Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  From his chair, Kenji lifts his bejeweled left hand in Chris and Ethan’s general direction. Instead of the kiss it appears Kenji is expecting, Chris shakes his pinky finger. Grinning, Ethan does the same.

  Kenji heaves a sigh and waves them off like a pair of misbehaving children.

  Brody asks them, “See you at the housewarming next Saturday?”

  Chris nods with so much enthusiasm I worry his neck might snap. “Dude, can’t wait to see the new pad! We’ll totally be there.”

  “What can we bring,” chimes in Ethan, “besides hookers?”

  At the same time, Kat and Chloe shout, “NO HOOKERS!” startling Elizabeth so much she jumps, sloshing champagne down the front of her Chanel jacket.

  “Only kidding, dudes!” says Ethan, laughing. “Chill.”

  “I’ll give you chill,” growls Chloe.

  A.J. puts his face into his hands and tries unsuccessfully to smother his laughter.

  “You don’t have to bring anything,” says Brody, grinning. “I’m all set.” He walks to Chloe and carefully places Abby in her arms, then turns back to the guys. “Four o’clock, okay?”

  Ethan and Chris agree, trade fist bumps with Brody and hugs with me, and take their leave.

  Which is when Brody turns to me and pins me in his stare. “You’re coming, right?”

  Is it me, or was that a double entendre? And why am I hoping it was? God, I need to get away from this person as soon as possible.

  I finish my glass of champagne in one swallow. “I didn’t realize I was invited.”

  “Of course you’re invited,” he says, as if I’m an idiot. “You’re core.”

  “Core?”

  He nods, making me admire the way his hair falls over the collar of his shirt. It’s really quite pretty hair, glossy and thick, very soft-looking, meant to be touched—

  Oh for fuck’s sake. I should just jump out the window and put myself out of my misery.

  I shoot a desperate glance at Thomas to see if he’ll read my mind and offer a refill on my champagne, but he’s too distracted with his new granddaughter at the moment, so I’m on my own with my raging hormones.

  Brody says, “Yeah. Core. You know,” he makes a lazy circle in the air with his forefinger. “Part of the inner circle.”

  And now, for the coup d’état, my vagina decides it would very much like to get acquainted with Brody’s finger, because hearing him say “core” and “inner circle” in conjunction with that clockwise motion of his tapered finger sends a bolt of pure lust through me, making my pussy actually throb.

  Finally my brain has had enough of this nonsense. It shouts at me in no uncertain terms, STOP.

  Attraction is one thing. I understand attraction. It’s simple, it’s straightforward, everyone knows what to expect: bada bing, bada boom, now get your ass outta my bedroom. What I feel for Brody goes so far beyond attraction it’s not even in the same universe.

  Which is exactly why it’s so dangerous.

  And why I need to stop this madness before it has a chance to get worse.

  My smile is pinched. Avoiding his searching gaze, I say coolly, “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m busy next Saturday.”

  I turn stiffly away from him, set my empty champagne glass on a nearby console, go over to Chloe, and kiss her on the forehead. “I’m leaving, too, but I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

  Chloe nods. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be in here, so give me a call first. They might let me go home later tonight.”

  I’m aghast. “Already?”

  She chuckles. “It’s not a hotel, Grace. Plus I’m anxious to get into my own bed.”

  “Oh no!” I cry, remembering something.

  Chloe looks startled. “What’s wrong?”

  “I never checked the thread count on the sheets or bought you candles from the gift store!”

  Chloe shakes her head and laughs. “The things you worry about.”

  “I want you to be comfortable!”

  Blue eyes shining, she gazes up at me. Her smile is the definition of angelic. She says softly, “Oh, Gracie, I’m more comfortable than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

  I know she’s not talking about the bed.

  I stare at them for a moment—my beautiful friend and her perfect baby, the man who literally took a bullet for them seated by their side—and realize with a pang in my chest that today’s firsts are still coming.

  Because I’m experiencing another emotion I’ve never felt before. It’s ugly, cold, and dangerous, like a snake unfurling inside my belly. I recoil from it exactly as I would if it were a hissing snake about to lash out and sink its fangs into my leg.

  It’s longing so sharp I can taste it, wanting so deep I feel it in my bones.

  It’s jealousy.

  I’m flooded with shame and confusion. This isn’t me, this person. This person who sheds tears and feels envy and can’t manage to control her hormones around an attractive man.

  I don’t like this person. Whoever she is, I have to lock her in a box and throw away the key because she’s far too volatile to be trusted.

  I force a smile. “Love you, honey.”

  Chloe smiles back. “Love you, too.”

  I round the bed and give A.J. a hug. “You did so good,” I whisper into his ear.

  His expression is calm, proud, and extremely satisfied. He squeezes the arm I’ve got around his shoulders. “I didn’t do anything. I’m just the luckiest motherfucker on the planet.”

  From behind us, Elizabeth scolds, “Language, dear!”

  I go over to her and Thomas, give them both hugs, and say my good-byes. I do the same with Nico and Kat, who is watching me a little too closely for comfort, so I escape with a breezy smile as fast as I can.

  And then I say good-bye to Kenji.

  “Aunt Kenji,” I pronounce, looking down at him in his chair, “you were fantastic today. I’m very proud of you.”

  “You are?” he replies, preening.

  “Yes. You didn’t make it all about you, you didn’t complain . . . much, and you didn’t faint once.”

  His eyes grow misty. He starts blinking rapidly as if he’s got a speck of dust lodged under a lid. “Oh, lovey, that’s so sweet of you. I don’t care what anyone says, you aren’t a man-eating ballbuster with a shard of ice in her chest where her heart is supposed to be.”

  And that, folks, is Kenji’s version of a sincere compliment.

  “Thank you. Considering the source, that means a lot.” I lean down and kiss the cheek he offers.

  When I turn for the door, I come face-to-face with Barney and Brody. They stand blocking the doorway, looking at me eagerly like they’re in line to have a book autographed by their favorite erotica author.

  I say cautiously, “Guys. Nice seeing you.”

  Brody says, “You, too, Grace. It’s always great to see you.”

  He puts emphasis on the word “see.” Combined with the twinkle in his eye and the way one corner of his mouth tugs up, I know he’s referring to our brief interlude in Nico’s bathroom, where he backed me up against the counter and tried to kiss me. I told him to get lost and gave him a laundry list of reasons why I wasn’t interested, but not before spending a decent amount of time leering at the bulge in his jeans.

  I mean, I might be cold but I’m not dead.

  Barney says, “Yep. And, uh . . . I wasn’t kidding before. If you ever need a hand around the office . . .”

  He shrugs his broad shoulders, leaving the rest of his sentence dangling there between us like a dare.

  Brody’s expression sours. He shoots a sharp glance at Barney, and then focuses back on me. “If your plans change on Saturday, I’d love to have you.”

  An explicit picture of Brody “having” me pops into my head, complete with an audio soundtrack of our pleasured groans and the sound of a headboard slamming against a wall as Brody fucks me from behind while I’m on my knees in bed, my face buried in a pillow.

  Great
goddess of peckermelons, get me out of this room NOW.

  I say primly, “Sorry. I have a date.”

  The smile on Barney’s face is a little too smug. It irks me. Just because I’m shooting Brody down doesn’t mean I want anyone else to be happy about it.

  I turn to Barney. “And I was kidding before. I always work alone. Thanks for the offer, though.” I shoulder past them both, retrieve my handbag from the little table just inside the entrance, and then leave without so much as a backward glance. I walk away briskly, my heels clicking against the linoleum floor.

  Just before I’m out of earshot, I hear Barney chuckle. “Is she always that hard to read?”

  Brody sighs. “Man, you have no fucking idea.”

  I walk a little faster before the wistful tone in his voice makes me turn around and run back in.

  A few hours later I’m flat on my back in Marcus’s bed, stuffed to the gills with his thick cock, taking it like a champ while he bangs the living daylights out of me, when he suddenly stops thrusting and sighs.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, perplexed. “Why are you stopping?”

  “Because if I wanted to have sex alone, Grace, I’d just jerk myself off.”

  He stares down at me with his brows lifted, daring me to contradict him.

  I don’t bother with a denial. I’m many things, but a woman who fakes an interest in sex isn’t one of them. “You’re right. I’m sorry. My head is just somewhere else.”

  It wasn’t when I got here half an hour ago, but as soon as Marcus slid inside me, it was as if I mentally went offline. I’ve never composed a to-do list in my head during sex before, but here we are.

  God, that’s depressing. I’m filled with sudden empathy for one of my patients, who shared with me that she dislikes sex so much she recites Edgar Allen Poe’s narrative poem “The Raven” while her husband is fucking her just to keep her mind off how disgusting she finds him.

  Marcus offers, “You want me to go down on you?”

  “You already did that.”

  “So you want me to go down on you again?”

  I unhook my ankles from around his back, give him a friendly pat on his muscular shoulder, and shake my head. “I don’t think it will help. I can tell I’m not going to get there, no matter what we try. It’s not you.”

  He chuckles. “I know. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  He withdraws from my body, rolls to his side, then sits up on the edge of the mattress. With a practiced hand, he removes the condom from his erection and tosses it into the trash can next to the bed. Then he slowly runs a hand over his smoothly shaved head.

  He was an athlete in college—running back for USC’s football team—and over the past decade has kept his athlete’s physique. I admire the way the muscles ripple in his back with the movement of his arm. I admire how beautiful his skin is, shining a deep, burnished brown in the low light, like polished wood. I admire the pure masculine physicality of him, his broad hands and strong thighs and thick neck . . .

  And I admit to myself that while Marcus is in every way a perfect specimen of male beauty, at the moment I feel about as much enthusiasm for him as I’d feel if my doctor called to schedule me for a colonoscopy.

  This is not good. If my libido deserts me I’ll have to find something else to occupy all my free time.

  And fuck if I’m about to take up knitting.

  Marcus rises from the bed and lumbers into the bathroom. Without turning on the light, he runs the faucet and splashes water on his face. He leans over the counter for a moment, his hands braced against the marble. “You want to go get something to eat?”

  I sit up, find my dress and underwear scattered on the floor, and step into my panties.

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll just hit it. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.”

  I put on my bra, zip up my dress, step into my heels, and comb my fingers through my hair. When I’m finished, I turn to find Marcus leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest, watching me.

  He says softly, “You don’t always have to do that, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  “Run away.”

  When I don’t respond, he pushes off the door and comes to stand in front of me. He pulls me against his chest and winds his strong arms around me. “You could stay the night for once. It wouldn’t kill you.”

  It probably would, but I decline to share that opinion with him.

  “You know I don’t do sleepovers, Marcus.”

  “I know. And you don’t talk about your past and you don’t date anyone longer than a month.”

  His tone isn’t accusing, only factual, but I find myself feeling defensive anyway. I say into his chest, “I thought we were on the same page about all that.”

  “We were.” He pulls away and looks at me. “Until I realized our one-month stand is almost up.”

  I frown, trying to remember when we met. “Is it? Honestly I haven’t been keeping track.”

  Marcus brushes my hair off my face. “Yeah? That sounds like a good thing. I must be keeping you too preoccupied to watch the calendar.” His smile comes on slow and sultry.

  It was the first thing I noticed about him when we met, apart from his sheer size. He’s got a killer smile, totally confident, totally sexy, totally effective on its intended target. I’m always amused when we’re out somewhere together at how easily he can make a woman swoon with nothing but a well-timed flash of that rakish grin.

  Absentmindedly, I reach down and fondle his cock. It’s still stiff. “How many days do we have left?”

  “Six.”

  His voice is thick. I know he loves it when I’ve got my hands on him. He loves to watch me jerk him off, loves the contrast in the colors of our skin, my paleness against his darkness, my small, soft palms gripping his big, hard dick.

  I sigh. He really is a good one. Too bad our time is almost up.

  Suddenly he takes my head in his hands and kisses me, hard. When he breaks away, he says, “Let’s renegotiate our deal. Tack on a few extra days, see how it goes. What do you say?”

  Cue the sound of screeching brakes.

  “Marcus. Please tell me you’re not catching feelings for me.”

  He blinks, the picture of innocence. “Feelings? What’re those?”

  When I narrow my eyes, he sighs. “I like you, yes. I’ll admit that. We’re very similar people. We’re both focused on our careers, we both love sex, neither one of us wants a relationship. And to be totally honest, I haven’t found that particular combo before. So I’m reluctant to give it up. That’s it.”

  He pauses. His eyes search my face. “It’s your turn to talk now.”

  “I’m trying to decide if you’re telling the truth or just telling me what you think I want to hear.”

  His voice comes husky. “You’ve still got my cock in your hands, Grace. Do you have any idea how hard it would be to come up with a convincing lie right now?”

  I tip my head back, look at him from beneath my lashes, and lightly squeeze his erection. “As hard as this?”

  He smiles. “Maybe not that hard.”

  “I should take care of this before I leave,” I say, squeezing him again.

  His voice is unsteady when he asks, “Are you trying to distract me so you don’t have to answer my question?”

  I don’t bother with an answer. I simply sink to my knees, apply my mouth, and get on with the distraction that never fails to bring inconvenient conversations with men to an abrupt end.

  The night is crystal clear and cold. I drive with the windows of my Lexus down, letting the icy wind sting my cheeks and whip my hair, sweep the cobwebs from my head. I take the long way home, avoiding the I-405 that’s always bumper-to-bumper, even at this late hour on a Sunday evening, and take the winding two-lane canyon road instead. It snakes through the Santa Monica Mountains, linking the inland valleys to the beach communities of Malibu and Pacific Palisades. It’s the longer route, even with the freeway
traffic, but I need to be alone with my thoughts.

  And, truth be told, I dread going to sleep.

  The nightmares never really went away, but they’re much more frequent this time of year. In the weeks leading up to St. Patrick’s Day, they appear almost every night with relentless ferocity, violent ordeals of screams and carnage that leave me shaking and sweating when I bolt upright in bed, staring wildly into the dark with my heart like a jackhammer inside my chest.

  Nothing has cured them, not therapy or medication or time.

  Everyone has their demons. Mine come out to play at night.

  In the first months after the accident, the nightmares paralyzed me. It was like reliving the worst moment of your life over and over again, in surround sound and Technicolor. I slowly learned to accept them the way you accept that you have cancer. There was a lot of anger and denial at first, a lot of fear and bargaining, a desperate search for cures and answers that eventually yielded nothing but exhaustion and ultimately the realization that I was no longer in control.

  Sleep was no longer my friend.

  My own mind was a traitor to me.

  Summer and fall are better. Quieter. The demons rest. But for me, the waning days of winter and the early days of spring are a living hell.

  Pacific Coast Highway is gorgeous in the moonlight. The ocean is as black as ink, as restless as I feel. The traffic is light so I fly up the coast, listening to Nina Simone sing the blues in her raspy contralto. By the time I get to my building in Century City, it’s nearly midnight. I slow as I approach the high metal entry gate, and wave to the guard in the security booth.

  “Evenin’, Miss Stanton,” he says, tipping his hat.

  “Hi, Roy. How are you?”

  He nods, smiling. “Better than I deserve. Have a good one, ma’am.” He waves me through.

  In the portico, the valet takes my car. Inside the elegant lobby of glistening glass and marble, the night concierge murmurs hello. Avoiding my reflection in the mirrors that line the walls, I take the private elevator to my floor. The doors open to reveal my darkened condo and a spectacular view of the Los Angeles night skyline through the living room windows beyond.