Sin for Me

by Lisa Marie Perry

  Dante, though, didn’t stop in front of her desk. Dictating his email address, he continued to move along the side of her desk, closer to her. “I thought you volunteered to be my tour guide.”

  “Can’t do that. I need to clear my inbox before I go home.”

  “What happened to being available to me?”

  “I’m still a big part of what keeps this music-making machine a-runnin’,” she said with cheer as fake as the stones on the tiara she’d worn to prom a lifetime ago. Thinking about how a stone had become unglued and fallen into her punch—provoking all kinds of laughter and heckling—she cleared her throat. “I can’t ignore my duties just to keep you entertained while you write songs. This company’s circumstances are dire. That’s why you’re here. That’s why Devil’s Music needs your talent.”

  She could kiss herself for the strength in her voice and the reasonableness in her words. “Just sent it. In the morning you’ll meet with me, Emma, and someone from Legal to clarify things and make all of this shiny and official. In the meantime, you’ll find the guesthouse furnished and equipped with instruments. A car will be ordered for you after you sign. Until then, if you need to leave headquarters, use one of the company drivers. Keeps things discreet.”

  “Are you done?” he asked when silence swelled.

  “Yes. You can leave.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped and swiped the screen, then shoved it back. “Forwarded the contract to my attorneys.”

  “Good boy. Again, you can leave.”

  “You’re telling me what I’m capable of doing, not what you want me to do.”

  Chelsea exited the portal and brought up her email application. Ninety-seven unread messages. Hadn’t she worked her way through the entire inbox after lunch? Being important could really suck monster balls sometimes.

  “I told you what I want, Dante, and you rejected me. You said no. In the same regard, I can say no to you, too. Agreeing to your terms means I won’t avoid you while you’re on the premises providing a service to my record label. It doesn’t mean I’m a possession you can use at will.” Finding his solemn dark eyes again, struggling not to lose herself in them as she had so many times before, she added with some force, “The Coins aren’t anyone’s property anymore. That era ended with the Civil War.”

  Suddenly he looked as though he’d been the man put through a sheet of glass tonight. “Are you fucking serious, Chelsea? If you think that’s who I am—someone who’d reduce you to property—”

  “Don’t get self-righteous with me. Dante, I’m not naive and I’ve been a part of this business long enough to see it for what it is. It’s about power and staking claims and, yeah, ownership. Of Granddaddy Bishop’s black clients, how many do you think were invited over to his great big house for poker? Few, if any at all. He helped several become famous and some are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but let’s not forget he recruited them specifically to make his company prosper. They weren’t equals.” She picked up the hard copy of his contract, which lay beside her coffee mug. “Once you sign this, you belong to Devil’s Music. Ownership, as I said.”

  “This is business.”

  “And was slavery not? People built success on the backs of others. People were caged and dominated. The cages are harder to recognize now because we want to hope so damn hard that we’ve evolved, but they still exist and not much has changed. I’m benefiting”—she gestured to the luxury around her, then pointed to the inbox where ninety-seven—nope, one hundred—unanswered high-priority emails awaited her attention—“but I’m not free.”

  “If you don’t want this life, leave. I did.”

  “Because you could, Dante. You left the Herst Plantation to get away from your family history. I came here and I’m rooted like that old-ass magnolia tree out front because I’ll prove that this place can’t hurt my family anymore. And I’m making big money while I do it, so when you think about it, I’m not complaining all that much.”

  “Where does that put you and me?”

  “It puts me in this big squishy chair and it puts you on that side of the desk.” She pointed to the opposite side, but he instead took a meaningful step toward her. “Was I not clear?”

  “Don’t hide behind the hell your ancestors suffered. Face what’s in front of you. I’m in front of you, so face me. Tell me not to touch you, Chelsea, and I won’t.”

  If she said no, then neither would have an advantage. He’d write his songs and go back to Washington, taking his rough hands and dirty mind with him. She’d go on collecting flings and holding her head up high, and once the company stabilized, her equilibrium would, too.

  Except this was all inevitable. Whether he touched her again or not, he’d leave once his songs were written and she would stay.

  “And if I tell you to touch me?” she finally said, though she swiveled to confront her computer. A quick read and then she clicked the reply button.

  Answering emails while negotiating sexual boundaries with an extremely hot guy…multitasking at its finest.

  “I’d do this.” Dante turned her chair and jerked it forward, where he met her with a mouth that was both eager and patient. Demanding lips coaxed hers open. A firm tongue taunted her to engage, but when she leaned forward to respond to his kiss, he redirected his mouth to her neck.

  She was trying to not be selfish, but he dodged her every attempt. “I have to reply to that email,” she said, turning back to the computer. She stood up so he wouldn’t swivel the chair again. But that only made it easy for him to send it rolling out of the way. “I can type standing. In fact, I have a standing desk at home.”

  “Tell me all about that.”

  “Do you really care?”

  “Fuck, no.” From behind, he reached into her romper to squeeze her breasts. “I like hearing your voice shake a little when I get my hands on you.”

  She tried to focus on her response to the HR manager, but he bit her shoulder and brushed her nipples at the same time, and a line of typos swept across the draft.

  “Gonna give that delete button a workout, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Quit looking at my email.”

  “I’ll follow that order. Now you follow mine.” His tongue traced her ear and she almost came. “Get me a rubber. We had a good time with the one I had in my wallet, but that’s the only one I brought.”

  She yanked open a desk drawer and, without having to look, reached in and retrieved an ultra-thin condom. “It’s not lubricated. Stays in place better.”

  She heard the sounds she knew so well—the slip of a zipper, a tear of a wrapper, a groan of anticipation—then he lifted her leg to prop onto the desk as she bent over her keyboard.

  “Naw, you don’t need a lubricated condom,” he said, his laughter a tense scrape against her back. He pulled the crotch of her romper and undies aside—oh so skilled, just like she remembered—and speared her.

  He kept working her until she came with a cry she couldn’t control. Thankful for the music playing in the nearest office, she doubted anyone could hear her.

  “Damn it,” he growled all of a sudden, and she felt him abandon her body. “The condom broke.”

  Not yet back on all cylinders, she stumbled to understand the magnitude. “Did you come?”

  “Was getting there, but no.”

  “We can’t be too pissed at the condom. It was put through a lot.” She reached into her drawer, producing another. “Put this on and get back where you belong.”

  Chelsea bit her tongue a moment too late. What the hell was that supposed to even mean? He didn’t belong inside her, or with her…It felt amazing, yes, but this wasn’t about belonging.

  “Dante, I didn’t mean that. It’s just sex talk.”

  “Right.” It was all he said before he returned to her, clutching her elbows to hold her in place. In a fluid stroke he filled her and rode.

  The door swept open.

  “Hey, Chelsea, check your sent messages—” Teagan Murra
y froze just inside the room. “Um…”

  Chelsea, bent over her desk with Dante mounting her from behind, was so glad she still had her clothes on…somewhat.

  Teagan had already begun to back out of the room. “I was going to ask about this ‘reply-all’ email that was just sent from your work account. It’s a lot of random letters…and now I see something must’ve bumped the keys.”

  “Yeah, that’s just a computer glitch,” she lied. “And he—he’s here to help me fix it.”

  “Your leg is on the desk…and your hands…aren’t on the keyboard.”

  Because Dante was still inside her and holding her by the elbows.

  “I’m going to go,” her assistant said slowly before she whirled and darted out.

  Chelsea knew their interlude had come to a harsh end even before he withdrew and peeled off the condom. Two had been sacrificed and still she and Dante hadn’t finished what they started.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot to lock it,” she said. “Then again, Teagan has a key.”

  “Are you worried?” He disposed of the condom and zipped up.

  “That she’ll tell the world? Not at all. That it’ll be New Year’s before she can look me in the eye again? A little bit.”

  “This wasn’t good,” he said flatly.

  “Unfinished sex rarely is.”

  “I’m heading out, Chelsea.”

  “To the guesthouse?” Would he invite her to join him? In private, in bed, things would be different…better.

  Dante shook his head. “I need to get away from this.”

  “From me is what you mean.” Grunting a sarcastic laugh, she dragged her chair back to the desk and sat. She’d sent a sex-typo reply-all message and he got to swagger away unaffected. She snatched open the drawer and threw him another condom. “Wouldn’t want you to be unprepared when you go out on the prowl tonight. But Dante, do the classy thing and wash me off first.”

  —

  “As your counsel and the guy who’s known you since you were a wiseass kid, I’ve got to tell you this is one fucking bad idea.” Attorney Frederick Hill, the only bastard in this sweltering bar wearing a three-piece suit, swirled a splash of bourbon around in his glass. “It’d be wrong of me to drink on your dime and not give you my honest opinion.”

  On Tap was a shitty spot in Vine City and where Fred preferred to conduct off-record dealings. It was also a known cop hangout, where badges came off for shady off-duty shit—usually involving street drugs and prostitutes who’d deep-throat a cock for a beer.

  Dante wasn’t a stranger to this spot. His father had brought him and Delilah here often growing up, telling them to play pinball or get in on a card game while he dealt with business matters. Dante was a teenager when he’d started coming here on his own to hustle cash he didn’t need and would turn around and use it to buy drinks for every son of a bitch in the place. He’d gotten his ass kicked a couple of times—once in the john and once while he was in the middle of a spicy barbecue rib plate.

  The place had one thing going for it then that it still hung on to now: They can fry one hell of a good burger. Fred had said that seven years ago when Dante had told him he wanted out of Devil’s Music and the man had summoned him to this hellhole to talk it over. Good food makes for good decisions.

  Dante sat hunched over a pepper Angus burger with spiced mayo and mozzarella, swiping a beer-battered potato slice through ketchup. He’d had dinner at headquarters, but it was past midnight now and in the interim he’d started a brawl that ended in shattered glass and had fucked Chelsea in her office. His adrenaline raced and his mind wasn’t all right.

  He needed to refuel. And if tearing into fried beef and potatoes in a crime-infested cop haunt was the route to it, then so be it.

  “Are the terms shady? They looked all right when I went over it, but maybe you see something I missed,” he said to Fred. He’d reviewed the contract himself after he brought his suitcase to the guesthouse—benign word for what had in the 1800s been a slave cabin—and taken a shower hoping it would restore his focus.

  None of his methods had—not the shower, not jacking off in the stall because he’d still worn an erection when he left Chelsea’s office, and not cruising around in the back of a taxi and looking at the women the Atlanta streets offered up tonight.

  He’d had the driver pull over for a woman who was fresh in the face and glancing around worriedly at a bus stop. It wasn’t for a screw in the back of the taxi, though. He’d given the driver cash and told him to get the woman to where she needed to go, and he’d walked the rest of the way to On Tap.

  He wanted Chelsea. He’d been transparent about that to everyone but himself. It was as much a manipulative maneuver as it was the honest-to-God truth.

  “I’m fucked,” he said on a sigh, and signaled to the bartender for a beer.

  “You will be if you put your signature on this contract.” Fred finished his drink. “It’s not the terms—they’re fair. More than fair, which made me suspicious at first, so I did some research while I was waiting for you to show up. The company’s desperate, is what it is. I’m not worried about the contract. I just don’t advise you to get involved.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The last time we met here, you sat at that table back there and looked at me with goddamn tears in your eyes, kid.” Fred gripped his shoulder. “You wanted to wash your hands of all of this after Jude took himself out.”

  “I remember you telling me that was a mistake, that leaving the company to Delilah was the worst thing I could do. You didn’t believe in her potential. She proved you wrong.” Until she’d let the people she trusted fling her from the top.

  “Delilah feeds off opposition. The only thing she loves more than Devil’s Music is proving people wrong.” Fred began to toss his empty glass from one weathered hand to the other. “That’s how she used to be, at least. Don’t know her anymore.”

  Delilah had fired Fred as her attorney before she’d taken over as CEO, making the statement that Jude Bishop’s reign was officially over.

  “She’s still that way,” Dante said. “Stubborn. Ambitious.”

  “Crazy as a shithouse rat.” Fred put down the glass and held up a hand. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said it with you in earshot.”

  Dante never appreciated how most handled his sister. Cancer had come for their mama when Delilah was six years old, and she’d had a difficult time adjusting. The only thing she’d responded to was Devil’s Music. When Jude had announced plans to send her up north to college and to move Dante up in the ranks in the company, Delilah had shot herself.

  Still a girl with not much life experience then, she’d sworn she would die if she couldn’t have the company. But Dante had believed her. It was why he hadn’t insisted that they both sell the company after their daddy died. It was why he’d waited, hollow inside, for word to come that she’d gone ahead and killed herself after the board of directors had voted her out—and thank God she’d survived that.

  It was why he was here in Atlanta now, when he should be in Washington living a life far removed from entertainment.

  Granddaddy Bishop had been lucid in his final days, telling Dante, “Love your family. Take care of ’em and keep ’em in line.”

  Well, he sure as hell hadn’t managed to take care of his father and sister, or keep them in line. Loving either of them never seemed enough to keep them from spinning out.

  It was too late to do anything for Jude—he knew that and he would carry the guilt of it until his dying day—but he could get what was stolen from Delilah.

  “I don’t think your opinion would matter to Delilah anymore,” he told Fred, “but I ask you not to disrespect her again.”

  “Shit, you’re in up to your neck already. How long have you been in town—not even a day, right?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I think, my boy,” Fred muttered, “that the troubles of Devil’s Music are an opportunity to do what that sister of yours
can’t. She’s planning something, isn’t she?”

  “I thought the contract laid it all out. They want me to write some songs and get the fuck out.”

  “So the powers that be over there up and call you, tell you they want an album, and you say yes? What are you getting out of it that’s not printed in the contract?” His pale eyes were prying. “Tell me what I don’t know. I can’t help you if you cut me out of the details.”

  What his sister had told him at the farm, what had convinced him to agree to walk through hell again, wasn’t his confession to make. “You’ve got the contract. That’s all there is.”

  “Huh,” the attorney grumbled, unconvinced. He threw a guarded glance around as the door whined open for a string of men with piercings and tattoos. “Know what? New blood’s taking up residence here.”

  “Don’t cops still come here to bang hookers and folks pass through selling guns?”

  “That kind of action hasn’t changed, but the territory’s seeing a…reorganization. I’m going to get my ass murdered here one of these days.” Chuckling, he slapped the bar. “Taking off. The papers are clean. But I think you’re getting into something dirty with the company. Be smart, all right? And don’t let Devil’s Music talk you into doing Satan’s deeds—know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Dante said, though noncommittally. Fred shook his head and left, but Dante stayed on his stool as the noise inched up behind him. Then it rose to a level that jarred his concentration and distracted him from all the shit he should be figuring out when it came to Chelsea, and he twisted around to survey the room.

  A man came up eyeing Dante’s watch, and when Dante looked straight into his face, he wanted to know what in the blue fuck the man saw to send him darting out of the bar, careening into a stool in his haste.

  Dante felt smoke seep into his pores, and he tossed some money down beside his plate and sought the john.

  Throwing water onto his face, he peered at the cloudy mirror. Brown eyes, darker hair, a beard—the wrinkles he’d started to collect once he’d acquired his farm. But it was as though he was meeting himself for the first time.