Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  “You pistol-whipped him?” I asked for confirmation.

  “Lightly,” he clarified and saw my concern. “I’m fine.” He’d been alone and had to wait for half the team to arrive.

  That’s what gnaws at me.

  I moved in closer, and we brought each other in a hug. My brother will always have my soul. Twenty-eight-years together does that.

  A tough part came next.

  I had to deliver the gut-wrenching news to Jane and Maximoff. After I finished, I thought it would have dissuaded them from staying in the townhouse. Hell, I’d grab a one-way ticket to anywhere but here.

  Instead, they feel safer.

  The intruder has been caught. He admitted to breaking in once prior and paying some tech friend to disable our security alarms. He was charged with a slew of crimes including two-counts of trespassing and violating his restraining order. So now he’s in jail, awaiting sentencing from a judge, but there’s not a chance he’ll skate by without at least a year.

  Target officially neutralized.

  It’s nice being back in my own clothes: red flannel over a gray tee, gold horns around my neck. But too much barbed wire lies ahead to relax.

  And I have to let Jane crawl through and be torn up. I can’t move aside the painful parts anymore.

  My muscles tense as I use a wooden spoon to stir thick, red sauce in a decent-sized pot, where meat has been simmering for hours. Cooking dinner for Jane is just one of the many things I love doing for her—but tonight’s dinner is going to have a side dish of hard truths.

  She has a vague concept of what happened. She has no fucking clue that Banks caught a middle-aged man with his dick exposed, jacking off over her bed—or even that this bastard masturbated in his car right outside the house.

  Providing the briefest, nondescript image and skimming over the full picture—that has always been our dynamic. I’ve been saving Jane from visualizing the disturbing realities of her fame.

  I hate that I need to do this. I hate painting graphic pictures of what sick fuckbags say and do. But she can’t make an informed decision about living here without all of the details.

  Still, this’ll hurt her.

  I’m going to hurt her.

  I strain pasta, steam billowing, and by the time I have food set on the iron café table, Jane climbs down the stairs and twists her damp hair in a bun. Just coming from the shower.

  She sniffs the air and smiles brightly. “It smells like heaven.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Mmhmm,” Jane nods. “I’m mortadafam’.”

  I didn’t teach her that word. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Banks.” She trots down the stairs, six cats almost tripping Jane, jumping at her calves and springing down the steps. Starving for attention from their mom. “He said it means you’re really hungry. Famished, even.” She reaches the first floor. “Did I say it well?”

  “Perfect.” My feelings for Jane balls up in my ribcage and tries to crack the bones a million and one times.

  And then my stomach tanks.

  I fixate on the calico cat she picks off the floorboards. Carpenter nuzzles his furry head against her cheek.

  She smiles and scratches behind his ears. “I missed you too, my love.”

  Carpenter—that cat, he’d been in the bedroom with a fucking pervert, and that fact might kill her more than the other. It’s staking me in the chest.

  “Can I do anything to help?” she asks while kissing Carpenter on the head.

  “It’s all done.”

  She frowns at my expression. “What’s wrong?” She sees me eyeing the calico cat. “Thatcher?”

  “We need to talk, honey.”

  Jane swallows. “Okay.” She gently sets Carpenter down, and then she assesses the glassware and food set on the table before disappearing into the kitchen.

  She returns with parmesan cheese, which I forgot.

  My lip lifts slightly, and the pressure in my chest almost relents. Ophelia and Licorice are rubbing up against my ankles, purring. Normally I’d pet the white and gray cats, but I crouch down and toss them a catnip-laced Darth Vader mouse.

  They chase after the toy.

  I stand back up and notice Jane frozen with a hand on an iron chair.

  She’s zeroed in on the pasta in meat sauce. “I thought you said you wouldn’t cook me your grandma’s braggiol’ because you can’t do it like her?”

  I did say that.

  “It’s comfort food.”

  Worry widens her gaze, but she takes a readying breath and lowers on the seat. “You think I need comforting?”

  I sit across from my girlfriend. “Not just you. This won’t be easy for me either.” I nod to the soup in the small bowls. “I didn’t cook the pasta vasul’. My brother said our stepmom brought a container over yesterday for you and me.”

  My family had been worried about us being snowed-in, and coming home to familiar food, made out of love, is simply pure love.

  Family constantly makes me feel like the wealthiest man in the world. There’s not a day I’d ever take them for granted.

  I look at Jane more. “I just heated it on the stove.”

  She tries to smile, but her lips fall. “That was awfully sweet of Nicola.” She inspects the soup. “Pasta and beans?”

  I nod, just once.

  Say more. I’m naturally quiet, but in this setting, my conciseness and brevity packs on tension like ten tons of weight.

  Jane pours wine, a dark Cab, in our glasses. Strain stretches between us. “I’m guessing this is about the culprit, but you should know that I feel extraordinarily safe here. I can already sense the warmest, most relaxing sleep tonight. Better than in a long while.”

  Whatever great sleep she thinks she’ll have, I’m about to fuck it all.

  She studies me and places the wine bottle aside. “Do you feel safe?” She looks pained. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked you sooner.”

  I hold her gaze. “You don’t need to apologize. I feel safe, but I feel safe most places.”

  Jane nods once, like I did, and cups wine between tense hands.

  My ears ring in her silence. And I focus on my talk with Farrow hours ago. He said he was going to take Maximoff out to dinner and lay down every single horrific detail that occurred in this house.

  I agreed to do the same for Jane.

  We’re both just praying they’ll consider moving.

  “I have to tell you what happened here,” I explain.

  She inhales a sharp breath. “Must you?”

  I nod. “You have to know.”

  She takes a dainty sip of wine, then places the glass down. “Okay.” She folds her arms on the table. “I’m ready.”

  With steaming pasta between me and my girlfriend, I have visions of Lady and the Tramp—but this is a fucked-up version of a Disney movie. Especially with the next words out of my mouth.

  “He masturbated on your bed, Jane.” Direct. To-the-point.

  She blinks a few times.

  I’m more specific. “The police found his semen on your bed.” My muscles are flexed, just seeing her cage breath.

  She reaches for her wine, thinks against it, and bends over to the floor. I watch Jane hoist Lady Macbeth, and her childhood black cat curls up on her lap. I realize, pasta is my comfort.

  Her cats are hers.

  Jane strokes her fur. “I thought…perhaps, the culprit just touched my bed, and that’s why you changed the duvet.”

  “I threw away everything: the sheets, the blankets.” I pause. “The mattress is new too.”

  She fights a swell of emotion. “Thank you.” Her eyes redden, hand staying still on her cat’s belly.

  I want to hold Jane. Cup her cheeks in my hands and tell her that I have her six. That for as long as I live, no one on this earth will touch her with ill intent or hatred or harm.

  I can’t.

  I can’t give her a false sense of security. And I don’t want her to normalize what stalk
ers and revolting pricks do. We can avoid them better in a gated location.

  “Security called him Sneakers,” I explain. “Because he always wore these dated white-scuffed sneakers whenever he stopped by the house.”

  She blows out a short, controlled breath. “Is he a heckler?”

  “A fan, or really, a suitor from your grandmother’s newspaper ad.”

  “Oh.” Her chin trembles a little and she breathes in, the deepest breath she can.

  “He was allowed to walk past the house. As much as he wanted.”

  Jane nods.

  “He was allowed to park outside the house. It’s public property.” I take a beat. “He was in his mid-forties, almost your dad’s age. And the first time he was caught, he was masturbating in his car outside this townhouse.”

  Her lips slowly part. “Oh God…he’s done it before?”

  I nod. “A restraining order was filed, which he broke. He’s not the first, second, third, or last fuckbag that I’ve slapped with a restraining order. He won’t be the last man to break into this townhouse either.” I grip her gaze with severity. “I feel safe. You feel safe, but the truth is, you aren’t safe here. Maximoff isn’t safe here. Neither are Luna and Sulli.”

  Her blue eyes are glassy with tears that won’t fall.

  My words—mine, are pushing Jane to this place, and chewing broken glass would feel better. I continue fast. “I’m not saying any of this to hurt you. I just need you to understand what’s happening and why I can’t protect you here.”

  She buries her face in Lady Macbeth’s fur for a moment.

  Her silence is a toxin dripping in my veins. I can’t stand it. “Please say something.”

  Brushing tears away with the heels of her palms, she glances up. “I have an overactive imagination, you see, and I just keep picturing some gross old man in our room with his cum on our bed…” She perches her elbows on the table, palms covering her face, agonized. “They saw, didn’t they?”

  My brows knit, and I shake my head. “Who?”

  “The way you were staring at Carpenter.” She lets out a guttural noise that wrenches me to my feet. Lady Macbeth springs off her lap.

  “Jane.” I crouch down beside her chair.

  “Walrus and Carpenter were in the room with him.” She won’t uncover her face. “I thought he could be worse than a burglar. I thought he could do something as sickening and heinous as what he did—but knowing for certain feels…” She chokes on a sob. “It feels like…my skin is crawling and it will never stop.” Her hands fall, and I kneel and pull her into my chest.

  She wraps her arms around my shoulders. I hold the back of her head, and she cries into the crook of my neck.

  “It will stop,” I whisper, deeply. “There are places where they can’t reach.”

  A minute passes before she lifts her chin, her tearful gaze meeting my hard eyes. “I feel as though…I’m letting them win by moving away. Like they’ve taken my home from me.”

  I brush the wet lines off her freckled cheeks. “Back in Scotland, you missed your sister, your parents, your brothers, cousins and your cats.” I take another beat. “A home isn’t a house, Jane. It’s the people you love, and by moving, you’re protecting them and you’re protecting yourself.”

  She wipes her face, easing more. “I know we have to move.”

  My chest rises.

  “But it’s such a drastic change, and I don’t just want to snap my fingers and be done here.”

  “I understand,” I say deeply. “This doesn’t have to be a fire drill. You can take your time looking for a new place.”

  “We,” she corrects.

  I nod, “You and Maximoff.”

  She frowns and clutches my shoulder stronger. “You and me.”

  We.

  My lips lift into a heartfelt smile, one I didn’t think would come at the end of this conversation.

  41

  JANE COBALT

  “No boy’s allowed!” my mom screams from the treehouse window. “Go away, Loren!”

  Uncle Loren glares up at her from the foot of the tree. “Fine, Cruella, I was just asking if you needed more blankets. Freeze your titanium pussy off for all I care!”

  “Go fuck a cactus!” My mom gets the last word in before returning to the mound of blankets. With stiff grace, she sinks onto her butt pillow like a beautiful ice queen. Black silk nightgown, royally expensive diamond necklace and earrings to match—she appears fit to sleep on a throne.

  Instead, she’s lounging in a homemade treehouse. Her silky, lush brown hair flies as wind blows through the wooden structure.

  I stare fondly. I revere every little bit of my mom, and lately, I haven’t needed to remind myself that I’m just as worthy and beautiful.

  I just feel that I am, and I’ve been more content with myself these days.

  Her piercing yellow-green eyes ping between me and her two sisters. She’s a fire-breather of epic proportions, one encased with love. “Where were we?”

  A smile spreads across my face.

  Boozy PJ night in the Meadows treehouse is forever a top-tier favorite occasion. My mom, aunts, and I try to have them a couple times a month, and after I returned from Scotland, they announced an emergency PJ night.

  One week into February and the winter chill still nips my skin—but the weather feels brisk and cool compared to the frostbitten temperatures in the Highlands. Portable heaters keep us toasty enough that no one wears coats.

  I’m quite warm in a pastel pink and orange heart pajama set, topped with a cat-eared beanie.

  Aunt Daisy digs into a bag of chocolate chips. “We were talking about the great and glorious house hunting adventures.” She spreads her hand in the air, miming a rainbow.

  We laugh.

  After I sip my beer, they look more serious, awaiting my response.

  They were all too happy when Moffy and I announced that we planned to move. Our parents have expressed firm disapproval of us living in the townhouse after the first break-in. But we’re adults, and they try to respect our choices.

  To be frank, I think they softened their worry so we wouldn’t clash. Some of the worst, most strained days between our parents and us were after the incest rumor. No one wishes to have a repeat.

  But with the most recent break-in, I know they wouldn’t be able to restrain the brunt-force of their feelings. And they would’ve gone absolutely mad if we decided to stay.

  “At the moment, we’re only certain about one thing.”

  “What?” Aunt Lily asks.

  “We all still want to live together.” I nod with each name. “Luna, Sulli, Moffy, Farrow, Thatcher, and me.”

  They’re beaming and looking proudly to one another. And I’m positive it’s because their three oldest daughters are staying roommates.

  “Don’t smile just yet,” I warn with a slight wince. “You’ll be displeased to know that we’re in no rush to leave the townhouse this week or even next month.”

  My mom shoots me an icy look and snaps her fingers. “Timeline.”

  “Post-summer, we’ll be gone.”

  She scoffs. “God, that is too slow. Do you need help? I can find you a place tomorrow.”

  “We have this handled,” I assure. “We just want to spend one more summer there. Sulli is the exception, of course.”

  Aunt Daisy nods. Her daughter has already moved completely out of the townhouse. As soon as Sullivan heard that a pervert “busted a nut” on my bed, she told me, “I’m GTFO-ing really the fuck fast.”

  She’s staying with her parents and little sister until we find a new place.

  I rest my chin on my knuckles. “Plus, this gives us plenty of time to choose a location.”

  It reminds me of Charlie.

  We’d been on shaky ground after he blew up Thatcher’s cover. I forgave him. He’s my brother, and he just needed out of Mackintosh House to cool down.

  When Charlie heard we planned to move, he welcomed all of us to plant roots in New Y
ork. He said, “To be closer.” He even included Moffy.

  It feels like a peace offering. All things mended.

  But I know it’s very possible that Charlie just wishes to shirk responsibility onto Maximoff and me. He’s had to look after our brothers in Hell’s Kitchen, and it’s a role he’s never filled to this degree before.

  With us closer, he’d be free to leave more often.

  “Philly or NYC?” Aunt Daisy wags her brows. “I wager fifty chocolate chips on Philly.”

  “New York,” my mom rebuts.

  We look to Aunt Lily. Her eyes are drawn to the cutout window in the treehouse. “Did he look cold?”

  My mom glares. “No. Your husband wasn’t even carrying blankets. He just wanted to worm his way up here like he always does.”

  Truth: 9 times out of 10, Uncle Loren will find a way to either pull Lily away or become a part of the PJ party. He might also be the biggest gossip queen of us all, so I don’t even mind the addition.

  “Maybe he misses me,” Lily says pensively, tugging her long gray tee over her gangly knees.

  “You saw him five minutes ago,” my mom retorts like her younger sister is losing her mind. She glances at Aunt Daisy. “What are you doing? No phones.” She steals her cell.

  Daisy just shrugs, not minding. Blonde hair and arresting green eyes, her cotton shirt has a graphic of two hugging avocados, and she wears a pair of matching boxers. “Ryke wants us to let him know when we leave, so that we don’t have another…situation.”

  Situation is a kind word for all of us getting plastered last November and Aunt Lily falling down the third step of the ladder.

  She face-planted in a pile of leaves and sprained her wrist.

  “We don’t need his help,” my mom snaps. “We are perfectly capable of leaving this treehouse on our own.” She refills glasses of wine, set on an overturned box, and she checks the amount of beer left in my bottle.

  I’m nursing the same one.

  The wedding binder weighs on my lap, and I flip through a couple pages. I’ve already exhaustively talked their ear off about the event planning. So I just silently skim the pages and smile, beyond excited to talk to more vendors tomorrow.

  With Maximoff and Farrow’s happiness attached to this event, I find each minute spent crunching numbers and making calls that much more rewarding.