Sinful Secrets Box Set: Sloth, Murder, Covet

by James, Ella

  After parking the car, Cleo shepherds Truman toward the porch, steers me up the stairs with her hand on my lower back, and uses my key to open the front door.

  I feel ill as we walk toward the kitchen. All because of Pace—and Manning. Fucking Pace betrayed me. Fucking Manning. Clueless bastard. They took this shit I’ve been pushing out to sea and brought it crashing through me, crashing through my house. I can’t be here. I stop before I reach the living room and look down the hall, at the front door. I could go. A part of me just wants to go.

  Cleo’s hand around my forearm brings me back. “Come on in here,” her soft voice says. “Your hand is scraped. I can clean it up for you.”

  She leads me to the couch and I sit down, my eyes cast to my boots. I can’t look at the TV. I don’t want to see the sunset post cards on the end table. Even the sight of my own legs makes my throat tighten in impotent fury, but I can’t escape myself. Not yet, anyway.

  Cleo disappears. I feel a pang. When she returns, she’s got my first aid kit. I don’t move as she cleans my knuckles, smooths a Band-Aid over one of them. I rest my head against the back of the couch and let sleep tug at me.

  I could go to sleep.

  I can’t go to sleep.

  On every level possible, I have to rage against that bullshit Pace threw at me. I’m tired but I have to fight. I’m living on my own damn terms—but when I feel this desperate, I know of nothing that will help except to be between a woman’s legs.

  I fuck Cleo on the rug. I make a cage of my arms, my palms pressed to the rug on each side of her shoulders. With her hands unbound for once, she strokes me, her warm hands tracing up and down my hips, then up a little higher, where she cups my pecs and teases my nipples.

  I hold nothing back. Three years ago, with Gillian, I fucked without a single rule, but even that was nothing like this time with Cleo. Every time I plunge inside her warm body, a ragged groan tears from my throat. Every time she sighs or gasps, I curl down closer over her, until I’m propped up on my elbows and my hands are holding her cheeks.

  My mouth devours hers—punishing, then worshipping, teasing, raging, needing. I’ve never tasted anything like Cleo’s breath as she moans between my lips. I come hard—so hard I nearly pass the fuck out with her ankles wrapped around my calves and her arms tucked over my shoulders. I fuck Cleo like a lover, and when I’m finished, I don’t even have the wherewithal to clean her up.

  Her soft hands urge me onto the couch, and then my head is in her lap. Her fingers in my hair. I’m lying on my back between her soft thighs. Cleo tightens them around my waist, and I feel... safe. So safe and so, so tired.

  The demons in my mind are far away, and there is only her sweet voice, singing a song I’ve never heard...

  We’re playing checkers. The pieces are big, and they’re all black. Lyon’s hair is black, too. At least I think it’s his hair.

  I try to tickle him, under his ribs, so I can see him grin, but Lyon steps away. His face is solemn—more like mine.

  “I didn’t think I’d go before you,” he says with his head down. “I didn’t mean to, Kelly.”

  I look him over, head to foot. He’s wearing his Trojan uniform, and it fits like it did when we both played. I stare for a long time at the crown of his dark head. I wonder why he’s gone dark now. If it means... what I fear it means.

  I grab his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to hurt—the way Robert taught us both. “I want to know where you went, Ly. This not knowing is killing me. I miss you.” My throat aches. I pull him into my arms. “You’re my older brother. You’re my twin. I need to know.”

  “You know I can’t tell you.” He laughs. “If I told you, Kelly, I’d have to kill you.”

  My throat and stomach burn like someone dumped a vat of acid into me. Lyon is wrenched from me. I look around for him, but there is no sign he’s ever even been here. The blue tiles are cold under my feet. Blue steam wafts through the air. I breathe it in, because along with poison, there is oxygen—and I haven’t yet learned how to live without breathing.

  “Fuck me.” I clutch my throat. The shaking starts in my shoulders and spreads out, all through my aching body.

  I never thought I’d feel this pain again...

  I jerk out of sleep as if the hand of God has plucked me from the ether. Cleo’s face is right in front of mine. I blink a few times before noticing that she looks scared shitless. Her hands squeeze my shoulders, and she’s straddling my outstretched legs. “Kellan! Shit—you scared me.”

  “What?” I look around the living room, still stained with shadow but starting to glow from the rising sun. I look down at my busted hand. “What’s going on?”

  Her hand rises to cup my nape. “You feel asleep in my lap. You had a nightmare, I think.” She puts her free hand on my chest, and I notice how fast I’m breathing.

  I try to slow it down, but I keep feeling that ghost pain in my throat. “Water,” I try. Cleo rushes to the kitchen. I can’t breathe. I stagger up and walk around the couch, into the kitchen, where I see her opening cabinets. I hang onto the granite countertop and try to focus on the cold beneath my hands.

  I’m in my own house. I’m not going back there. I’m okay for now. I look down at my bandaged hand and want to scream. Why’d I do that? I’m so fucking stupid.

  Cleo’s hands are rubbing my back. I like that.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. But I can’t seem to slow my breathing.

  I just stand there... flailing, while Cleo’s hands stroke my fevered skin through my shirt, and my body echoes and my heart hangs from my chest in tattered shreds. I miss my brother so much, I can’t breathe.

  I try to ration my breaths, and Cleo keeps rubbing circles on my back. Like Lyon. He would rub my neck and shoulders—since when we were little kids.

  My big brother... he knew what would make me better. The one who didn’t know was me...

  I lean over the counter and let my head rest on my arm. “Cleo?”

  “What can I do?” she asks in a high voice.

  I shake my head. I turn around and pull a cabinet open. I grab a pill bottle and shake a Xanax into my damp palm. It’s been a long time since I took one, so they might be expired... A few fall to the floor, and Cleo rushes to gather them.

  I hold one in my hand, thinking of cutting it in half. My fingers shake so much, I just put it in my mouth and chew.

  She takes the bottle from me as I swallow bitter pieces.

  I lean over the counter, too ashamed to look at her. “I’m sorry,” I say as it starts to spread its numbing fingers through me. I pull my lead gaze up to hers. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You were saying ‘lie.’”

  “Lyon.” I let my eyelids slip shut. I feel her hand, a gentle pressure on my back.

  “I heard you say it at the factory too,” she whispers by my ear. “Did something happen, Kellan? I can tell you’re really upset.”

  I open my eyes and find her worried face. I take her hand.

  “Come here,” I whisper.

  I lead Cleo over to the couch and then I summon all my energy and walk to the DVD player.

  I take the Trojans DVD’s plastic case and turn the player on.

  I sit beside her, feeling heavy.

  “Look at this.” My eyes shut as I pass her the leaflet from inside the case. “Find my name,” I groan. I don’t mean to, but I can’t keep the pain out of my voice.

  “I see you—right here. Kellan Drake.”

  “Now look below it,” I rasp.

  “Lyon Drake? I’m confused.” Cleo pauses, and I hear the TV start to play. “Number thirty-three, the program says.”

  “His number?” I lift my head out of my hands as my eyelids try to shut. Yes, Lyon was thirty-three.

  I nod, and she watches the screen. Lyon lines up in his tight-end position, and my chest fills up with nails.

  “That’s your brother?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Is he younger or older than
you?” she asks gently.

  “Twins,” I murmur. The word feels foreign on my tongue.

  “Did something happen to him?”

  I swallow, even though my throat is dry. I bury my head in both my hands. “He died.”

  * * *

  Cleo

  I watch the phantom Kellan on the screen. It’s strange because he has blond hair, like the Kellan sitting with me on the couch, so as he circles around my dark-haired Kellan with a giant cooler, my senses tell me that he’s Kellan. He’s got the same beautiful body, the same gorgeous blue eyes. But when he laughs, his face is different. He has dimples when he smiles, and Kellan only gets them when he frowns.

  My dark Kellan darts away and starts to circle blond-haired Lyon. Lyon whirls around with him. When Kellan feints, his brother anticipates it in advance. He dumps the cooler full of ice in the exact right spot to drench Kellan.

  Kellan jolts out from under the icy water and tackles his brother. Behind them, fans are filing out of the stadium. Other players join in, and as the brothers brawl on the football field, someone brings another cooler and dumps it on them both.

  “Fuck you!” Kellan roars.

  Lyon is laughing—laughing with his blond head thrown back. Laughing like a Kellan angel.

  I can see where Kellan gets his darkness. It’s the balance to his brother’s light.

  Someone starts to throw ice cubes, and the twins disappear into a mass of jerseys. I hear one final whoot from one of them, but it’s impossible to discern which. My Kellan was younger, freer, despite his black hair. As if in answer, Lyon flits in front of the screen, smiling gloriously for the camera.

  He shakes his wet head, sending drops of water flying at the lens.

  “And that’s all we have tonight, from Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Keep it cool, and we’ll see you next week,” the announcer says as the camera pans out.

  I shift my gaze to Kellan. He’s just staring. I can see no feeling on his face.

  “When did it happen?” I whisper.

  “September 18. 2011.”

  I nod slowly. “That date is coming up.” I look at his hands, sitting listless in his lap, and I wonder about his fight at the bar. It was January 2011—just a few months after this game was filmed. Was his brother there that night? I didn’t read anything about his brother in the papers. Was Lyon as talented as Kellan? Were they both untamed boys, privileged athletes living outside the lines? Were they using drugs?

  “It must be on your mind.”

  I touch his thigh with just my fingertips, even though it makes me nervous—the act of reaching out and touching him when he’s in so much pain. I don’t want to hurt him more. Instead, he doesn’t move at all. His body is like a statue. After a moment, he leans his head against the back of the couch.

  He closes his eyes, and I stare down at my helpless hand on his jeans. My heart pounds with the need to comfort him somehow, but my mind is painfully blank. I feel a burst of panic as I watch the even rise-fall of his chest. I hope he didn’t fall asleep. Not before I get a chance to comfort him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says raggedly. “I never take this shit.”

  “Please—don’t be sorry.” I have a memory of a letter I got from “R.” once, where he replied to a note I’d sent about going to see Olive’s grave. He told me I should take Xanax before bed after I went. Tomorrow—well, today—I’m going to Olive’s grave again. Maybe I’ll take a page from “R.” and Kellan’s book. “You should never feel bad about doing something that will ease your pain. Everyone deserves a break.”

  I raise my hand and ease it behind his head, dropping down to rub his nape gently. His skin is soft and very warm. His eyes lift up to mine.

  “Can you not... rub like that?” He rasps. “I’m sorry.” He drops his forehead into his hand.

  “Of course. You want me to give you some space?” I start to move my arm, still hovering over his shoulders. He grabs my hand and tugs it down, settling my arm firmly around his back.

  I scoot closer to him. My hip touches his as I tighten my grip on his back, hoping that the weight of it will make him feel less alone—the way he did for me at Mama McCalister’s.

  We sit like that a while, and I lean my head against his shoulder. A moment after I move, he does—raising his head to look at me with haunted eyes. “I need you again,” he whispers. “Now, please.”

  I nod, and he lifts me in his arms. He cradles my body to his chest, my forehead on his shoulder as he slowly climbs the stairs. I’m expecting slow sex on the bed, so he shocks me by lowering me belly-first onto the hall runner, yanking off my pants, and coming down heavy over me. He fingers me until I’m gasping, then he fucks me without flair.

  Just a pounding doggy style, until his warmth jets inside me and I clench around him. We groan in unison, splitting open the dark silence.

  He braces himself there atop me for only a moment. Then he scoops me up, sets me on my feet, and smacks my ass so hard it echoes. I yelp and whirl around to face him. I find Kellan sharp-edged and somber.

  “Go to your bedroom,” he orders. “Lie on your back, in the middle of the mattress. Wait for me.”

  I nod quickly, and he walks through the door into his bedroom. He shuts it behind him. I can’t quite say why, but I feel the urge to follow him inside. I count to thirty, then walk to his door on weak legs and turn the knob. I push the door open slowly, hoping he won’t notice me peek in. When it’s open just an inch, I align my right eye with the crack.

  I find a large room stuffed with sleek, mahogany antiques, fluffy armchairs, a massive corner bookshelf, and—a wall rug? Yep, the right wall of the room is covered with what looks, to my untrained eyes, like a rug. And what’s weird: it’s swaying, as if Kellan smacked it as he walked by.

  I have a flashback from a Nancy Drew I read when I was little, where there was a hidden trap door behind a wall-hanging. Obviously that’s ridiculous, but even so, I can’t contain my curiosity—and that part of me, deviant Cleo who likes her ass spanked till it burns, wants to see what punishment he’ll inflict if he finds I followed him.

  I slink into the room like a spider, one leg first, one arm, and then a full step brings me onto his soft, Oriental rug.

  I stand there listening, and when I don’t hear him, I walk past his bed and a cozy armchair, where a book rests. I put my hand against the rug hanging from a long rod up near the ceiling, and press down until I feel the firmness of the wall behind it.

  I slide my hands down, holding my breath against the dust that is probably swimming all around my face. Then I commit to my insanity and lift it up so I can look behind it. I’m strangely unsurprised to see a door there. It’s sleek wood—almost the same color of the mahogany bedroom set—and on its left side is a fancy, brass doorknob.

  As I lower my cheek gently to the door, I already know that I will hear him on the other side—and so again, I’m not surprised. Kellan, breathing heavily. The cadence of his gasping is so fast, I have the sick fear that he’s with another girl.

  I don’t dare move. When he roars his pain out, my heart forgets its rhythm. Kellan...

  I stand there with my fist poised at the hard slab of the door, until I hear the sound of water running. Then I rush back to my windowed room.

  I lie there in the morning sun for two hours before I close the curtains and the canopy and burrow into the duvet. I’ll have to leave here in a few hours, and if I’m going to drive to Albany, I need to get some sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kellan

  I hang up my cell phone just as Cleo steps into the kitchen. Her eyes are guarded: pleasantly neutral. It’s the benign look on her face that gives her away. It’s not a real expression, it’s a dummy one. Probably because she’s not sure where she stands with me—and with the dawning of her sister’s birthday, she might be too tired to think it through.

  Her gaze feels warm on my face, and I can feel the tug of her concern before she shifts her green eyes over to the island an
d the bar stool she’s adopted as her own. I admire her getup as she hoists herself onto the stool. She’s got her wavy hair tucked into a messy bun at the top of her head, and she’s wearing magenta leggings and a flowing, tie-dyed shirt. I squint to make out her stud earrings, but I can’t from where I’m standing, between the refrigerator and the sink.

  I’m embarrassed, so it’s tough to meet her eyes—but I can be tough when a situation calls for it.

  I give her a small smile that seems to lift up only half of my mouth, and I nod at her. “I like your getup there.”

  I step over to the island she’s sitting at and lean my elbows on the countertop beside the stove.

  “Thank you,” she says, twirling one earring. It’s a tiny Hello Kitty.

  “I thought I’d try to wear things she might like,” she says in a voice that’s slightly hoarse with pain, “if she was still here.”

  I don’t even think about it first. I just stretch across the island and hold out my hands. My pulse hammers between my ears as she looks down at them. I’m not sure when’s the last time I left myself so open for another person. She gives me a small, sad smile and threads her fingers through mine.

  I look her over more closely and—shit: her face is definitely sad.

  My mind’s hung up in a dark place too, so I feel like I’m right there with her. It seems almost like kismet—that I wrote out those instructions for visiting the cemetery, and she falls into my life a week before she treks to her hometown for that very reason.

  I rub my thumbs over her small, cool hands and try to overcome the embarrassment I feel, being so close to her after last night. I don’t even remember the ride home from the warehouse. I remember looking down as she rubbed something on my knuckles. How pain clenched in my chest, like a weed overtaking flowers, choking everything out of me but the agony of my losses.

  I know I used Cleo for comfort. I remember how incredible it felt to get lost deep inside her. How smooth her palms were as they swept slowly up my chest. I remember her fingers in my hair, her legs around my waist as we curled together on the couch. And waking up... that way.