Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  “It is what it is,” I tell Tony professionally. “In another month, your probationary period will be over, and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

  Donnelly laughs at something.

  My senses are ringing, hyper-vigilant to any movements and sounds. I catch O’Malley looking past me and my brother. His eyes blazing on Omega.

  Honestly, I wish O’Malley wasn’t here, but he’s Beckett’s bodyguard. And Charlie has confirmed that Beckett is still using cocaine, so the plan to make Beckett go to Scotland is intact and waiting to be executed.

  Banks whispers to me, “This is gonna be a shit show.”

  I stay alert and uncap a water bottle. “Dealing with shit shows is what we do.” I take a swig and wipe my mouth with my wrist, then I hand him the water.

  His lip quirks. “What you and Akara do,” he corrects. “I’m just your cowboy.” He swallows a gulp, and we hawk-eye Epsilon. “Incoming,” Banks says under his breath.

  O’Malley takes an affronting step forward.

  I block his path. “Don’t.”

  He ignores me and raises his voice. “You shouldn’t be here either, Donnelly!”

  Laughter dies.

  Farrow pops his gum, Oscar’s hand freezes in a bag of Bugels, and Quinn solidifies midway in a sit-up.

  “What’d you say?” Donnelly glares.

  Oscar removes his hand from the snack bag and clutches his friend’s shoulder. Keeping him back. Farrow leans casually on a boxing bag, tattoos inked on his neck and chest. Intimidating in his relaxed demeanor. He pops another bubble with his gum.

  “I said, you…shouldn’t…be…here…either,” O’Malley repeats annoyingly slow. “Your client is Xander Hale. He’s staying in Philly, so you’ll be in Scotland as a friend of Farrow’s, not as security. And this is a security meeting.”

  Farrow cuts in, “Donnelly has to be here in case we need extra hands. It’s that simple.”

  This shuts up O’Malley for half a second. “The team isn’t paying for your travel expenses, Donnelly,” he yells. “How are you even affording this?”

  “My good looks,” Donnelly quips.

  O’Malley laughs with Tony, then nods back to SFO. “Still working that street corner?”

  Christ.

  “He gave that corner to you, O’Malley,” Farrow says easily.

  Oscar chimes in, “We heard no one even wanted your free blow jobs.”

  Donnelly smirks. “Need tips?”

  “From someone who’s had ten different STDs, I’ll pass,” O’Malley retorts, then outstretches his arms. “You want to keep going? It’s not changing the fact that Beckett is my client. It’s not changing the fact that I’m always—”

  “O’Malley,” I growl.

  I’ve already heard him say I’m always cleaning up Donnelly’s messes. And I’m not letting him unleash that twice. I nail a patented stern look on him again.

  He cuts his gaze to me.

  And in a split-second, I become the target.

  Good.

  “You remember what you told me on my first day?” O’Malley asks, trekking closer. Feeling how hot my blood is running, I cross my arms and step back.

  Again.

  And again.

  “You said this was a brotherhood.”

  I nod, my lungs burning, and my deltoids hit a punching bag. Nowhere to go, I stop in place.

  He edges nearer, much shorter but he lifts his chin. “You said that we put the clients first but the people who have our backs are the guys to our left and right. You said that if I couldn’t be dependable, then I needed to pack my bags and leave. You remember that?”

  I do.

  Because as a lead, I gave that same speech to every man who joined SFE. My jaw hurts from bearing down on my molars, but I have nothing to say. Nothing to make this right.

  I can’t apologize for falling in love with her.

  I can’t call what happened a mistake. Gun to my head, I’d repeat every moment so I’d have the boldest, smartest girl next to me—a girl I shouldn’t have.

  But she’s mine, and I might not deserve her but I swear to God, I’ll never harm her, and I’d give my life to protect her. I know I’m not a prince.

  I’m not a king.

  But I’d treat Jane like she should be treated. She’s my princess, my angel, and my queen. Every morning and every night. I’d kneel at her feet and stand by her side.

  “It was all bullshit in the end, right?” O’Malley is up against me, chest to chest. “You’re a fucking liar. I should’ve known that when we learned you’re a Marine. But I was stupid enough to defend your ass to SFE.”

  “Leaving out some facts isn’t lying.” Banks sticks up for me, but I shoot him a look across the gym.

  I’m not putting him in this mess.

  He shakes his head and lets out a frustrated noise. He doesn’t want me to take the fall for all of it, but I’m ready to go all the way down.

  “Leaving out some facts isn’t lying,” O’Malley repeats with a dry laugh. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  With our height difference, I stare down at him. Hating how he keeps bumping up against me. My flexed arms stay woven over my chest, biceps bulged.

  “I bet your new friends don’t even really know you.” He glances past my shoulder and zeroes in on Farrow, Oscar, Quinn, and Donnelly. “Did he ever tell you we both went to Saint Joseph’s High School?”

  Strain stretches the air. Omega doesn’t give O’Malley the satisfaction of wearing surprise.

  “Why would that come up?” I ask him. “You were in a grade below me. I barely knew you.” We had different social circles. I was a football player who worked church functions to get tuition.

  He was well-off and voted student body president.

  “I don’t know, Thatcher,” O’Malley snaps. “Maybe I thought my lead cared about other things than finding roundabout ways to fuck Jane.”

  Hearing her name causes my muscles to tense. Like my body is triggered into defense-mode.

  SFO starts launching insults at him, either on my behalf or Jane’s—I can’t tell.

  “Let him talk,” I say loudly, silencing Omega, and then I nod O’Malley onward. “You have shit on your chest. Get it off.”

  He cranes his neck more to look up at me. “Admit what you did was wrong.”

  “I can’t do that.” Flat-out.

  I can’t.

  Being with Jane is the most right thing I’ve ever done.

  “Great.” He’d be in my face if he could reach it. “So you’re saying that if I find myself in a room alone with Luna Hale, and she comes onto me, I’m in the clear to fuck her. Right there. Down and dirty on the floor.”

  I almost snap.

  I almost yell, she’s nineteen!

  But Jane is only twenty-three. SFO rustles behind me, fuming. I take a short glance backwards. Oscar looks murderous.

  Farrow straightens up more than usual. He places a hand on Donnelly’s chest. “Ignore the fucker.”

  “He’s been asking for a fight.” Donnelly boils. “He’s gonna get hit—”

  “Come here then,” O’Malley goads, but his attention veers to Luna’s bodyguard.

  “You can’t talk about my client like that,” Quinn growls.

  He raises his hands. “I’m just using the precedent Omega has set. If they’re of age and willing, then it’s fair game, right?”

  “No,” I say harshly. Deescalate this shit. I try to take a breath. “You were Luna’s bodyguard when she was sixteen,” I remind O’Malley. “Jane was twenty-two, an adult, when I was on her detail. Maximoff was twenty-two when Farrow went to his. I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s fucking different.”

  His jaw drops, like he can’t believe I’m rationalizing this. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “The same person who spoke to you your first day.”

  “No, that guy is dead. You chose pussy over your own integrity,” he sneers. “Hope it tastes worth it.”


  I see red.

  It’s a switch, but all I want is distance. I want him out of my perimeter. I want him to stop bumping against my fucking chest.

  Like a reflex, I uncross my arms and shove him back. He careens into a punching bag. It sways, but he barely loses balance on his feet. He charges at me.

  I see the fist coming.

  I can’t move. My feet are forced to the fucking mat. Cemented by guilt and blame, and his knuckles smash into my lip.

  Bitter iron of blood floods my mouth. People yell around me.

  “Heyheyhey!” I hear my brother.

  My head spins, the surrounding chaos and my bottled emotion igniting boxes in my head. Boxes that I’ve stapled shut for years. Senses tweaked, my eyes are narrowed, unable to close.

  I hear rounds firing in violent succession. My pulse ratchets up. I turn my head, but I have tunnel vision. This—this hasn’t happened before. Not while I’m awake.

  Fuck me.

  “Back up!”

  “Let go, O’Malley!”

  I blink into focus and realize O’Malley is fisting my damp black tee. Banks tries to shove between me and him, and I react like I’ve pressed play on a paused movie.

  I block my brother and let O’Malley crush another fist into my body. Pounding into my shoulder. Fuck.

  Banks tears him off me.

  My adrenaline accelerates, chest rising and falling.

  Farrow and Oscar drag me from the fight. My brain is screaming to protect my brother, who’s standing on the firing line.

  “Banks!” I call out.

  Banks.

  O’Malley shoves my twin brother, and Banks pushes him angrily back.

  “What in the fuck is going on?” That harsh-edged voice comes from the doorway, Sinclair and the other leads entering the gym.

  Hands drop to sides. We all go still.

  Akara looks from O’Malley to me, his eyes descending to my fat lip. He shakes his head in disbelief, like he, too, doesn’t even know who I am anymore.

  My nose flares.

  O’Malley is just one person I hurt. But he’s one of many. Everyone on Epsilon feels like I betrayed their trust, their respect, but the person I betrayed the most is standing right there. And the look Akara gives me now—it cuts me open and spills out my insides.

  It hurts the absolute worst.

  Price, the Alpha lead, glares at everyone. “Who punched Moretti?” He’s asking who should be fined three-grand.

  Bodyguards can’t hit other bodyguards without punishment.

  No one speaks.

  No one points fingers.

  With an inhale, I announce, “I started the fight.” I touch my lip. It’s already swelling. “You can fine me.”

  Banks gives me a hard look like you idiot.

  O’Malley frowns.

  Akara wears even more disappointment.

  Price nods. “Will do.”

  Sinclair nears and weaves between boxing bags. “You ladies done having a tea party, we need to get down to this Scotland business.”

  My mouth is full of blood, and I’m not about to spit it out on the mats. Quietly, I excuse myself to use the gym bathrooms.

  Showers and toilet stalls are empty. I immediately spit a wad of blood in the sink basin. My pulse is racing.

  I swivel the faucet and splash water at my face. Come on. I squeeze the edge of the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. Droplets trickle down my temples and slip off my jaw.

  My eyes are bloodshot.

  I can barely blink, and I can almost feel her curious hands sliding across my waist. I can almost see her rising smile peek around my body, and her chin perched on my side. Her eyes glimmering up at me with uncommon strength.

  I want to turn around and lift her in my arms. To press my forehead to her forehead and stare into the bluest depths of her gaze.

  But she’s not here. She’s back at the townhouse.

  The sound of a leaking shower bleeds into the quiet.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  It drives me insane. I scrape a palm down my wet face. My hand is shaking. Christ, I just want to hear her voice. I should compartmentalize my feelings and shove off.

  But I pull my phone out of my pocket.

  Without much thought, I’m calling Jane. Like this is an ingrained reaction.

  Jane picks up on the second ring. “Thatcher? Is the meeting already over?”

  I can’t move. I stare at the faucet.

  “Thatcher?” Her voice pitches in worry.

  “It hasn’t started yet.” I grip the sink with one hand and swallow a rock. And then I rehash everything that happened with the team.

  I promised myself I’d never hit another bodyguard, and even if I was provoked, I shouldn’t have pushed O’Malley.

  With every word I say out loud, I’m sure that I’m painting myself as the biggest villain. “It’s good that he got a punch in,” I continue. “I just don’t want my brother in the middle of it.”

  I don’t want her in the middle of it either. But she’s on the phone, and I don’t want to hang up. I just want to hear her.

  “You don’t deserve to be punched, I hope you realize,” Jane says fiercely. “I know you want to take fault for what’s happened, but this won’t make you feel any better.”

  My chest caves. I can’t speak, but she fills the quiet.

  “And I’m terribly proud of you.”

  It knocks the wind out of me. Slowly, I shake my head. “Why?”

  “You handled everything well, especially under stressful conditions. It could’ve rattled you more, and you could’ve said worse to provoke him. You tried your best I truly believe. So…um, I…” She sounds flustered, and I almost smile because she’s mostly only like this with me. “I’m very, very proud of you. Which I’ve already said, but it doesn’t hurt to say twice.”

  I hear her blow out a measured breath.

  More quietly, she asks, “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah.” My pulse slows. “Thanks, honey.”

  I can practically feel her smile. “Talking is my specialty.”

  “It’s my weakness,” I say bluntly.

  “You’re not so bad,” she whispers. “And we even each other out. It’s why we make a disastrously good team.”

  I exhale and release my tight grip. We start saying our goodbyes. “I love you,” I tell Jane.

  “I…” She sucks in a sharp breath.

  It’s okay.

  Still, something stings. Her hang-ups shouldn’t hurt because she warned me that she’d be pushing and pulling, but I feel like I’m fucking up. Unable to be there for my girlfriend the way that she was just here for me.

  “You know how I feel.” Her voice is higher-pitched. “What I feel for you is…” Her words carry the swell of emotion that could topple buildings, but she stops herself from adding more.

  “I know, and you don’t have to say I love you back every time,” I remind her.

  She’s silent.

  My pulse thumps in my throat. “Jane?”

  “Je suis désolée.” I’m sorry.

  “You don’t need to apologize,” I say strongly. “I love you, that’s it. Nothing else has to happen.” My chest tightens. I’m not sure what she needs from me. She’s someone who rarely looks to be reassured, but I feel like I need to console her.

  How?

  “I’ll let you go, Thatcher,” she says in a whisper. “Um, I’m…you know…” She sighs in frustration at herself. “À la prochaine.” Until next time.

  I stare at my reddened eyes in the mirror. “See you, Jane.” I feel like a jackass. Should’ve stopped her. Should’ve said more.

  We hang up.

  And I could rattle the sink and scream. Instead, I stay in a lunge, clutching the life out of the porcelain.

  I smother the sound of the shower drip by turning on the faucet again, and I rinse out my mouth, blood washing down the drain. As I splash more water at my face, cooling off, the
bathroom door swings open. I expect to see my brother.

  But it’s someone else.

  12

  THATCHER MORETTI

  The white-haired, tattooed bodyguard saunters inside the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him. Farrow’s barbell piercing rises with his brows. “You look like shit.”

  “You must love this.” I wipe water off my face with my bicep.

  “Eh, I don’t hate it.” He smiles.

  It causes my lip to twitch in 1/1000th of a smile, which is more than usual. Especially around him.

  Farrow leans on a stall door. “See, I know what it’s like to be decked in the face for sleeping with a client.”

  I almost laugh. Yeah, I’m the one who punched him. I can’t find any words, and we end up just staring awkwardly at each other.

  He combs his inked fingers through his hair. “You okay?”

  I nod once.

  “Your eyes were glazed back there.” He touches his dangling earring. “It’s none of my business, and prying is not my favorite thing but I just remember you saying you only have nightmares.” Farrow Keene has become one of the only people on the team I feel safe enough to talk with about PTSD, because he’s experienced some form of this shit too.

  I nod again. “I don’t know what happened,” I admit.

  “Okay.” Farrow thinks for a second. “Could you tell if there was a trigger? A sound or maybe a feeling?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” I curl longer pieces of my hair behind my ears. “Could’ve been me getting punched. But I’ve been hit before and not been thrown back like that.”

  He rubs his lip piercing, tilting his head from side to side.

  “What?”

  “You let O’Malley hit you.”

  I’m quiet.

  Farrow nods a couple times. “Have you dropped your hands before?”

  Not like that.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Your natural instinct is to survive.” Farrow stands off the stall. “Putting your body in a panicked state could potentially throw you back.”

  Makes more sense, and this fog starts clearing. He didn’t have to come in here and talk to me, but I appreciate it. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He’s scrutinizing my face.

  I skim my tongue over my swollen lip. I taste blood. Glancing at the mirror, I clearly see that I busted my fucking lip open.