Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “I was referring to the cursing!” says Elizabeth, dismayed.

  Chloe growls, “I’m in labor, Mother.”

  Elizabeth sniffs. “There’s no excuse for vulgarity, dear. I was in labor for a combined total of forty-six hours with you and your brother and I never once resorted to swearing. It’s unseemly.”

  The way Chloe is looking at her mother makes me think something very unseemly is about to come out of her mouth, so to keep the peace I interject.

  “A.J., why don’t we move her to the bed? I think she’ll be most comfortable there.”

  He’s on his feet so fast he might as well have springs in his legs. “Arms around my shoulders, baby,” he murmurs to Chloe as he lifts her. When she’s securely in his arms, he says, “Lead the way, Grace.”

  While Kat scrambles to get the suitcase off the bed, I put my hand on his arm and guide him over to it. “Right here. Feel it?”

  When his knee bumps the edge of the mattress, he leans down, gently sets Chloe on the bed, finds her face with his hands, and then gives her a soft kiss. “Tell me what you need.”

  “Just that,” she sighs, settling back into the pillows.

  “There’s my girl!” crows Thomas, coming over with a drink in each hand. Beaming at Chloe, he gives me my vodka rocks. I proceed to drink half of it in one gulp.

  This child birthing business is stressful.

  A woman with long, flowy blonde hair and a gentle smile appears in the doorway. She gives the back of the door a hesitant knock. “Hello. My name is Nadine. I’m the doula?”

  She says it as if she’s not entirely sure it’s true. Elizabeth looks her up and down, frowning at her Birkenstocks and untamed hair.

  A.J. says, “Yes! Welcome! Come in!”

  Thomas asks, “Would you like a drink, Nadine?”

  Elizabeth says flatly, “Thomas.”

  Chloe groans. “Oh shit sticks! Here comes another one!”

  Elizabeth exclaims, “Chloe Anne Carmichael!”

  The doula moves to the end of the bed. “Let’s take a look and see how dilated we are, shall we?”

  I say, “Okay, kids, I think it’s time for us to leave you to it! We’ll be in the waiting room with the rest of the gang.” I lean over and kiss Chloe’s forehead.

  She grunts. “What, you don’t want to check out the gaping maw of my cervix?”

  “Thank you for that disturbing visual.” I grimace and take another swig of my drink.

  Kat comes over, bumps me out of the way with her hip, and kisses Chloe’s cheek. Very softly, she says, “You’re gonna do great. Everything’s gonna be perfect. Try not to stress out, just breathe. Okay?”

  Chloe nods, and then her face puckers. She gasps. “A.J.!”

  Kat and I leap out of the way before he flattens us.

  “I’m here, angel. I’m right here.”

  When he starts to murmur something else into her ear, I turn away, smiling. Kat links her arm through mine. We say good-bye to Chloe’s parents, gather our handbags, and quietly leave the room.

  After we’ve closed the door behind us and are standing in the empty hallway, Kat heaves out a shaky breath.

  “You doing okay?”

  She swallows hard, closes her eyes for a moment, and then nods. “Yeah. It’s just . . . fucking hospitals.”

  I know this must be taking an emotional toll on her. When Kat was a teenager, she got pregnant. She decided to go through with the pregnancy, arranged for the baby to be adopted, and even became friends with the couple who was going to be the adoptive parents.

  Then life decided Kat hadn’t already been fucked over enough by her father abandoning her on her eighth birthday, the baby’s biological father abandoning her when he discovered she was pregnant, and her mother dying on the same day Kat went into labor, because her baby girl died three days after she was born.

  “Fucking hospitals,” I agree, meeting her eyes.

  She stares at me a moment. “Are you okay?” she whispers, squeezing my arm.

  Usually it’s an incredible gift having a friend who knows me so well, but every once in a while it’s a royal pain in the ass. I hate people guessing I might be made of anything but titanium.

  I smile brightly. “Of course.”

  Her left brow climbs. Kat has mastered the art of the eyebrow arch. It always surprises me how a two-inch section of facial hair can so perfectly telegraph emotions ranging from curiosity to disbelief to withering disdain. Right now it’s calling bullshit on me.

  I insist, “I’m bulletproof, Kat. You know that.”

  “Sure thing, Pinocchio. But your nose is growing.” She looks pointedly at the glass of vodka in my hand.

  Eagle-eyed witch.

  “Hey, don’t blame me, I was just being polite. Thomas hates to drink alone.”

  “Thomas?” Kat mimics.

  “Yes, Thomas. That’s his name.”

  “That’s funny, because I always call him Mr. Carmichael. You know, out of respect?”

  I grin at her and again adopt Chloe’s mother’s voice. “Yes, dear, the help should always be respectful of their betters.”

  She barks out a laugh and shakes her head. “Screw you, Grandma.”

  “A delightful invitation, but I’m currently screwing a gorgeous and extremely well-endowed talent agent from CAA.”

  “No!” Kat exclaims. “Who is he? Why haven’t you told us anything about him? Spill, spill!”

  She’s excited—and more importantly distracted from any more questions about my emotional state.

  Exactly as I’d hoped.

  I tell her about my latest conquest as I lead her down the hallway toward the waiting room, where the rest of our crew awaits.

  With the exception of one Brody Scott, lead guitarist for Bad Habit, whose hauntingly intense green eyes I haven’t been able to get out of my head in the year and a half since we first met.

  Which is exactly why I won’t go anywhere near him. An attraction that powerful is too dangerous for someone with no past or future, and who has a black hole in her chest where a living, beating heart used to be.

  The moment Kat and I enter the waiting room, Kenji leaps to his feet with an ear-splitting shriek and collapses on us as if he’s the one in labor and not Chloe.

  “Omigodtellmewhat’shappeningisshehavingthebabyrightNOW?”

  It comes out in an almost unintelligible, breathless burst. Wearing a vintage red velvet smoking jacket over white leather pants paired with hot-pink combat boots, his nails painted as red as his lips—it’s Valentine’s Day after all—he hangs on to us, clutching our arms, swooning and fluttering his false eyelashes.

  Being careful not to smudge his perfectly applied foundation, Kat plants a kiss on his smooth cheek. “It takes a little longer than that, honey.”

  He turns his big brown eyes to her. “How much longer?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Could be a few hours, could be a day.”

  His gasp alone is so dramatic he could win an Oscar for Best Performance. Combined with his look of utter horror and the way he recoils with his hands on either side of his face, it sets Kat and me off into gales of laughter.

  “A day!” he squeaks, outraged. “That’s barbaric! That’s inhumane! That’s cruel and unusual punishment just for riding the baloney pony! Oh!” He flops back into the chair he was sitting in when we entered and lifts a shaky hand to his forehead. “I’m so glad I don’t have a vagina!”

  Standing next to Kenji’s chair with his hands on his hips and a grin on his face, Nico drawls, “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”

  Kenji goes from fainting ingenue to smoldering seductress in one second flat. He crosses his legs, bats his lashes at Nico, and purrs up at him. “Would you like proof, you sexy thang?”

  Amused, Kat crosses to Nico and wraps her arms around his waist. “Stop hitting on my husband, Scarlett O’Hara. This bad boy is mine.”

  Nico, spectacular in tight jeans and a black T-shirt that looks painted onto his muscula
r chest, takes Kat’s face in his hands and kisses her. As usual, it’s embarrassingly passionate. Those two take public displays of affection to a whole other level. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for sex in public places. But kissing? Snuggling? Lovey-dovey-ing?

  Barf.

  Kenji purses his lips and mutters, “He was mine first, bitch.”

  I hand Kenji the rest of my vodka. “Here. You need this more than I do.”

  He accepts it gratefully, sighing. “Oh, lovey, you’re the only one of this rotten crew who understands me.” He downs the drink in one gulp and then looks around hopefully. “Where’s the bar in this joint?”

  “Hospitals don’t have bars in them, Einstein.”

  Kenji gazes up at me in consternation. “Then how did you get this?” He rattles the ice cubes in the empty glass in his hand.

  “There’s a minibar in Chloe’s maternity suite, courtesy of her father.”

  He looks thoughtful. “Do you think they’ll mind if I just pop in for a little refill? If I’m going to have to sit in this hideous mauve waiting room with Dolly Parton playing on the speakers for a day, I’m going to need booze or I’ll go absolutely mad.”

  I chuckle. “Actually, I think Chloe’s dad would be thrilled if you went up and asked for a drink.”

  Kenji pops to his feet and beams. “I knew I liked that man!” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Even if he is a Republican.”

  He says the word “Republican” as if it’s “murderer.” I say wryly, “Sweetheart, I think you’re the last person in the world who should be judgmental.”

  He tsks, waving me off as ridiculous. “Oh, honey, it’s wrong to judge someone on something they’re born with, like their race or sexual orientation. But if you choose to be an idiot, that’s a different story.”

  “Right. Because no Democrat in history was ever an idiot.”

  He stares at me for a beat, and then says icily, “For the sake of our friendship, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” With a flourish, he turns and sashays away.

  Looking around the empty waiting room, I ask Nico, “What happened to the guys?”

  Barney, Nico’s bodyguard and driver, and Ethan and Chris, the keyboardist and bassist for Bad Habit, are nowhere to be seen. We’d been having a barbeque at Nico and Kat’s house when Chloe went into labor. We all drove to the hospital together, but somehow managed to leave Brody behind at the house.

  Nico says, “In search of food.”

  “More food? I think Barney had about two dozen of those ribs you made.”

  His arm still around Kat, who’s attached to his side like a barnacle, he laughs. “Yeah, that boy’s got a big appetite. You should see him put away my hush puppies. I have to make an extra batch just for him.”

  Because life is entirely unfair, not only is Nico Nyx gorgeous, talented, loyal, and sexy, he can also cook. Kat had to step up her exercise routine from three to five days a week just to keep her weight the same after she moved in with him.

  Suspiciously casually, Nico adds, “And I just got off the phone with Brody.”

  Act natural. Act disinterested. Don’t look at Kat.

  Busying myself with sitting in a chair, slipping off my heels, and digging through my handbag as if I’m in search of something important, I say, “Oh?”

  “Mm-hmm. He’s comin’ now.” Pause. “He said to tell you to call him if you need him to pick up anything on the way.”

  Startled, I abandon my fake rummaging. “What?”

  Nico has these ridiculously disarming dimples that flash in his cheeks whenever he smiles, or is trying not to smile, as he’s doing now. “You heard me.”

  Kat sends me her thousand-yard-expert-sniper stare. I know I’m in for some serious interrogating the minute we’re alone together. To mitigate the damage, I laugh.

  I aim for carefree, but unfortunately it comes out sounding a little panicked. “Oh, he’s just playing with you. I don’t even have his phone number.”

  Like the statement about hating the smell of hospitals, this is another suspicion-deflecting gem that also happens to be true. I don’t have Brody’s phone number.

  Forget about the fact that he’s tried to give it to me several times, I don’t have it because I’ve refused.

  “Are you seriously trying to pretend there’s nothing going on between the two of you?” Kat straightens her spine and glares daggers at me. “I saw you at the house, Grace.”

  When I blink innocently, she rolls her eyes.

  “After you said you were going to the bathroom and Brody followed you and then you both disappeared for like fifteen minutes and then you came back all red-faced and flustered and Brody came back looking like the cat that ate the canary?”

  Nico whistles. “Ooo, she went there!”

  “Yes, I did! And I will not have you keeping secrets from me!”

  Kat stamps her foot. On anyone else that would look ridiculous, but somehow she pulls it off. Probably on account of her being exotically beautiful, which imbues most of the ridiculous things she does with effortless chic.

  I say to Nico, “Is it me, or is she unusually bossy today?”

  In his slow, Southern drawl, Nico deadpans, “Darlin’, if you think I’m goin’ anywhere near an answer to that question, you’re crazy.”

  Fortunately the gods of distraction are on my side, because at that moment the guys stroll back into the waiting room. Chris and Ethan—dressed like twins in alligator cowboy boots, ripped jeans, and white T-shirts, their arms covered in tattoos—sprawl into a pair of chintz chairs opposite me and start chomping on cafeteria hamburgers while Barney, holding a sub sandwich in one hand and a Coke in the other, directs a question to Kat.

  “Everything good?”

  Kat nods. “She’s all checked in. They’re in the maternity suite now. Her contractions are already coming pretty close together, so we should get an update soon about how long they think it will be before the baby comes.”

  Barney looks satisfied. He takes a huge bite of the sub. He’s wearing his standard-issue black Armani suit and white dress shirt open at the collar—the only outfit I’ve ever seen him in—and the gold Rolex that was a birthday present from Nico. He’s got a perfectly groomed goatee and a full head of dark hair cropped short with military precision. Combined with his linebacker shoulders and piercing dark eyes, he’s always struck me as what a proper mafia hitman would look like: dangerous.

  He’s also dangerously hot, if you like guys who wear guns under their suits and are named after purple dinosaurs.

  Then Nico turns his head and breaks into a grin. He says to someone out of my line of sight, “Glad you could make it, slowpoke.”

  It’s interesting the way my pulse spikes when I realize he must be speaking to Brody. Interesting and annoying, because I’m not the kind of woman whose pulse is easily spiked. I was once robbed at gunpoint by a crackhead and my reaction was to look at him and calmly say, “I’m happy to give you money for drugs, but what you really need is a hot meal, a hot bath, and a hug.”

  He took the money.

  “You guys ran out so fast you left tire marks on the driveway.” Brody rounds the row of chairs I’m sitting in, trades a back-slapping hug with Nico and a nod to the other guys, and then asks Kat, “How’s Chloe?”

  I’m too busy staring at him to hear the answer.

  There’s just something about him that’s so . . . cool. I don’t know how else to describe it. He’s very good-looking, but in an approachable, boy-next-door sort of way. Unlike Nico, whose body looks carved by Michelangelo from a perfect piece of granite, or A.J., who’s the size of The Hulk, Brody is slim and graceful like a runway model. His shoulders are lightly framed in muscle, his waist is narrow, his legs are long and lean. He has a lope like a wolf’s, a Cheshire Cat grin, and a husky laugh that puts you in mind of the bedroom. The man is just plain sexy.

  He also dresses like a Johnny Depp GQ ad, which sets my lady parts aquiver. A well-dressed man simply slays me.

&
nbsp; Today he’s wearing black Doc Martens and black designer jeans paired with a pale gray dress shirt—cuffs rolled up his strong forearms—topped with a fitted black silk vest. A leather cuff adorns one wrist. Around his neck on a leather cord is a small silver medallion. He’s got a silver ring on his right thumb, a silver stud in his left ear, and a wicked gleam in his dark green eyes—

  Busted.

  I break eye contact with him and pretend to inspect the hideous still life of flowers on the opposite wall.

  In a low voice, Brody says, “Grace.”

  That’s it, just my name, but hell if it doesn’t raise all the little hairs on the back of my neck and make my nipples hard.

  Goddamn it.

  “Hello.” I continue to stare at the painting. Across from me, Chris and Ethan smirk around mouthfuls of burger and share a glance.

  Apparently I didn’t sound quite as disinterested as I was aiming for.

  Nico clears his throat and tries to make some casual conversation to relieve the sudden odd tension. “So you said you had to make a stop on the way.”

  “I, uh, yeah. I did.”

  There’s the strangest tone in Brody’s voice, almost as if he’s embarrassed. I glance at him and find him looking at the floor, squeezing the back of his neck with one hand. His face is turning red.

  In my practice as a marriage and family therapist, I’ve seen a thousand men tell a thousand lies. I’ve become something of an expert at detecting them. Unlike sociopaths who can lie without batting an eyelash, a generally honest man with something to hide becomes very uncomfortable when questioned. He shows his discomfort in concrete, physical ways that he isn’t aware of. A hard swallow. A shifting gaze. A nervous laugh. The list goes on, but one thing these tells all have in common is that they’re unconscious, and uncontrollable.

  And obvious as hell.

  I don’t think Brody’s admission that he made a stop is a lie, but whatever the stop was is something he definitely doesn’t want to talk about.

  Well, good. One more reason to stay away from him. My two best friends got involved with men who had massive secrets, and I want nothing to do with that kind of drama. Some straightforward shagging followed by a quick exit is much more my speed.