Richer Than Sin

by March, Meghan

  I pull back. Her tawny eyes dance, and her dark brown hair is braided around the crown of her head like she’s a perfect flower child. And she’s right.

  My heart squeezes at her smiling face. I’ve missed her too. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

  Cricket rolls her eyes. “Shush. You’re here now. That’s what matters. And you’re going to be my maid of honor!”

  My stomach clenches, and I’m sure my face looks like I just stepped on a downed power line.”Wh-what?”

  Cricket playfully shoves my shoulder. “You knew I wanted you home for my wedding. What makes you think I wouldn’t want you to be my best bitch?”

  “The fact that you have a twin sister?”

  Cricket’s eye-roll game steps up a notch. “She’s not my best bitch, though. She’s just a bitch.”

  I haven’t seen Karma in ten years. She never came to LA or met me at any of Ricky’s concerts when I traveled with him. I assumed she was mad I missed the birth of her daughters, but Karma was born pissed off, so it’s hard to tell.

  “I still can’t believe you’re getting married.” I study my cousin, who is exactly one year younger than me and looks every bit the free spirit she’s always been. Her flowy shirt is probably hemp, and her cut-off shorts are likely ones she stole from me when she was sixteen years old. “You swore you’d only ever love God, nature, and your family.”

  “That was until I got the good dick. Now I gotta put a ring on it so I can make sure I’ve got that shit locked down for life.”

  My smile widens so far it hurts my cheeks, and real laughter rings from between my lips. “Good God, Cricket. I’ve missed you like crazy.”

  “Well, obviously. None of those fake bitches in LA could hold a candle to your best girl. We’re blood, baby. It don’t get better than that.”

  She hugs me again, and I squeeze tight like she might slip away and I’d lose the one good thing that’s happened to me in years. When we finally separate, I pull my sunglasses off to catch the tears gathering on my lids.

  Cricket tilts her head to the side. “Please tell me you got mugged. Because what the fuck, Whitney?”

  I wince as I touch the tender skin on the right side of my face, and then quickly slip the giant shades back on. “Angry fan. Got through security and went a little crazy.”

  All peace and joy flees Cricket’s expression. “I’m going to kill that limp-dick motherfucker. And the fan who did this.”

  There’s no doubt she’s talking about Ricky first.

  “That’s going to be a little tricky.” I try to keep humor in my tone, but it falls flat. “Considering he’s already dead.”

  “Fucker deserves to be brought back to life and run over by a truck repeatedly for what he did to you.”

  I don’t want to think about the message Ricky posted on his fan page hours before that fatal dose hit his bloodstream. He doesn’t get to ruin my reunion with my cousin. He doesn’t get to ruin anything else in my life ever again.

  “Can we get out of here?” I glance up at the glass building and the name looming over me. “As much as I like hanging out at bus terminals . . .”

  “Damn right. Besides, we’ve got way too much to catch up on, and that’s best saved for non-bus-station conversations. I’ve got all the good-dick stories to tell you.”

  With a smile back on my face, despite memories from Gable and LA hounding me, Cricket and I load everything I own in the entire world into the back of her conversion van—after she folds up the bed and moves a bottle of lube.

  When I stare at it wide-eyed, she just laughs as we climb up into the burgundy cloth captain’s chairs that I’m pretty sure might swivel.

  “What? If they didn’t want people to fuck in these, they wouldn’t have put beds in the back. Besides, Hunter works all the time, and I like to make sure I don’t miss out on my chance to get me some. I like multiple orgasms, and he can make this baby rock and roll. I know you haven’t seen him in years, but let me tell you—”

  I hold up a hand. “Wait. Hunter who?”

  Cricket, the sneaky ho who withheld the name of her groom in all our conversations because she wanted to tell me in person, smiles wide. “Hunter Havalin. He’s the lucky man who snagged me.”

  My jaw hangs slack and my eyes feel like they’re about to bug out of my head. Hunter Havalin is the only son of one of Gable’s other affluent families. The Havalins aren’t Riscoff rich, but they’re still loaded.

  I try to picture Cricket the free spirit, Ms. One with the World who eschews money and privilege, marrying a guy who probably knows every inch of the country club. My cousin is everything that is the exact opposite of Hunter Havalin. He was a senior when I was in middle school, and every girl had a crush on him, but he only dated girls from the private school one city over.

  “Are you serious?” I finally manage to blink. Cricket’s giant smile is the only thing keeping me from asking her if she had a bad trip she didn’t tell me about.

  Her glow fades at my shocked tone. “See? This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew if you knew that I was marrying Lincoln Riscoff’s best friend, you’d never come home.”

  I jerk back in my seat like I just got hit with a wrecking ball. First, because she spoke the name that is not to be spoken, and second, because I didn’t know they were friends.

  “What?” The word comes out between a cough and a squeak.

  “Whit, please. Do not freak out. It’s not like Lincoln is the best man or something. I would never put you in that position. He’s way too busy for that, anyway.”

  I don’t know what to say to her. Lincoln Riscoff is the one person I plan to avoid for the rest of my time on planet earth, and definitely for as long as I’m in Gable. Which, if the Riscoffs have anything to say about it, may not be long.

  “So,” Cricket says, glossing over the information bomb she just dropped on me. “Where do you want to go first? Home, or Cocko Taco for the Taco Tuesday special? Be warned, Mom won’t be out of work yet, and Karma is definitely home because unless she’s doing something with her girls, she never steps away from her freaking computer and reality TV.”

  Blood is blood, but if Cricket, the most loving and forgiving person I’ve ever met, still can’t handle her sister’s attitude, I’m in no hurry to see my other cousin.

  “Taco Tuesday it is.”

  Cricket nods and fires up the van. “That’s my girl.”

  I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or the van, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s swinging out of the parking lot and narrowly misses a little red Audi convertible. The blonde in the Audi lays on the horn and flips up her finger before flooring it and taking off at a speed the van has no prayer of reaching.

  “Whore,” Cricket says under her breath.

  “Who was that?”

  The rear end of the Audi disappears as it careens around a corner, its tires almost clipping a curb. At this point, I’m not sure who’s the worse driver, her or my cousin.

  Cricket shoots me a sideways glance. “You don’t want to know.”

  My stomach, which is already knotted into a ball, twists tighter in anticipation.

  “Why?”

  My cousin’s gaze slides back to the road. “That’s Maren Higgins. She’s . . . well, let’s just say you don’t want to talk about it—and neither do I—because we both have a reason to run her over on purpose. I like to refer to her as Cuntcake McWhoreson because it makes me feel better about myself and life in general.”

  “What did she do to you?” I don’t even want to entertain the thought of why I might have a reason to run her over. “Because you know I’ll still cut a bitch.”

  Cricket’s grin comes back. “I know you will. That’s why I’m glad to have you home. Maren is . . . Well, let’s just say there’s a special place in hell reserved for women who think they deserve to have a man who’s already taken, and she’s one of them.”

  “She tried
to steal Hunter?”

  Cricket nods. “They went out on two dates a few years ago, and then she set her sights on . . .”

  Cricket stops before she says the name, and I tense because there’s only one person whose name I told her not to mention.

  “Well, she set her sights on a bigger target and has been slobbering after him ever since. But, because she’s a Cuntcake McWhoreson, as soon as Hunter and I went public about our thing, she came running back because she was afraid of losing what she thought was a sure bet. Unlike her other option, who has basically made zero signs of ever committing, regardless of how much his family would love him to start popping out the next generation of rich kids.”

  “So . . . what did you do?”

  “Told her I knew a voodoo priestess who would curse her to marrying a man with no money and no teeth. She backed off, but I don’t trust her as far as I can see her. Apparently, she’s also got a golden twat, because she’s got half the guys in town under her spell.”

  I already hate her. I’ve never seen anything but her middle finger and her convertible, but considering she tried to steal my cousin’s man—and only for that reason—I’d bury her body for Cricket without question.

  I tell myself I don’t give a damn who she has under her spell or who wants her to use her golden twat to pop out an heir. I’m a thirty-one-year-old broke, bitter widow, and I don’t have room in my life for another man.

  I came back to Gable to be close to Cricket and my aunt Jackie, and that’s it. I want to find a job and live a normal, quiet life, and stay out of the public eye. I don’t need people like Cuntcake McWhoreson popping up and causing problems, because I had enough of that with my friends in LA who sold me out to the tabloids by giving them bullshit information about my broken marriage with Ricky.

  My goals are simple now. Be happy. Keep the people I love close. Stay out of the press.

  There’s no room for wasting a single thought on the man who shall not be named. None at all.

  Even if I never get the good dick for the rest of my life. I’ll consider it penance for all the destruction I’ve left in my wake.

  Except nothing could be that easy.

  “There’s Hunter’s truck!” Cricket veers into oncoming traffic as she hangs her body out the window and waves at a fancy dark green pickup truck parked on the other side of Bridge Street.

  “Jesus Christ, Cricket!”

  I grab the wheel and jerk it toward the right so we don’t hit the black sedan blaring its horn. My sunglasses go flying toward the dash, and I catch sight of Hunter Havalin on the sidewalk beside his truck.

  And standing next to him, because I’m cursed, is Lincoln Riscoff.

  4

  Whitney

  The past

  Washing windows was my least favorite of all the cleaning tasks on my to-do list. I would rather clean toilets from dawn till dusk if it meant I never had to wash another window. My arms ached from making sure the floor-to-ceiling panes of the boutique were spotless. Not to mention the other parts of me that ached from last night.

  Lord Almighty. What the hell was I thinking going home with some stranger from a bar?

  I should have known better. I shouldn’t have let my anger about Ricky’s no-good, cheating ass spur me on to do something stupid. Even if that led to the best night of my life.

  That wasn’t the point. The point was that I’d wasted four years of my life because some dreamer with a guitar sold me a line of bullshit I should have been able to smell from a thousand miles away. But I was too naive and trusting.

  “Wait for me, Whitney. I’ll move you down here as soon as I catch my big break.”

  Yeah. Right.

  Ricky’s voice was on every radio in the country while I was still in Gable, and apparently his dick was in every chick in LA.

  My teenage dreams of being carried off into the sunset by my brother’s best friend were officially shattered. Ricky Rango, you can have your fame and your hos. What you will never have is Whitney Gable.

  After we’d had it out and I told him I was done, I’d gone to my closet and yanked out the first outfit that wouldn’t make me feel like a cheated-on ex-girlfriend, and then went to the bar. I didn’t even know if I was looking for a rebound. I’d just needed to feel wanted.

  It was just my luck that I did find a rebound and had the best sex of my life. And why did that rebound have to be Lincoln freaking Riscoff?

  “You missed a spot, Whit,” Aunt Jackie called from behind me as she dusted the shelving units. “Top left corner. You know Rachelle will bitch if there’s a single mark on her glass, and I’m not going to let her cheap ass dock my fee again.”

  As I reached up to get the spot Aunt Jackie pointed out, hazel eyes collided with mine through the window I was washing.

  No. No. No. This wasn’t happening. My stomach flip-flopped as Aunt Jackie’s voice faded to static in my brain.

  Only a single pane of glass with swirly silver letters separated me from Lincoln Riscoff. He stopped right in front of me, his eyebrows shooting up toward his dark brown hair.

  Did he even recognize me? I looked nothing like I did last night. Now my long black hair was caught up in a red bandanna, and I was wearing cutoffs, old gym shoes, and a Bob Marley T-shirt.

  When he lunged for the front door of the boutique, my stomach dropped. He yanked on the door handle, but it didn’t give.

  Thank God it’s locked.

  “Open it.” The glass wasn’t thick enough to muffle his words completely.

  I jerked my chin over my shoulder, but Aunt Jackie was gone—probably to empty the trash outside in the dumpster because we were almost done.

  Thank the Lord. It was Sunday, so that meant I was using up my collateral with the Almighty pretty damn fast because it had been a long time since I’d been to church.

  I shook my head and pointed to my ears and said the first thing I could think of. “No hablo Español.”

  His dark brows swooped together in a deep V, and I realized what just came out of my mouth. What the hell is wrong with you, Whitney?

  His lips quirked as a smile spread over his face. “Open the door. I’m not done with you.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  He moved his face closer to the glass and said two words, enunciating carefully. “Bull. Shit.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, but the rest of my body froze in place. My tongue swept out over my dry-as-dust lips before I spoke. “I can’t.”

  Lincoln glanced up at the sign above the door and gave me a chin jerk before turning and walking away. My entire body relaxed, and I spun around to slide down the glass until my butt hit the floor.

  “Whit, I gotta make a phone call. Can’t wait. Be back in ten. I’m locking you in,” Aunt Jackie yelled from the back before the door shut and the bolt slid.

  Thank you, Jackie.

  I dropped my head into my hands and thought about the mess I’d just avoided.

  Lincoln. Riscoff.

  What was I thinking?

  Oh, that’s right. I wasn’t thinking with my brain. Nope, just my neglected girl parts that got way too caught up in the moment when a guy stood up for me in a bar. I raised my head and whacked it against the glass to stare at the ceiling.

  Dammit. I’m going to have to rewash this spot.

  I was debating with myself about finding the will to stand again when the jangle of keys interrupted my self-ridiculing thoughts about what happened last night.

  My head swiveled toward the door. He was back. With keys.

  You have got to be kidding me. Clearly, my favors with God had run out.

  The door swung open and a gust of wind hit me at the same time I realized I had zero protection from Lincoln Riscoff. He was inside.

  My mouth moved but no words came out.

  “My family owns this building. Property manager lives above the store at the end of the block. I ran.”

  My gaze locked on the hint of tanned throat and broad chest peeki
ng out from his shirt collar, and my dumb ass couldn’t stop wondering why he wasn’t sweaty if he just ran. I was sweating like a pig and swearing like a trucker by the time I hit the main road this morning and flagged down Ginger Baskins on her way to church and told her my car broke down. Her side-eye was impressive and her disbelief apparent, but she gave me a ride home anyway—and told me I need Jesus.

  I agree, Ginger. I agree.

  Lincoln held out a hand to me. “We need to talk.”

  I stared at his capable fingers and neatly clipped nails like I’d never seen a hand before in my life. Let alone never let that hand do things to me that no man had ever done before. Things I liked. Way too much.

  It was also the hand of the enemy.

  “You won’t even touch me now?”

  I swallowed again and flicked my gaze up to his before looking back down at the floor I’d mopped an hour ago. “I’m dirty. You’re . . .”

  “A Riscoff. Which is why you ran this morning.” His deep voice carried just a hint of roughness, and all I could think of was the thing that voice had said to me last night.

  Because I’m an idiot.

  “I shouldn’t have left the bar with you.”

  “But you did. And you didn’t have a single problem with it until you found out who I am. So, are you going to share with me what the hell made you run like you’d just discovered I had bodies hidden in the walls?”

  My gaze darted up to his. “Do you?”

  “What’s your name, Blue?”

  That nickname. It slayed me. I wished he hadn’t said it, because now I wanted to tell him everything he wanted to know.

  And . . . maybe telling him was the quickest way to get him to leave me alone.

  I locked my stare with his, trying not to get lost in the green-and-gold depths, and told him. “Whitney Gable.”

  I was expecting shock—a comical level of it, to be honest—but instead I got no reaction from him at all. Maybe stonewalling emotions was something Riscoffs were required to master by age ten or something. Wouldn’t surprise me since they were basically all spawned from the devil himself—Commodore Riscoff. The man who burned down my family’s homestead.