Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  I hang my head, my heart in my throat with a looming sadness that I push aside. I’m not sad. I’m not sad. I can live without him.

  “Where are you pulling your data from?” my dad asks, voice calm.

  “Places,” I say, being as cagey as him. I’m the first of his children in a serious relationship. Guessing his motives concerning my boyfriend will be as accurate as shaking a Magic 8 Ball. I have no idea what my dad is truly thinking. “Are you inviting Thatcher to lunch out of kindness or to interrogate him?”

  “That depends if we agree on the definition of interrogate,” he says smoothly like he, himself, is the arbiter of definitions. I once believed he wrote the dictionary under the pseudonym Merriam-Webster. I was five. And clearly deluded.

  “Dad,” I say in warning.

  “It’ll be a civil conversation, I promise.” I can feel his billion-dollar grin.

  “I think you should wait for me to be there. I’ll be back in three days. Please.”

  “If that’s what you want.” He pauses. “But sooner or later, I’m going to get to know him on my own. You’re not just seriously dating him, Jane. You’re bringing him into our world, and there’s only so much a background check covers.”

  All bodyguards go through background checks, but my dad makes it seem like he pried right after Thatcher and I became a couple.

  I’m frozen, but somehow I thaw, just to glance over my shoulder. At him.

  Thatcher looks anything but surprised.

  He knew that my family would take a bulldozer to his history and excavate any dead, decaying skeletons he buried away.

  Of course he did. He’s a bodyguard. He’s probably helped do the digging in the past.

  I raise my phone again, my eyes locked on Thatcher. “I understand,” I tell my dad.

  My world—it’s barricaded and protected by a thousand force fields. Us, Cobalts—we have traditions that my cousins don’t even share. Letting an outsider into our well-guarded fortress is frightening and new, and I wouldn’t want or trust anyone to enter except for Thatcher.

  I emphasize, “Just, please wait until I come home.”

  “Pour toi n’importe quoi.” For you, anything.

  After a quick goodbye, we hang up, but relief doesn’t exactly strike. Not after the awkward “marriage” moment and me mentioning statistics and our low probability of lasting.

  Maybe it’s not even on Thatcher’s mind.

  Maybe he’s forgotten my word vomit already.

  He scans our surroundings, then me. “I’m not trying to kill your dreams, Jane, but your probabilities seem off.”

  “How so?” I hug my arms around my body.

  “You said it’s statistically low that someone marries their first boyfriend or girlfriend. How does that work between you and me?”

  I’m confused until he adds, “You’re not my first girlfriend.”

  “Oh.” I flush.

  He nears. “I’m not as good at math as you, but in my head, it doesn’t make sense that our odds are different when we’d be marrying each other.” He blinks back something raw. “Hypothetically.”

  “Hypothetically.” I nod in agreement. Emotion bubbles to the surface, and I’ve never experienced this strong swell surging and surging and breathing life and sentiments so unwieldy inside of me. I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’ll have…have to recalculate.” I sound breathless.

  Our hands toy with touching again, and then the sky cracks.

  We look up. Dark clouds gather and rumble violently.

  Maximoff and Farrow sprint over to us as rain suddenly descends in heavy sheets. Thatcher draws me to his chest to keep me semi-dry, and I spin to face him.

  Rain soaks our hair and shoulders, and he fits my binder beneath his jacket. Protecting the pages and ink.

  I love him.

  Moffy shouts over the storm, “We need to leave before the weather gets worse!”

  It’s already freezing, and we have a slippery, dangerous descent.

  “Hold onto me,” Thatcher says with severity.

  I ache and desire and want to say, always. But the word is stuck. And all I manage to get out is, “Okay.”

  23

  THATCHER MORETTI

  It all happens in a fucking blink. As we descend the hill, Jane slips on the slick grass.

  Her hand slips out of mine, and she slides and slides. Too rapidly to catch, and Maximoff loses his footing. He falls next.

  Farrow and I rush after them, but both land in the knee-deep, bone-chilling rocky stream. I’ve never moved this fast. I’ve never picked Jane up this quickly, and I’ve never felt her arms wrap around me this tight.

  How the fuck did this happen?

  It plays over and fucking over in my head when we reach the car, and I slam the door shut. Rain beats against the vehicle. Dry cover as Farrow and I move with severe urgency inside.

  I’m in the backseat, and I slide Jane’s soaked and torn jeans down her thighs, down her ankles. Crimson bleeds into the mint-green fabric, and I throw aside the bloodied jeans. Her trembling fingers struggle to grip the zipper of her wet jacket.

  I take over and skate the zipper down.

  How the fuck did this happen? It rings in my ears. Slams at my chest. Jane being hurt is a thousand jackknives to the head and heart, and my feelings for her are bursting at me like blazing fireworks in my face. My greatest duty in this lifetime is to protect the woman I love.

  She’s the only one, and this singular purpose pushes me to stay focused, gliding her jacket sleeves off her arms. Her brown hair sopping her shoulders as she shudders.

  I tie her hair into a high messy bun, and in the front seats, Farrow is helping the man he loves remove his jacket and drenched shirt beneath. Maximoff tries to peel the crew-neck off his vibrating body, but Farrow does the job for him.

  Shaking uncontrollably, Maximoff glances back at Jane. He looks how I feel. “Her lips…are blue,” he chatters.

  Jane stares petrified at him. Because his lips are blue too.

  Their panic just tanks the air, and I understand the bond she shares with Maximoff because I share the same one with my twin brother. But I’m also connected to her, and the love I wield for Jane and the love Farrow carries for Maximoff—it drives two more sets of pain.

  Two more weights tanking us.

  We’re three-ways in hell, and the only good thing is that all four of us are built to withstand the fire.

  I draw her on my lap, careful with her leg, where a rock cut her from knee to shin. “He’s okay,” I assure Jane.

  “She’ll be fine, Maximoff,” Farrow says with certainty.

  My muscles are taut. Searing.

  “I can’t…” Jane takes sharp breaths like her lungs are ice. Her wet blue-feathered blouse makes her look like a trembling bluebird caught in a rainstorm. I have to get her out of these clothes.

  “I have you.” I cup her cheek—her skin is freezing. Blood is also dripping down her leg, and I have to prioritize one. I make the call and choose her leg. Farrow is already reaching back and handing me a first-aid kit and water bottle.

  I pop the kit’s plastic lid.

  “Is the cut deeper than a quarter of an inch?” Farrow asks while he helps Maximoff pull off his soaked jeans.

  I examine the cut. “Almost.”

  She squeezes her eyes closed, fighting for fuller breath.

  Heat expels from the car’s A/C, and Maximoff ensures the vents are open and directs them towards Jane.

  “Okay, you need to wash the cut and apply pressure.” Farrow stretches between the driver and passenger seat, closer to the backseat to get a better assessment. He’s calm but looks serious. “If it doesn’t stop bleeding after fifteen minutes, I’ll suture her.”

  I nod.

  Thank the Lord he’s a fucking doctor. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that. Wasting no time, I splash water on Jane’s shin, washing off some dirt, and I expect her to wince. But she shakes.

  Shivers.
/>   Shudders forward, too cold to feel the pain—and alarm quickens my actions.

  Swiftly, I bite open a packet of gauze and press down on the wound. I fist the hem of her blouse and tug the drenched fabric off her head. Her nipples prod against her soaked, see-through pink bra, and her cat-printed panties aren’t dry either.

  She quakes. Her arms hug her belly—and I’m about to draw her onto my lap. I’m about to rub her skin for hot friction and cradle my girlfriend as close as I fucking can.

  But I catch movement outside.

  I narrow my eyes on the blurry windshield, rain slithering down the glass—and I see her bodyguard.

  God-fucking-dammit.

  My veins pulse with anger. Tony exits a car that’s parked in front of ours. His stride is arrogant, like he’s about to turn the rain into wine.

  “Fuck that guy,” Maximoff says shakily. “I’m going—”

  “No.” Farrow tugs him away from the door. “Let us worry about that dipshit. You and Jane need to get warm.”

  I click my mic. “Banks to Tony, return to your vehicle. We have enough hands here.”

  He smiles at our car like I’m bullshitting him. Like he’s the best bodyguard on the team and there’s no way he’s not needed.

  I’m about to pop off. Badly. I wrench open the door and tell Jane, “I’ll be fast.” If she weren’t frozen, she’d probably pass me an umbrella or hand me another knife.

  I shut the door.

  Rain pelts my shoulders with harsher impact, and I realize…it’s sleeting. Tony spreads his arms wide, approaching, only a meter away. “I’m here to help.”

  “You’re not needed!” I yell between my teeth. “Get the fuck back in your Victor.” Fuck me—I meant vehicle not Victor, but military slang spills out of my mouth.

  He cocks his head, eyes flashing hot. “Why don’t you? That’s my client. You and your fucking brother are always stepping on my territory. First with Xander, now with Jane—and you think I’m the one with the problem? You want what I have, and it kills you—”

  “Tony,” I growl, time slipping. “Back off or I swear to fucking God I will throw you against your car.” My hand is a white-knuckled fist. If he protests, I’m swinging.

  His brows pinch, something flickering in his eyes. He’s studying my features. “Banks?”

  I stiffen.

  I forgot that I’m my brother, and I didn’t think, out of everything, that my shorter fuse and blistering wrath would cause suspicion.

  Nothing else has.

  I breathe harsh breaths through my nose. Controlling my anger, and I force out, “Back off.”

  Tony gives me another once-over, then raises his hands. “It’s her loss. She could use another pair of hands, and you’re just hurting her.”

  He knows where to stab me. His words fester under my skin as I return to the car, and I wonder if he’s right and I’m wrong.

  Can’t do anything about it. I already made the call.

  I open the car door.

  Farrow is in the back with Jane, putting pressure on her leg, and he switches with me and takes the driver’s seat again. We work in unison, seamless, without much verbal communication, and I shut out the sleet and strip off my wet jacket.

  I draw Jane onto my lap and collect her trembling hands in mine. She watches me blow hot breath on her palms.

  Her shaking slows and slows, less violent than before.

  “Christ.” Maximoff makes a strange noise in the passenger seat. Like he’s frustrated from not being able to control his body and eliminate the cold.

  Farrow whispers in his ear, his tattooed hands moving over Maximoff.

  “I can’t…” Jane inhales, and when I clasp her cheek, she nuzzles into my palm, bathing in my warmth. Our eyes lock, and I run my hand back-and-forth over each arm, each leg, the curve of her hip—my touch burning a fire across the planes and valleys of her beautiful body.

  She burrows into my hard chest. “Don’t…stop.”

  “I won’t,” I whisper, my large palm gliding up and down the length of her back, along the line of her smooth shoulders and her soft thighs.

  She reaches back to her spine and tries to snap off her wet bra.

  I unclasp it, slipping the straps down her bare shoulders. I watch her eyes follow my fingertips that track scalding trails as I remove her clothing.

  And I glance at the windshield. To see if Tony has a visual inside our car. With our body temperature and the heaters on full-blast, we’ve created a sauna, the windows completely fogged.

  Farrow makes sure Maximoff doesn’t look back and see his cousin topless.

  All clear.

  I warm her cold skin, kneading her breasts and puckered nipples, and Jane melts into me. My pulse pounds.

  She rests her chin on my chest, just to look up at me. Her breath becomes shallow…then deeper.

  Finally.

  I clasp her cheek, our lips brushing before I press mine to hers in raw, deep passion. Breathing life into Jane, and she careens into the sweltering kiss. Her fingers gripping stronger on my biceps. My muscles contract and I pull her against me.

  When our mouths break apart, I make sure my girlfriend doesn’t look forward and see Maximoff stripping off his wet boxer-briefs.

  Farrow undoes his own belt—about to give his fiancé his dry clothes.

  I do the same. My white tee off, I pull the soft fabric over Jane’s head, which hangs down to her thighs. The car is heavy breath and blood-scalding heat.

  Jane wraps up in my shirt and lets out a soft noise, more content. But then she shifts slightly and winces.

  Her leg. I check the cut. Bleeding has stopped. While I apply a bandage, I ask, “How bad does it hurt?”

  “It stings,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to move.”

  I weave my arm around her hips and shoulders. Tucking her against me. I look at the front seat. “Farrow, you good to drive with the rain?” In the past, storms have triggered certain memories for him.

  “Yeah. It’s not affecting me.” Farrow pulls off his dry black V-neck and passes the fabric to Maximoff.

  “No, man.” Maximoff shoves the shirt back to Farrow. “You need that more than I do.” A shiver runs through him.

  His brows spike with a barbell piercing. “I’m sweating, so no, I really don’t.” He snaps in his seatbelt.

  Maximoff relents, already tugging on Farrow’s black pants over his waist. He kisses Farrow, then focuses on his cousin. “You okay, Janie?” He restrains himself from glancing back.

  “Yes.” She buries her cheek in the crook of my arm. “Are you?”

  “Yeah.”

  I speak into my mic. “Banks to Tony, we’re Oscar Mike in three.”

  Comms crackle. “Roger.”

  While Farrow puts the car in gear, I detect this sadness in Jane, her lips downturned and eyes on the passenger seat. Where her best friend sits.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” I whisper so they can’t hear.

  She has a pained face. “Moffy won’t pick this location for the ceremony. I know how much he loved it, but we all know it’s not safe, especially if it rains.”

  I skim her and can’t help but think that she’s the most loving person I’ve ever met. She just fell in freezing water, and instead of being concerned about her leg, she’s here empathizing with Maximoff.

  Still, she’s so afraid to love me.

  I don’t know why. Not completely.

  I just don’t.

  And a part of me is scared of the full-blown answer. Maybe that’s why I haven’t pressed her hard enough to give me one.

  24

  JANE COBALT

  An outing alone with my boyfriend should have been a recipe for a wonderful, epic day. It’s why I jumped at the chance to go grocery shopping for seventeen people.

  No one wanted the task of driving an hour in sleet and rain to the nearest food market. Especially after being caught in a storm after location-scouting yesterday.

  Maximoff alre
ady promised Farrow he’d spend today indoors by the fire, and Tony was all too happy to relinquish his duties as my bodyguard to “Banks” when I asked.

  For Tony, I think the drudgery of having to watch me shop for green beans was the least appealing. Or maybe he’s finally conceding in this strange bodyguard cock-fight. I can only hope.

  Biscuits and jams line wooden shelves in the small Scottish shop, and it’s just Thatcher and me. No cousins, no siblings, no other bodyguards. A dream-like scenario. Only this isn’t the epic, wonderful day I imagined.

  We’re currently at a standstill in the pasta aisle, a shopping cart wedged between us, a literal and metaphorical barrier.

  This isn’t our first argument, but this one feels different.

  More intense.

  Like the billowing steam of a geyser right before the eruption.

  I clutch a grocery list, torn apart in two equal halves. Ten different handwritings are scrawled on the paper after being passed around the house.

  “We can’t split up, Jane,” Thatcher tells me for the second time. His tone is definitive. No room for compromise.

  “We can actually.” My fingers curl around the list. “I’ll take the dairy and produce. You stick to the middle aisles. We’ll cover more ground that way. It’s more efficient than wandering around the store together.” I check my pink wristwatch. “We’ve already wasted ten minutes trying to locate the ketchup.” All the brands are different than the ones I’m used to in the States.

  His frown deepens. “I understand that. But you know how this works. I’m on-duty, which means you have to be in my sight at all times.”

  I draw in a heady breath.

  My first reaction: utter, unequivocal attraction. Dear God, I’m attracted to how much he’s around me. Always present like an ever-consuming forest fire.

  My second reaction: shame. Guilt. Horrible feelings that compound on each other.

  My head is telling me that I shouldn’t want these things. I shouldn’t want him around me all the time. I should be able to walk around a food market without my boyfriend.

  Pressure assembles on my chest, and I follow my head. “We’re the only customers.” I stick to facts about safety. “The one employee is up at the front register, and she looks like she was alive during the Fall of Constantinople. She’s hardly a threat. This market might as well have been bought out and shut down for us.”