Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  He cocks his head. A roguish dimple appears in his cheek. “Close to it right now, as a matter of fact.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m being serious, Barney. I need advice.”

  He studies me in silence for a moment, and then moves next to me so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder, staring out together at the party from our spot in the long shadows of a thicket of scarlet bougainvillea cascading over a wall.

  In a low voice that I can barely hear over the music and the sounds of laughter and people talking, he says, “Once.”

  In those four letters I hear an ocean of pain. I know that whatever happened, it wasn’t good.

  “So you wouldn’t recommend it then.”

  Surprised, he looks at me. “Yes, I definitely would.”

  I meet his eyes. “But . . . maybe I have it wrong, but it sounded like, um, it didn’t end well.”

  Barney swallows. With a tight jaw, he says, “It didn’t. She died.”

  “Oh God, Barney,” I breathe, devastated. “I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I apologize for bringing it up—”

  “You couldn’t have known. And don’t be sorry. I don’t regret it. Not for a minute. Before she died, I was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded, a wreck of warring emotions. “And now?”

  He looks off into the distance. His profile is handsome and incredibly sad. He says softly, “And now I have amazing memories. And now I still think I was lucky.” He inhales a slow breath, lets it out, briefly closes his eyes. “And now I’m a better man for having loved her.”

  He’s killing me. I’m going to drop dead right here on this perfect patch of lawn and they’ll have to cart my corpse off on a stretcher.

  He looks over at me, sees the expression on my face, and sighs. “Love isn’t something you choose, Angelface. It chooses you. And even if it only lasts a little while, it’s worth it. Even if it ends in flames, it’s worth it. Even if it cuts out your heart and leaves you a bruised, bloody mess, it’s worth it.”

  My voice cracks when I ask, “Why?”

  He lifts a shoulder and sends me a small, pained smile. “Because it’s love. Love is the only thing that really matters in this life. Love is everything.”

  I moan and cover my face with my hands.

  “Hey.” Barney puts his arms around me and pulls me against his chest. It’s not romantic, it’s friendly, and I’m grateful for the support. He asks quietly, “Who you trying not to fall in love with, Angelface?”

  Then—because life has decided kicking me when I’m down would be good for shits and giggles—Brody’s tense voice comes from behind us.

  “Grace.”

  Barney and I break apart.

  Brody has changed from the shorts and T-shirt he was wearing before into a black button-down shirt and a pair of tight black jeans. The shirt is rolled up his forearms and open halfway down his chest, exposing an intricate tattoo, angel’s wings and something written in script I can’t make out because the light is behind him.

  He looks at me, looks at Barney, then looks back at me. I can’t tell where Barney is looking because I’m too busy being floored by the expression on Brody’s face, which hovers somewhere between horror and despair, with a side order of bitter jealousy.

  Brody says, “I just wanted to let you know we’re gonna play a set, if you wanted to come stand up front . . .” He looks at Barney again. A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Or not.”

  “Yes!” I blurt. “I do want!”

  They both look at me. No one says anything. Heat scorches a path up my neck to my face.

  Holding Brody’s gaze, I add with more composure, “I mean, I would love to. Yes. Thank you for asking.”

  Barney scratches his head. “Right. Well, uh, I think I see Nico over there waving at me.” He walks off abruptly without another word.

  Brody folds his arms over his chest. Then he drags a hand through his hair. Then he scrubs his hands over his face and groans.

  You are a tiger. You are a lion. You were given this life because you’re strong enough to live it.

  I gather all my courage and decide to jump off that cliff that’s right in front of me.

  In a quiet voice I say, “It’s not Barney. It’s not Marcus. It’s not anyone else, either. It’s you.”

  Brody’s head snaps up. He stares at me, his lips parted, his body tensed, his gorgeous green eyes shining with need.

  I take a steadying breath and continue. “You were right when you said I was afraid. I’ve gone skydiving and hang gliding and bungee jumping and climbed the highest summit of Mount fucking Kilimanjaro during an ice storm with a guide named Rooster who was drunk the entire time, and I’ve never been as scared of anything as I am of this thing I feel for you.

  “I’m not ready to start . . . whatever this is. I’m not trying to be a cock tease, or lead you on, or send mixed messages. This dress was a stupid idea, but it’s honest. I want you and I don’t want you. I don’t want to want you as much as I do. But mostly I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  I swallow around the rock in my throat. “I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you.”

  There’s so much tension in Brody’s body he’s practically vibrating with it. He steps closer to me. His nostrils are flared. His eyes are blazing. His breathing is irregular. When he speaks, his voice is rough.

  “Thank you for being honest. I know that couldn’t have been easy for you. And now I’m gonna tell you that I’m a big boy and I can make my own decisions.”

  I groan. “Brody—”

  “No, Grace,” he whispers with quiet intensity, closing the distance between us. “I don’t care. I don’t care if we only get one amazing night together and you don’t remember a fucking thing tomorrow because I’ll remember.” He grabs my arm and drags me against him. “And I know it’ll be worth it.”

  He crushes his mouth to mine.

  It’s everything it was the first time, and more, because now it’s all out there between us, my heart as exposed and fragile as a naked baby tossed out into the snow. He holds my head and kisses me with a depth of passion that leaves me dizzy, gasping against his mouth.

  I’m on fire.

  I am fire.

  And he’s the fuel that makes me burn.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, dragging in a breath against my lips. “Fuck, Grace. Tell me you feel that, too.”

  All I can do is softly moan and cling to him.

  He kisses me again. Just when I think my knees will give out for good, Brody breaks it off. He grins down at me, his cheeks flushed with color.

  “You climbed Mount Kilimanjaro?”

  “I’m sort of an adrenaline junkie,” I admit sheepishly.

  His grin grows wider. “Good,” he says gruffly. “’Cause I have a feeling this is gonna be one hell of a wild ride.”

  Rock ‘n’ roll. Whoever coined that phrase was a goddam genius.

  Standing two feet in front of the temporary stage set up in Brody’s backyard, I stare with an open mouth as Nico leads the band into their fourth song. Even missing A.J. on percussion, they sound amazing—primarily because Marcus is on the drum kit, playing his balls off.

  He wasn’t kidding when he said he was good. He’s better than good. He’s awesome. And he knows all of Bad Habit’s songs.

  Funny the conversations we missed because we were too busy knocking boots.

  The music is eardrum-shattering loud. Everyone around me is jumping up and down and screaming. Kat stands next to me, laughing like a lunatic, singing along to all the lyrics in her terrible voice. Marcus’s three little piggies are on my other side, shaking their moneymakers for all they’ve got. Behind me are a few hundred of Brody’s friends. The night air is crisp, the salty sea breeze is invigorating, and the energy of the crowd is incredible. I literally feel the ground rolling under my feet.

  Whoa. The ground is rolling under my feet!


  I stumble against Kat, who then stumbles against a guy next to her, and then it’s like a line of bowling pins as we all topple sideways, staggering, trying to stay upright. Luckily there are so many people pressed so close together we’re eventually pushed back the way we came.

  Only I end up swaying like one of those egg-shaped Weeble dolls, snorting with laughter as the sky tilts sideways and all the stars slide off the edge.

  I’m exceedingly drunk.

  Kat yells over the music, “You okay?”

  I give her two thumbs up. Then I burp, which makes me laugh and makes Kat’s eyes widen in alarm.

  “How much have you had to drink?” she yells, steadying me with a hand gripped around my arm.

  I make a sloppy gesture that’s supposed to mean “a lot” but looks more like I’m describing the gargantuan breasts on the cross-eyed blonde next to me.

  Kat—normally the first to get shitfaced at a party and fall into a random shrub—takes it upon herself to adopt my usual role of mother. She grasps me firmly by the hand, turns, and clears a path through the crowd by shouting, “She’s going to puke!”

  “Thanks a million, girlfriend,” I say drily as people leap out of the way in horror.

  She drags me across the wide lower lawn to the winding stone path. Then she drags me up the stone path. When she drags me into the house, I protest, “You’re bruising my arm!”

  It comes out as, “Yerbruthinmaarrm!”

  I sound like an inebriated pirate with a lisp.

  Kat marches me into the kitchen, where she retrieves a bottle of cold water from the big stainless fridge. She props me up against the counter, opens the bottle, and shoves it into my face.

  “How many times,” she scolds, “have you told me you have to stay hydrated when you’re drinking?”

  I reach for the water bottle. For some inane reason, she moves it out of the way. “Hey! Quit that!”

  Kat looks at the ceiling. “I’m holding my hand steady, lushy. It’s you that’s moving.”

  She helps me get a grip on the bottle. When I’ve got both hands around it, I lift it to my mouth and drink. Most of it goes down the right pipe. Some of it goes down the wrong pipe. I cough, spraying water into Kat’s face.

  Which, because I’m a terrible, terrible friend, makes me laugh.

  “Oh my God, you’re so lit.” She sighs, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She gingerly takes the water bottle from me like it’s a Molotov cocktail I’m about to toss into a crowd, and looks around. “Let’s go into the living room. Lie down on the sofa until I can get Marcus to drive you home—”

  “I’m not going home with him! He’s going home with the three little piggies! And I don’t crash on people’s sofas like somebody’s unemployed pothead uncle!”

  The look she gives me indicates that my indignation is ridiculous for someone so drunk. “Ookay, then. A bed. We’ll find you a nice, quiet room where you can sleep for a bit.”

  Two minutes or two hours later—my concept of time is completely shot—we’re standing in the doorway of a guest bedroom. There’s a king-sized bed, a matching modern dresser and chest of drawers set, and not much else. Everything is rocking in the most lovely, soothing way, like we’re on a boat.

  Kat sits me on the edge of the bed. She takes off my shoes. She lifts my legs up, forcing me to lie on my back. She smooths my hair off my forehead with a cool hand and smiles down at me. “I’ve never seen you drunk,” she muses.

  “I’m not drunk,” I slur, smiling dreamily. “I’m wasted.”

  “I left the bottle of water on the nightstand right next to the bed, okay, sweetie?”

  I nod obediently. She leans down and kisses my forehead, and then turns for the door. She shuts off the lights. Just as she’s about to close the door behind her I say, “Kat?”

  The door opens wider. “Yeah, sweetie?”

  Thinking of Brody’s beautiful face, I smile into the darkness. “I’m a tiger.”

  She laughs softly. “I know you are, hon. Go to sleep.”

  She closes the door and I promptly follow her instructions.

  “How did she get so drunk?”

  “She drank a lot.”

  “Yeah, but who was giving her so much to drink?”

  An amused chuckle, in a deep baritone that sounds like rolling thunder. “If you think anyone could make Grace do anything she didn’t want to do, you don’t know her very well.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Guys—”

  “It means, Brody, that you’d have an easier time convincing the sky to rain money than you’d have convincing her to not drink if she wanted to drink, or drink if she didn’t want to.”

  “Guys—”

  “My point is that you should’ve been watching her—”

  “Me!” Another deep, amused chuckle. “I should’ve been watching her?”

  “Why is that so funny?”

  “Guys!”

  I recognize Kat’s voice. It’s the shrill, angry one.

  “What?” respond two male voices in unison.

  Brody. And Marcus. Yes, I recognize them, too. What are all these voices doing in my head? I’m trying to sleep here, people!

  “She’s an adult. She had too much to drink. It’s happened to all of us. She’s safe, and she’s sleeping. She’ll be fine in the morning. Can we please move on?”

  “No. No, we can’t move on, Kat, because she could’ve been hurt! What if she wandered away on her own and fell off a cliff?”

  Marcus sighs. “There are no cliffs on your property, dude—”

  “Or broke her ankle by stepping in a gopher hole and had to lie there in agony all night with a busted leg until someone found her in the morning?”

  “You’ve got a pretty advanced sense of drama, Brody, you know that?”

  “This isn’t fucking funny!”

  “Jesus,” Kat mutters, “please take me. Just take me now.”

  “What’s all the hubbub?”

  Another voice joins in. Male, strong, controlled. I recognize it instantly: Barney.

  Kat says, “Nothing. Grace is sleeping, that’s all—”

  “Sleeping? It’s not even nine o’clock. Why is she sleeping?”

  “Because she’s drunk!” exclaims Brody. “Because this bozo was feeding her booze all day!”

  “Now wait just a fucking minute—”

  “You got Grace drunk?” growls Barney, his voice low and dangerous. “Intentionally?”

  “That’s it!” exclaims Kat. “I will not have a cockfight on my hands, do you understand me? Marcus, go get the assfuck triplets and go home! Barney, butt out, this doesn’t concern you! And Brody, calm the fuck down, Grace is fine—because I made sure she was!”

  That shuts them all up. I hear some grumbling and grousing, and then heavy footsteps receding down the hallway.

  Finally, I hear Kat’s heavy sigh. “Fucking men are such fucking babies.”

  And then I don’t hear anything more because I drift back down into darkness.

  Pain. Blood. Flashing lights. The smell of things burning: rubber, plastic, oil.

  Hair.

  A broken moan. It’s coming from me. The pain is everywhere, all over me, inside and out, devouring me. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can barely open my eyes. When I do, everything is upside down. I’m buckled into a car seat. My left arm is pinned against something metal. Something hot.

  Something getting hotter.

  I turn my head and see stars, hear a crunching noise in my neck. When the stars recede, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. The sky is made of black asphalt and yellow lines, broken pieces of plastic, sheared off hunks of metal . . .

  Body parts.

  A lone finger, torn from the root. A foot, still clad in a red high-heeled shoe. A bloody hand, outstretched to nothing, attached to nothing, all alone.

  I hear screaming. Hoarse, frantic screaming. In the distance, sirens wail. Then a hand wraps around my
wrist.

  Someone is pulling on my wrist.

  It hurts. God how it hurts. The sirens grow closer. The grip on my wrist grows tighter. My body jerks forward as the hand pulls hard. I groan. The pain is excruciating.

  “You have to get out! I have to get you out! You need to release your belt buckle now!”

  A man is frantically screaming at me. No—a boy. A dark-haired boy, his head stuck inside the shattered window, his eyes huge and terrified, his features obscured by blood gushing from a nasty gash on his forehead.

  I was in a car crash. We were driving . . . my parents were driving . . .

  An atomic blast of horror hits me the same time a loud pop like an explosion erupts nearby my head.

  The hand. The foot. My parents.

  My parents!

  Blistering hot, a ball of fire explodes around me.

  I open my mouth and scream.

  BRODY

  The sound is one I’ve never heard before. It’s a piercing, primal wail of pure anguish that sends a chill like death straight down to my bones.

  My heart thundering, I jerk upright in bed. For a moment I’m disoriented. Bright sunlight streams through my bedroom windows. Birds chirp in the hibiscus bush outside. It’s early Sunday morning, and everything is quiet and still.

  Except that scream. It comes again, louder and even more terrifying than before.

  I leap from bed and almost fall when my legs tangle in the covers. Stumbling over the hardwood floor to the door, I crack my knee against the dresser. I curse and hop on one foot until I get my balance back, and then I tear through the house toward the sound of that awful scream.

  It’s coming from the room where Grace is sleeping.

  My heart takes off like a rocket. My legs carry me toward her faster than they’ve ever moved before.

  Without slowing, I slam into the door. It crashes open and hits the wall with a thunderous bang.

  On the bed is Grace, thrashing in the covers, screaming bloody murder to wake the dead.

  “Grace!” Terrified, I fall onto her. I grab her wrists, hold them down against the pillow above her head. She fights me, howling like a banshee, her hair flying everywhere, her body bucking beneath me. “Grace! Wake up! Wake up! For God’s sake wake up!”