Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. In a husky voice, he says, “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

  This time his smile isn’t quite so sad.

  I pat the mattress. “C’mere.”

  Holding the towel closed with one hand, he crosses to the bed, then sits on the edge. I scoot over to him and rest my head on his shoulder.

  “Does your mood have anything to do with that nightmare you had last night?” I ask.

  His back stiffens just enough to be noticeable.

  I press a kiss to his warm skin, inhaling the smell of him, shampoo and soap and clean, masculine man. “Yeah. I thought so.”

  Brody blows out a hard breath, leans over and props his elbows on his knees, then drops his face into his hands. “Haven’t had one that bad in years,” he says, his words subdued.

  He doesn’t have to tell me. He woke up thrashing and screaming “No! No! No!” at the top of his lungs in the dead of night, scaring me half to death. It was nearly an hour before he fell back to sleep, twitching and whining in the back of his throat like a dog.

  Oddly, my nightmares have eased over the past few weeks, but Brody’s seem to be increasing. It’s a surreal experience for me, waking up to someone else’s nightmare, comforting someone else’s terror, listening to the frantic beating of someone else’s heart. I’ve been alone for so long with my own nocturnal visions it’s weirdly comforting to find Brody and I have this awful thing in common. I’m grateful to be able to forget about my own problems for a while and focus on helping him deal with his.

  There’s a faint voice shouting “Hello, codependency!” from some dark corner of my brain, but for now I’m ignoring it. Once I get past today and all its goblin memories, I’ll be able to turn a clearer eye to the big picture.

  Rome wasn’t built in a day, as they say.

  Brody asks, “What time is everyone coming over again?”

  “They should be here in an hour. Unless you want to cancel—”

  “No.” He straightens and looks over his shoulder at me. “God, no. This is your annual thing with the girls, there’s no way I’m fucking it up. Besides,” he takes my hand and squeezes it. “I can use the distraction.”

  So can I.

  I haven’t told him why it’s my annual thing with the girls, but it didn’t require an explanation when I brought it up last week. I said we do this every year, he said great, let’s have it at my place. End of discussion.

  Had I known a man existed who was exactly as comfortable with ambiguity and equivocation as I was, I’d have started looking for him years ago.

  He says, “Speaking of distractions,” and pulls me onto his lap.

  “Oh, so I’m a distraction now?” I tease, winding my arms around his shoulders.

  “Now and forever.” His eyes search mine.

  I bend my head and softly kiss him. “Sweet talker.”

  He cups the back of my head and pulls me closer, his mouth eager for mine. Our tongues sweep against each other. His other hand curls around my hip, rocking me against his growing erection.

  “I think there’s something under your towel that needs some attention, Mr. Scott,” I whisper, gazing into his eyes.

  But he isn’t in a teasing mood. His eyes are intense, drilling into mine. He’s not smiling. Instead he says, “When this new album is released, we’ll go on tour to support it. The label is booking all the dates now.”

  “Okay,” I answer slowly, unsure where this is going. I wait for him to say more, but for a moment he only stares into my eyes, thoughtfully stroking my cheek with his thumb.

  “There’ll be US stops, Europe again, too. Most likely we’re looking at two months.”

  I feel a twinge of unhappiness, but smile to cover it. “I guess I’d better update my international calling plan.”

  With sudden urgency he says, “I need you with me. I can’t do it again without you. I won’t.”

  I frown. He’s asking me to go on tour with him? Of course that’s not happening. “Well, you have to, sweetie. I’m sure your contract stipulates—”

  “I love you.”

  He says it like a confession of a terrible sin, his voice raspy, his face contorted in pain.

  A crushing pressure descends on my chest. It’s impossible to breathe. I stare at him, shocked past words.

  He repeats it again, the words bursting from him like water from a broken dam. “I love you, Grace. I need you with me. Everything makes sense now that I’ve found you. I’ve been waiting my entire life for you. I want to take care of you forever. Be my wife. Marry me. Please.”

  I’m floating outside myself. My body is a tornado of emotions—pounding heart, shaking hands, shallow breathing—but my mind is detached, clinically appraising with narrowed eyes and a raised brow.

  Twice before I’ve had marriage proposals. Both times I laughed. Neither time did I feel as if I were being asked to throw a lifeline to a drowning man.

  I cup his face in my hands and softly press a kiss to his lips.

  He closes his eyes. His arms around me are crushing. In a ragged whisper, he says, “Please.”

  With all my heart I want to believe this desperation comes from a place of joy, a natural, healthy impulse to join his life with mine and create a unified future. But there are so many red flags waving in my face I’m blinded.

  And today, of all days.

  Fate has a really vile sense of humor.

  “I’m not saying no.”

  “But you’re not saying yes.”

  We stare at each other, our faces inches apart. His heart is beating so hard I can almost hear it.

  “I’m saying—”

  The doorbell rings.

  When it rings again, Brody drops his head to my chest and groans. “They’re fucking early!”

  Yes, they are, and I’m relieved because this interruption gives me a chance to get my head together before Brody and I continue the conversation.

  Something is behind this sudden proposal. Something darker than love. Something connected to . . .

  A thought hits me with such force I lose my breath.

  He knows.

  Brody knows the significance of this day to me. One of the girls told him, or one of the guys. Of course. Of course he’d know! He must’ve known all along, since the day of the barbeque at Nico’s!

  So him declaring his love and proposing to me today is . . . what?

  My mind leaps forward at lightning speed. In the space of a few moments I’ve gone over every significant conversation we’ve had, every doubt I’ve felt, every time I’ve wondered why he was moving the relationship so fast.

  Does his whole knight-in-shining-denim thing stem from a hero complex? Am I a project for him, a damsel in distress who needs saving?

  A pity fuck?

  Or, possibly even worse, a Band-Aid for his guilt over whatever made him call himself a coward? Give the poor girl with amnesia a happily-ever-after and get a free pass on your own sins?

  My whole body goes cold.

  My God, is this entire relationship just Brody’s Freudian response to shame?

  Magda must have opened the front door, because A.J.’s booming voice echoes through the house.

  “Hey, pretty boy! Put your pants on, man, company’s here!”

  Chloe’s softer voice follows, shushing him, and then there’s laughter.

  Inside my head there’s a sound like a thousand wolves howling at the moon.

  “I guess this conversation will have to wait.” Brody raises his head from my chest and looks at me. His beautiful green eyes are dark, so dark, and full of pain, mirroring the pain inside my chest.

  I nod, unwind my arms from around his shoulders, and stiffly stand. My body feels wooden. Numb. Except for the throbbing of my heart, I feel nothing at all.

  “I’ll let you get dressed.”

  I walk from his bedroom, close the door behind me, and stand in the hallway for a moment, sucking in deep breaths and trying to get my bearings. No
thing looks familiar. All the beautiful furnishings have taken on a dark, ominous cast, as if they’re alive and unfriendly, watching me, smirking at my blank distress.

  Magda rounds the corner, wiping her hands on her white apron. She stops dead when she sees me standing still near the door.

  “Cariño?” she says, peering at me. “Qué te pasa?”

  “Nothing, Magda,” I answer, my voice steady. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”

  I can tell from the look on her face she doesn’t believe me, but I force a smile. “Things have never been better.”

  I walk down the hall, smiling my dead smile, not meeting her eyes, and pass her on my way into the living room. Her gaze is as heavy as sandbags on my back as I walk out to greet my friends, dying a little with every step.

  Since Chloe gave birth to Abby so recently I knew she wouldn’t want to leave the baby at home, and it didn’t seem fair not to invite A.J. if Chloe and the baby were coming, and since A.J. was invited it didn’t seem fair not to invite the rest of the band, and since they were invited we had to invite Kenji—and of course Barney—so I’m looking at a lot of smiling faces when I walk into the foyer. Even Abby is smiling, nestled happily in A.J.’s arms.

  Ethan and Chris couldn’t make it because of their annual trip to Vegas for St. Paddy’s Day, but I’m sure whatever strip club they’re in, they’re smiling, too.

  Kat takes one look at my face and her smile vanishes.

  She keeps her eagle eyes on me as I come in, but doesn’t say anything. Yet. As long as I’m surrounded by people I’m safe, but I know she’s already plotting how to get me alone so she can grill me.

  Kenji imperiously sails past everyone and kisses me on both cheeks. He pulls back to survey me, his hands propped on his hips as he examines my expression. “You’re wearing that face again, lovey. I think you need a colonic.”

  “What I need is a pair of sunglasses, because you’re blinding me. I’ve never seen that color in nature.”

  “It’s citron!” Kenji says, offended. He makes spokesmodel hands at his outfit, a costume of top hat and tails in a retina-searing shade of nuclear yellow-green. A clover-pattern vest over a frilly white shirt, tight “citron” leggings, and black patent leather shoes with chunky heels and big gold buckles on the toes complete the look.

  Barney says, “What it is is offensive to leprechauns.”

  Kenji mutters, “Ack! Philistines!” Then he waves his hand in the air and stalks off into the kitchen, his shoes clacking loudly against the wood. Emerging from the hallway behind me, Magda follows him, quiet as a ghost.

  “You guys are early,” I say, my hollow smile firmly in place. “I thought musicians were always late.”

  Nico, wearing a pair of emerald-green alligator boots with his usual jeans and tight black T-shirt, grins at me. “Musicians who aren’t married to drill sergeants who have best friends with punctuality issues are always late. Me, on the other hand—”

  Kat smacks him lightly on his shoulder, and he laughs.

  Chloe, looking chic in a slim white sheath and a pair of cute kitten heels even though her arms are full of baby paraphernalia and a collapsed stroller, pipes in. “It’s actually Barney’s fault. He’s been barking at us all to get our asses in gear since ten o’clock this morning.”

  Barney shrugs, his expression impassive. “If I left it up to you people, we’d be getting here sometime next week.”

  “Exactly.” Kat steps forward and gives me a tight hug.

  As always, her hourglass figure is stunning, complemented today by a rock-chick ensemble of black leather jacket and designer jeans paired with stilettos and a T-shirt the color of key lime pie, stretched taut over the generous swell of her boobs. Into my ear she whispers, “That’s not your usual St. Patrick’s Day fake, brave smile, sister.”

  I whisper back, “It’s the best I could do on short notice.”

  “Oh God. Don’t tell me the D is starting to be a disappointment!”

  “Hey, no whispering, you two!” booms A.J., looking in our general direction. “And what the hell is ‘the D’?”

  I’d forgotten Chloe told me A.J. has gained Spidey senses since he lost his sight. Apparently she was spot on.

  Chloe scolds A.J. “None of your business, Big Daddy. And stop eavesdropping!”

  “I can’t help it if I have superhuman hearing now,” he replies, sounding unconcerned.

  Abby gurgles, kicking her little feet under the pink blanket she’s wrapped in. A.J., his long blond hair in a sloppy man bun and a goofy smile on his face, begins to coo down at her, making baby talk and gently bouncing her up and down in his enormous tattooed arms.

  “Can I, sweet pea? No, Daddy can’t help it if he’s got bat hearing now. No, he can’t. No, no, no.” He makes kissing noises at his daughter. Staring up into his face and flailing her arms, Abby squeals in delight.

  I put a steadying hand on Kat’s lower back. She’s watching A.J. and Abby with a look of intense longing.

  She hasn’t told me if she’s gotten the results back from the fertility clinic yet. As a matter of fact, Chloe hasn’t told me if A.J. has had his visit to the doctor yet, either.

  Looks like all three of us are up in the air.

  I pronounce, “I need a drink. Let’s get this party started. Everybody to the kitchen. Follow the echo of Kenji’s leprechaun heels.”

  As Chloe, Kat, Nico, and A.J. move off, Barney stays behind, examining my face a little too closely for comfort.

  He’s in his regulation black Armani, complete with pristine white dress shirt and black leather shoes polished to a mirror shine. His goatee is shaved with such precision it looks like he uses an X-ACTO blade to trim the edges. I wonder if his entire closet is row after row of the same black and white, and decide it probably is.

  He asks, “Where’s your boy?”

  “Getting dressed. He should be right out.”

  “Am I allowed to give you a hug before he gets here?”

  My laugh is a little too loud. “Why, do I look like I need one?”

  Dark eyes burning, he says, “You look like you need something, Angelface, but I’m not sure what it is.”

  There’s a moment of tension between us, a quiet space wherein we simply look at each other. I think about how long Barney has known Brody, how Kat once told me Barney was the keeper of all Bad Habit’s skeletons, and wonder with a chill running down my spine if he knows something about Brody that I’d want to know, too.

  Holding Barney’s intense gaze, I say, “Clarity is what I need. Only as it turns out, I’m finding it really hard to come by.”

  He glances down the hall toward the bedrooms. His gaze slices back to me. He takes a single step toward me, but stops abruptly, as if he’s thought better of it. Keeping his voice low, he asks, “You know you can always talk to me, right?”

  My heart thumps hard underneath my breastbone, because my intuition tells me Barney’s offering more than just an ear.

  “He’s your friend.”

  His answer is instant. “You’re my friend, too.”

  As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he looks away and runs a hand over his short hair, a muscle in his jaw jumping. I get the distinct feeling he’d liked to have said something else.

  Something safer, in a tone not quite so gruff.

  I ask softly, “Am I?”

  His head swivels around. He stares at me, jaw clenched, silent.

  If I push it, Barney would tell me anything I wanted to know about Brody, of that I’m sure. But Barney’s not the one I should be asking. It’s not fair to either of them, so I let it go.

  “You know what? Forget it. Let’s just go have a drink and relax. Today’s my least favorite day of the year, and I just want to get through it.”

  There’s a moment where Barney’s eyes register something strange, but his gaze shutters quickly, becoming as expressionless as the rest of his face.

  “Sure. Lead the way.”

  He follows me into the kitche
n, where we find Kenji acting as hostess, whistling as he distributes tequila shots. Magda hovers over the food buffet on one counter, filling up plates. A bar forested with bottles of every kind of liquor has been set up on the large island in the center of the kitchen. A galvanized tub of beers on ice sits just inside the patio doors. I wanted to set up everything outside, but it’s cold and blustery today, the sky a glowering gunmetal gray as it heads toward nightfall.

  Beyond the wall of windows, the ocean is whitecapped and dark, as restless and glum as I feel.

  “We need some music in here!” says A.J., settling into one of the chairs around the big kitchen table with the help of Chloe. He grins. “I know this really cool band we should put on.”

  Chloe quips, “Maroon Five?”

  Still grinning, A.J. says, “That’s cold, Angel. Ice cold.”

  She leans over and kisses his forehead. “Hmm. Maybe it’ll help cool your raging ego, Big Daddy.”

  “Omigod, stop with the Big Daddy already, girl!” says Kenji. He downs a shot of tequila, and then looks at Chloe in disgust. “Do you know what people think of when you say that?” He makes a lewd gesture at his crotch. “Is that what you want people thinking? In front of the baby, no less?”

  “Let me guess,” says A.J., a smile in his unfocused gaze. “He pointed to his dick?”

  “You see!” Kenji shouts, throwing his hands in the air.

  Chloe laughs. “Since when did we switch roles and you became the prude one?”

  Kenji gasps, his long, fake eyelashes fluttering. “Prude? Prude! I am not prude! I’m . . .” he flails around for a word, until he settles on, “classy!”

  “Oh yeah,” says Barney drily, dropping into a chair across from A.J. “You’ve got class coming out of your ass.”

  Kenji’s eyes bulge. He looks as if he just swallowed his tongue. “That’s a terrible thing to say to someone, Nasi!”

  “Not if you’re from Jersey, it isn’t.”

  I say to Barney, “You’re from New Jersey? You don’t have any accent.”

  Sitting next to Nico at the other end of the table with an enormous margarita in front of her, Kat asks, “And who’s Nasi?”