goody two-shoes all the time.”

  He didn’t wait for my answer, instead pushing his way in. I had no choice but to move back. I could smell alcohol on him when he passed. I frowned at his retreating back, as he walked into the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge, making himself at home.

  Closing the door behind me, I reluctantly locked it. There had always been something out of control about Lorenzo. And usually, I couldn’t get enough of the whole bad-boy vibe he put out, but today… the hair on the back of my neck rose, and I dragged my feet along, walking to him.

  Lorenzo was sitting on the couch drinking Max’s beer. It was a bold move, and completely out of character because, despite his “fuck the world” attitude, Lorenzo was nothing but a meek little lamb in Max’s presence.

  I often found his reaction amusing, but I never said anything because I didn’t want to bruise his ego.

  He patted the seat next to him. “Come sit with me, Olivia. We can watch a movie or something.”

  I shook my head. “Max will be home soon, and he’ll kill you if he catches you drinking his beer.”

  Lorenzo shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but I could see in his eyes that he was worried. Yet, he took another long sip before setting it down on the coffee table. Then he looked at me expectantly.

  Not knowing what excuse I could offer, I took the seat next to him, leaving some room between us and, for the first time in our relationship, I became acutely aware of the size difference between us. Lorenzo wasn’t Max or Mason big, but he was bigger than me.

  “You want to watch TV?” I asked, looking for the remote. That would help pass the time, and surely Max would be on his way home by now.

  I’d hoped, anyway.

  “Just a minute.” He held up his hand and I had to stop myself from flinching. Why was I so wary of him all the sudden? It made no sense. We’d been alone more times than not, but this time felt different. Lorenzo felt different.

  He smirked, and I hated how he looked then. “Are you scared of me?”

 
I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  Lowering his voice, he said, “Good.” Then he hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me in close to his body until every part of me touched him. And he did it so easily, as if I weighed nothing.

  I placed both hands on his chest, trying to get some space in between us, but Lorenzo wasn’t having it. He tightened his arms around me to the point of pain.

  “Wait, I don’t think we should do this,” I said when he kissed the skin on my neck. I tried to move away, but couldn’t, and I was in a panic.

  I could feel my heart beating too fast in my chest, my breath coming out shallow, and my vision tunneling.

  “Why shouldn’t we do this?” he asked, bringing the tender flesh on my neck to his mouth and sucking.

  I let out a haggard breath, shaking my head. “I’m not in the mood.”

  I felt him grin, and fear worked its way up my spine. “I can get you in the mood.”

  “Lorenzo…”

  He moved his hands to the curve of my butt and squeezed roughly. I was going to bruise there; I was sure of it. I tried to squirm away, but he only tightened his hold until I cried out. I stilled.

  “Good girl. Now stop trying to move away.”

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Why wasn’t anything coming out? Scream! Tell him no! my mind yelled at me. Didn’t Max say something about consent? What was it? Don’t leave room for miscommunication?

  I shook my head as tears sprang to my eyes. There was no way he could misunderstand my panicked expression. But he didn’t look remorseful. He didn’t stop. His grin widened, and there was something hideous about his grin that rendered me immobile. All the while, the only thing I could think of was that I didn’t give my consent.

  He couldn’t do this to me.

  But he was doing it to me. And he was enjoying it.

  “You’re such a cock tease, you know that?”

  The tears fell down my cheeks and he wiped them away, the move so gentle, it belied his words as he continued on. “I’ve never had to wait close to a month to take my girlfriend to bed before. But you? I’m not even sure I’d even get the chance to feel your tight pussy around my dick unless I stopped giving you the chance to refuse me. Isn’t that right, baby?”