Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  They’re the perfect backdrop for a beach rock ‘n’ roll show.

  “Hey! Asshole!”

  A grinning Nico is headed toward me from the open patio doors. Beside him, Kat smacks his arm and appears to be scolding him as they get closer.

  Chicks don’t get how much we guys enjoy giving each other shit.

  “What’s up, dickface?” I say, giving him a hug.

  “Not much, ballsack.”

  “Better to be a ballsack than a taint, like you. Ballsacks are very useful. No real use for a taint.”

  Nico grins. “Unless you’re a taint-licker. Like you.”

  Kat throws her hands in the air. “For God’s sake, you two! Can you find some friendly insults that don’t involve the four inches between your balls and your butthole?”

  Nico and I look at each other. At the same time we say, “No.”

  “Ugh. Typical.” Kat gives me a hug. When she pulls back, she looks at my flip-flops, my board shorts, and my T-shirt and says, “You look like you just got back from swimming.”

  “Surfing.” I run a hand through my wet hair. “Do it every chance I can. The private beach is mainly the reason I bought this place.”

  “Right,” says Nico, looking around. “Couldn’t have anything to do with the view.”

  “Or the fifty-thousand-square-foot house,” adds Kat, lifting her hand to shade her eyes from the bright afternoon sun.

  “It’s only eighty-five hundred square feet.”

  “Oh, excuse me.” She rolls her eyes. “Eighty-five hundred square feet on about four million acres.”

  “Two acres. You’re incredibly bad at judging the size of things, you know that?” I smile at Nico. “She probably thinks your tiny Johnson is like, ten inches long, am I right?”

  Kat spreads her hands about two feet wide. She says with a straight face, “I don’t know, is this ten inches?”

  Nico smirks at me.

  Touché. Moving on. “So did Grace come with you guys?”

  Kat uncomfortably shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Um. No. Have you talked to her?”

  I look between her and Nico, who only shrugs. “Not for a few days. Why?”

  “Well . . . she’s coming. But she’s bringing Marcus. She said you told her to.”

  I’m thrilled she’s coming, because I’ve spent days obsessing over whether or not she would, what she would wear, and my approach when she showed up in a red dress, but then I stop short, pulled up by the second part of that statement. “She’s bringing Marcus.”

  So the competition’s name is Marcus. Cool name. Sounds . . . concerning.

  “Oh yeah, I told her to bring him,” I say casually, dragging my hand through my hair again. I squint off into the distance. “She, uh . . . she likes this guy, huh?”

  Nico makes a noise like a snort, only way more caustic. “Yeah, the way a cat likes a mouse.”

  Kat sends him a death glare the likes of which I’ve never seen, and which, if I were on the receiving end, would shrivel my balls to the size of raisins. She hisses, “One more word, superstar, and you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

  Unperturbed by this outburst, Nico gazes down at her. A slow, cocky smile spreads across his face. “Yeah? You think you could sleep without me, baby?”

  Her cheeks turn pink. She looks primly down at her shoes. He laughs out loud, drags her against his chest, and gives her an embarrassingly intimate kiss.

  “Get a room for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, looking away.

  I’m not mad. Just jealous as fuck.

  I know something like what Nico and Kat have isn’t in the cards for a guy like me. I might not believe in God anymore, but I do believe in karma because she’s been kicking me in the teeth in the relationship department for years. A good woman falling in love with me is about as likely as seeing a flock of pigs fly overhead.

  I’m not complaining, though. It’s not as if I deserve to be happy. I’m just really good at pretending I am.

  I ask, “Do you guys know if A.J. and Chloe are gonna make it? I texted him this morning but he didn’t get back to me.”

  Kat reluctantly extricates herself from Nico’s greedy embrace. Smiling now, she says, “Chloe wanted to come but A.J. put the kibosh on it. Said it was too soon for the baby to be at a party.”

  “Too soon!” I repeat in disbelief. “She’s the offspring of a rock star! She’s got parties in her blood! She had a party in her room ten minutes after she was born! Jesus, he’s turning into an old woman. Next thing you know he’ll be knitting baby booties and hitting up the local bingo parlor.”

  Nico says, “He’s a father now. Your priorities shift.” He looks at Kat. “Personally I can’t wait for it to happen to me.”

  Then he tucks Kat underneath his arm and gives her a smile that leaves her starry-eyed.

  Uncomfortable, I look away again. “Dude.”

  Nico chuckles. “You just wait, brother. One of these days you’re gonna meet someone that blows your whole fuckin’ world apart, and then you’ll get what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Then, as if it were scripted in a fucking romance movie, a flash of red appears in my peripheral vision.

  There stands Grace at the open glass patio doors of my new house, her hands lifted to shade her eyes from the glare of the sun as she scans the backyard. My eyes drink her in. Those long legs and those dangerous curves and that amazing hair waving past her shoulders, shiny and thick, the color of persimmons. And that sexy little dress she’s wearing—

  Oh my God. The fucking dress!

  I start to laugh, because really there’s nothing else to do.

  “Why are you laughing?” asks Kat.

  “Inside joke,” I say, my gaze still on Grace. “Your friend’s a goddamn firecracker, you know that?”

  “Actually,” Kat answers quietly, “I think she might be the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

  I’m just about to ask her what she means when a black dude the size of a skyscraper appears by Grace’s side and slings a giant arm around her shoulders.

  His head is shaved. His shoulders are like boulders. His clothes—a white dress shirt and tan slacks—were obviously custom made to fit his enormous frame. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and a confident, easy smile, like he’s used to having all eyes on him, and loves it.

  Enter the competition.

  “Whoa,” says Nico. “Is that Grace’s flavor of the month?”

  “Marcus,” Kat affirms. “He’s a talent agent at CAA. Reps a bunch of huge names. Cruise, Damon, Statham. Specializes in action heroes.”

  “He’s very . . . large.” Nico coughs into his hand.

  Large doesn’t even cover it. The dude is massive. He gives A.J. a run for his money in the size department.

  I glance down at myself. I’m no shrimp, and I’ve got pretty good muscle definition from all the surfing I do, but if I had to arm wrestle this Marcus character there’s a strong chance I’d end up in the emergency room with a team of surgeons trying to reattach the bloody stump of my biceps to my shoulder.

  And if his arms are that big . . .

  Fuck.

  The angry toddler inside my head starts howling and breaking shit in frustration.

  Nico bursts out laughing. “I’d pay a million bucks for a picture of your face right now, my friend!”

  “Suck it, Nyx,” I growl, my hungry gaze still on Grace.

  Kat suggests, “Maybe he has small feet. You know, because if he has small feet . . .”

  Nico and I look at her with our brows raised. She shrugs. “Just trying to be helpful.”

  Grace catches my eye again. She waves, says something to Marcus, and the two of them start to walk down the winding stone pathway toward us on the lower lawn.

  As they get closer, Nico drily observes, “Yeah, that theory just went out the window.”

  We all look at Marcus’s feet, clad in a pair of seriously expensive-looking brown leather dress shoes. And holy—

  In a
low, impressed voice, Kat says, “Oh my. Do you think he could use those as skis?”

  I hate my fucking life.

  “Hi, kids!” says Grace brightly, stopping beside us. She gives Kat and Nico hugs, and then turns to look at me. With a totally serene, unruffled expression, she says sweetly, “Kong.”

  “Slick,” I reply, holding her gaze. “Nice dress.”

  It’s sleeveless, short enough to show off her long, bare legs, with a belted waist and little gold buttons all the way down the front. But that’s not what makes it so interesting. What makes it so interesting is the color.

  It’s red.

  And green.

  It’s fucking polka dot. Big green and red polka dots on a background of white. If she’s trying to drive me completely insane, it’s working.

  Grace looks down at herself. “Oh, this old thing?” When she looks up at me, her smile is brilliant. “Well, I couldn’t decide what to wear, so . . .”

  “So she dressed up in Christmas colors,” says the giant, Marcus, in this smooth baritone that would make the late, great Barry White gnash his teeth in jealousy.

  The guy is huge, good-looking, dresses well, has enormous feet, a job that chicks probably think is super glamorous, and a voice I bet Nico would trade his Ferrari collection for, and I’m standing here in flip-flops and wet hair like I’m the fucking pool boy.

  “Hi, I’m Brody.” I extend my hand to Marcus.

  Because fuck if I’m gonna be intimidated by him—she wore polka dots.

  “Marcus. Nice to meet you.”

  Marcus shakes my hand. It’s like trying to shake hands with a catcher’s mitt. We give each other a manly, serious nod.

  I try really hard not to puff out my chest the way my inner toddler is demanding I do.

  “And I’m Nico. Nice to meet you, man.”

  Nico and Marcus shake hands, too, and then Grace introduces Kat.

  “And this is one of my best friends, Kat. Don’t let her size fool you, she’s savage in reverse proportion to her height.”

  I watch Kat’s hand disappear into the monster that is Marcus’s hand. He says to her, “It’s a pleasure, Kat. I would say I’ve heard all about you, but . . .” He throws an easy smile at Grace. “That’d be a lie.”

  Grace smiles back at him and shrugs.

  My heart leaps. What does that mean? Why wouldn’t Grace have told him anything about her best friend? Does Grace not tell him anything about anything? Does Grace not really like him that much?

  Don’t get too excited, bonehead. Just look at the size of his shoes and calm the fuck down.

  “Amazing place you’ve got here, man.” Marcus addresses me, his voice sincere. “Used to be Spielberg’s if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. Thanks.”

  “I’m really digging the open-plan living room with the peg-and-groove hardwood floors.”

  I have no idea what peg-and-groove hardwood floors are. I only know that the floors are brown and made of dead trees. “Oh. Yeah. The peg and groove. Right.”

  Grace cocks a brow at me. She obviously knows I have no idea what Marcus is talking about, but she doesn’t give me away. She turns the conversation to another topic before he can really do a number on what’s left of my shredded manhood and ask me what the roof is made of, to which I’d have to respond, “Roof stuff?”

  “Are we early? I thought you said four o’clock, but it looks like we’re the first ones here. The valet guys were barely even awake out front.”

  “Nope, you’re right on time.”

  Grace looks confused. “Then where is everyone?”

  Nico and I chuckle. I say, “The sun’s still up.”

  “So . . . your friends only come out after dark? You close with a bunch of vampires or something?”

  I shrug. “Musicians aren’t exactly known for their love of daylight and exemplary timeliness. I figure most people will start to show around six, which is when I wanted them here, which is why I told everyone four.”

  Grace looks appalled. She turns to Marcus. “Are actors like that, too?”

  He says, “Only the addicts. Most actors are so anal-retentive they show up two hours early.”

  Grace pronounces, “Then I like actors better than musicians,” and I think my head will explode.

  Nico glances at my face, tries not to smirk, fails miserably, and coughs into his hand again to hide his laugh.

  Marcus gestures at the stage to our right. “You guys doing a private show tonight?”

  “We were, but A.J. bailed so we don’t have a drummer, so I think we’ll probably just end up—”

  “I can play drums,” says Marcus, full of confidence. “Been playing since I was a little kid. Had a music scholarship for college, too, but I took the football scholarship instead.”

  When no one says anything because we’re all too mind-fucked over this new piece of news, he adds, “I mean, it’s cool if you don’t want me to. I’m actually really good, but no worries. I get it, band cohesiveness and everything. And no one could ever fill A.J.’s shoes anyway.”

  Kat looks at Marcus’s feet, looks at me, and then pulls her lips between her teeth because she’s trying not to laugh.

  “Would you all excuse me for a moment?” I say, smiling. “I just have to go inside and hang myself.”

  Grace finds me in the kitchen just as I’m about to down my third shot of tequila.

  “Hey, Kong,” she says casually, gliding in with that ballerina’s walk of hers. “That was a pretty fast exit you made back there.”

  “Yeah, well, it was either run away or fling myself facedown in the sand and throw a tantrum, so I decided to go with running away. Plus, there’s tequila in here.”

  “Oh? Needed something to steady your nerves?”

  “Ha. No, your boyfriend ate my nerves for lunch. This is just to get me through the next few hours until I can pass out at a respectable time. Hopefully black out so I won’t have to relive the joyous moment when I was completely emasculated in front of this girl that I’ve kinda sorta had a huge crush on since the dawn of time.”

  I raise the shot glass in a toast to her, and then swallow its contents.

  Smiling, she moves closer to where I’m standing at the sink. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  My eyes bulge. “If you say, ‘He’s just a stud that services me sexually with his enormous talent,’ you’ll have to deal with a grown man sobbing at your feet.”

  She leans her hip against the counter, folds her arms over her chest, and levels me with her eyes.

  I wasn’t kidding when I told her they were the color of thunderclouds over the sea. I’ve never seen eyes like hers, flinty one moment, soft and playful the next, every possible shade of gray depending on the light, from pearl to iron to dove to steel. They’re fascinating.

  She’s fascinating.

  Fuck. I’m toast.

  “Not a pretty picture,” she muses, straight-faced. She pauses for a moment, and then says, “If it makes you feel any better, this is our last date. We broke up yesterday.”

  I keep my expression neutral, but inside my head there’s a stadium of fans who just leapt to their feet and started screaming because a batter hit a home run out of the park.

  “Would you like to elaborate?”

  She moistens her lips. My dick takes that as some kind of Morse code for fellatio because he springs to life behind my zipper the way Cookie Monster springs to life when he catches the scent of chocolate chips.

  She says, “It’s complicated.”

  Without breaking eye contact, I ask, “As complicated as that dress you’re wearing?”

  She pulls her full lower lip between her teeth, and I swear to God my dick almost explodes with the amount of blood that rushes into it.

  This is ridiculous. Get a grip!

  “Do you have any idea,” she says softly, “how difficult it is to find a red-and-green polka dot dress on short notice?”

  I am all boner. I have zero brain c
ells left. There is no blood circulating anywhere else in my body. Someone stick a fork in me, because I am fucking done.

  Our eyes still glued together, I say, “You do realize there’s a big green polka dot right over your crotch, right?”

  “Oh,” she answers, all Bambi-eyed innocence. “There is?”

  We stare at each other. The moment stretches out. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore I whisper gruffly, “Grace.”

  It’s like hearing me say her name does something to her, because her eyes flutter closed and she inhales a sharp breath. “Wait,” she says quickly. “Don’t say anything else yet.”

  I stand there and watch her breathe with her eyes closed, fighting every instinct inside me that’s screaming touch her kiss her take her in your arms!

  I have to do something. I reach out and, very softly, touch her cheek.

  And she shudders.

  She fucking shudders.

  I’ve never felt anything like the bolt of need and longing that crashes through me, hot as fire, dark as midnight. My hands shake with it. My heart pounds with it. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to crush my mouth against hers, yank up her dress, pull down her panties, and fuck her right here, bent over the kitchen counter, fast and hard.

  Because I know she wants it just as badly as I do.

  “Open your eyes,” I demand.

  When I see what’s reflected in her eyes when her lashes slowly lift—the desire and ambivalence, the raw emotion—I groan. “I have to kiss you,” I whisper, stepping closer and taking her face in my hands.

  “Brody. Please. Wait.”

  She flattens her hands over my chest. I groan again, my lips inches from hers.

  “I’m—I—I can’t . . .”

  I look into her eyes. “You can. I know you want to.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me,” I growl, pressing up against her. When our bodies meet, she inhales the sexiest little gasp that manages to make me feel like a Viking warrior who just conquered a new continent. Thrilled by the sound of it, I put my lips next to her ear and say, “My cock is so hard it hurts and your nipples are so hard I can see them right through your clothes and I bet if I put my hand inside your panties right now it would come away soaking wet. Am I right?”