Make Me Shine (Six Silent Sins #1)

by Colt, Elodie

  I can’t believe Brooke brought us here. Dozens of three-Michelin-starred restaurants in Manhattan, and she insisted on taking us to El Palacio just to take a trip down memory lane.

  Yeah, celebrating Nick’s degree, my ass.

  Those danglers adorning her perfect face have collected dust in a velvet box for years. Tonight, she’s wearing them to make a statement.

  Vincent will see daylight again in a few months. After fourteen years of being apart, the knight will return in his shiny armor, and the famous Crawford couple will have their sparkling reunion. At least, that’s what Brooke bets on. What she clings to, night and day.

  The tension is tangible in the air as the waiter fills our glasses—mine the only white wine glass on the table. He takes our orders before he vanishes with an exaggerated salute.

  “To Nick and his degree,” Brooke declares, raising her glass like the snob she is with only two fingers, her pinky sticking out.

  “To Crawford Crescent’s gallery manager,” Janice chimes in.

  Nick pulls his red-haired beauty in for a kiss, and I rub my brow. Envy is a bitch.

  All eyes lock on me.

  “To my brother,” I say, “and his lovely soon-to-be wife.”

  Janice blushes, and I wink at her when we clink our glasses.

  Grinning, Nick dips his head in thanks and takes a cautious sip from his Bordeaux. I’m relieved to see that he’s still treading carefully around alcohol. He had been through hell and back, before he met Janice. She was the only one who could put an end to his addiction and drag him back from the dead, but that’s a story long in the past.

  A story that Nick never shared with Vincent, as far as I know. Fuck, that man missed out on so many years and so much shit that went down in this family, I’m not sure if he’s still privy to the titles, ‘father’ and ‘husband.’

  Brooke has a different point of view, of course. She deifies Vincent. Brushes off every one of his mistakes and never shows a backbone. He could have kicked her in the gut and left her bleeding on the ground, and she would have crawled back to him on all fours, begging for his forgiveness.

  The clinking of silverware drags me out of my reverie, and I crack a polite smile to fake interest in the conversation as the waiter serves the main course.

  “The Victorian jewelry from Romanov Russia should arrive next week,” Nick tells Brooke while I dig into my soy-basted pork chops and green jalapeños. “And I’m going to acquire a few more enamel pieces for the Russian exhibition.”

  Brooke nods enthusiastically and pops a fork full of peas into her mouth. “I’ve found a few interesting items in the newest Imperial Russian Factory catalog. You should have a look at it.”

  “Price range?”

  “Mid-end,” she says, dabbing the corner of her lips with a napkin, “but they’ve got a few three-figure pieces, too, if you’re looking for some cheaper items to fill in the gaps.”

  Nick nods. “We can do that, but I’d like to borrow Valerie for a few days, if you don’t mind. I could use a hand with all the paperwork.”

  “She’s all yours.” Brooke huffs a sardonic laugh. “Not sure if she’ll be of much help, though. That girl can’t even tell the difference between a malachite and a jade…”

  “Maybe you should teach her,” I say, butting into the conversation with the full intention of ruffling her feathers. Brooke’s head snaps in my direction, and she gawks at me as if she just realized I’m still present. “You know, tutor her and build on her talents.”

  Like Vincent did with me when he was still my father.

  I pause to take a sip from my sweet-as-fuck wine while Brooke’s eyes narrow into slits.

  “You give her hell before you say good morning and rake her over the coals before she leaves,” I go on. “That girl is working her butt off to receive a fracture of praise from you. Did you know she rarely clocks out before ten to get all the shit done you’re throwing at her?” Her mouth drops open, but I continue, “No, you don’t. That’s usually the time you’re getting ready for your beauty sleep.”

  If looks could kill.

  Brooke’s steely glare leaves me cold, and we finish our meal in bitter silence.

  Just to be clear—it’s not as if I don’t love that woman. I do, whole-heartedly. After all, I owe her my life. She’s the one who took me in right after my biological mother dumped me like a used tissue. No matter how hard we try to claw each other’s eyes out, this mountain of love will persist. But the many earthquakes over the years has shattered its foundation.

  The first rock came loose when my brother was born—no offense, just stating a fact. Brooke thought she was infertile, so she adopted me. I was her everything. But after God answered her prayers, and she became pregnant, she put me in the rear.

  It’s not that Brooke doesn’t have a heart, but it’s small. There was only ever space for two—Vincent and Nick.

  And the more Brooke became Team Nick, the more Vincent became Team Nathan, until, all of a sudden, they were on different sides. Then Vincent landed in jail, and the blame-game began.

  The server waltzes over to our table again (it’s table number six, by the way) to offer us dessert, and I take the first thing on the menu, counting the seconds until I can get out of this high-class place and call it a night.

  “Show me your ring again,” Brooke says to Janice to keep the charade going, and my gaze flicks upward to the low-hanging lights.

  I have a notion of where this is going.

  Janice tugs at the fingertips of her left glove and slides it off. She’s hesitant to show off her hand, seeing as the gloves hide the long-healed burns on her arms—a testament to a horrible car accident—but the emerald-cut diamond on her engagement ring is the only thing that matters to Brooke.

  “What a beautiful design,” Brooke says in a musical voice. “You outdid yourself with that one, Janice.”

  For once, I agree with her. The ring combines simplicity, elegance, and class. A masterpiece boasting chemical purity and high clarity.

  “When will I see my oldest son in front of the altar, I wonder?” Brooke muses, her saccharine tone a disguise for her bone-cutting words.

  “Mom,” Nick groans.

  “What? It was just a question.”

  Yeah. A question with a painfully obvious answer.

  I finger my collar as the server hands out the desserts.

  “You had the front row seat in the church when I exchanged vows with Aiko,” I remind her, jabbing my fork into the lemon blueberry trifle.

  “My high school relationships lasted longer than your marriage,” is her blatant response as she continues to throw fuel onto the flames.

  “You’re right. My mistake,” I reply without looking up. “I should have known that Aiko was going to shag that guy in our gallery.”

  Janice clears her throat, but we pretend not to notice.

  Brooke swats a hand in the air. “We all make mistakes. You didn’t have to take such drastic measures.”

  My fork clatters on the plate. It takes me a long moment to articulate a response, my lips pressed into a thin slash.

  “My wife cheated on me six months after we vowed to be truthful to each other for eternity,” I grind out, fuming.

  Brooke remains unfazed. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  “Mom, that’s enough,” Nick cuts in, his tone sharp, but the damage is already done.

  Swallowing down my rage before I can puke it all out right here on the table, I peel my sorry ass from the cushioned seat and straighten my suit jacket. I can feel Nick’s eyes on me, but I avert my gaze.

  “Thanks, Mom, for dinner,” I say through gritted teeth. “It was an unforgettable experience, as usual.”

  Her shoulders hunch the tiniest bit. She knows she gutted me, maybe even regrets it, but asking for forgiveness is beneath her, so I pivot on my heels to get the hell out of here.

  The rain hammers down on me as I shoot straight for my car, and all I can think about is h
ow I’m going to send myself on a binge once I’m home.

  I get it. Aiko was a fine piece to complete the Crawford family collection. A great curator with lots of expertise in antique jewelry and a huge network to support the business. Brooke had been over the moon when I’d introduced her to Aiko, but I would rather drown in loneliness than get poisoned in a toxic relationship.

  I breathe out in relief when I unlock the door to my apartment and stomp over the luxury carpeting of the large living area, beelining for the kitchen. Just as I open the fridge, my phone rings. It’s Carl.

  I answer the call. “Yup?”

  Carl chuckles on the other end of the line. “Someone’s moody. I take it the family dinner didn’t go that well?”

  I briefly close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Brooke gave me a run for her money tonight.”

  Carl heaves a sigh. “As usual… Anyway, did you already get acquainted with the Silent Sins membership area? The chat room and all that stuff?”

  “Yeah. Great interface, by the way.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not the reason I’m calling. I wanted to tell you that I’ve got your matches.”

  My craving for booze forgotten, I close the fridge. “You do?”

  “Yeah. We’ve got some amazing matches for you, Nathan.”

  The words ‘you said the same when you threw Aiko my way’ hover on my tongue, but I bite them back. Aiko can’t be my response to all of my problems, and Silent Sins is more than a regular eNtimacy membership. Better suited for erotic encounters, as Carl likes to call it. No commitments, no strings. Just the dirty stuff.

  My dick can’t wait, and he jerks inside my pants.

  “Describe ‘amazing.’” I shrug out of my jacket and toss it over a kitchen chair.

  “You’ve got more than ninety percent on the compatibility score with your top match. That’s insane.”

  I chuckle. “Sounds like you’ve found me the perfect fuck-buddy.”

  “I’m certain she will be more than that, Nathan,” he says in a nearly solemn tone. A mouse click resounds in the background. “Just sent you the results. Have fun with your first date.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ending the call, I sit down and open Carl’s email on my phone.

  Good news, Nathan — here are your best matches!

  1. Devonport 94%

  2. Sydney 88%

  3. Alabama 82%

  City names. Very inventive. Thank God they didn’t name my top match Brooklyn…

  I scan back over the names.

  Devonport.

  Devonport.

  I taste the name on my tongue, imagining how it would feel to whisper it over her skin in the dark. What does a woman with the name Devonport look like?

  Tall. Wild hair. Elegant, maybe. Feminine but not ladylike.

  I glance back at the screen, my eyes on the numbers.

  Devonport 94%

  And my lucky number hasn’t let me down.

  So close to one-hundred…

  Just six percent missing.

  By the time I kill the engine of my bike, I’m a bundle of coiled-up tension.

  The sudden silence settling over the confined space is almost deafening, like loud static whirring in my ears. Or maybe it’s just the sound of my blood pumping in sync with my fluttering heartbeat.

  I can’t even remember how I got here. It feels as if I left my apartment and then skipped a chunk of time. I’ve been coasting on cruise control the entire way to Queens, my thoughts racing faster than the Tesla Roadster that sped by on the highway.

  I remove my helmet, my gaze bouncing over the small garage. Kate told me that they assigned different parking lots to both matches, but still, my eyes trail over each car, and I wonder if the silver Porsche Panamera or the black Cadillac Escalade belongs to Rosswell.

  He’s my top match, according to my results. Kate said our rank was one of the highest the algorithm has ever spit out.

  1. Rosswell 94%

  2. Livingston 85%

  3. Santiago 83%

  I’ve memorized the numbers, of course. After Kate’s email with my matches popped in, I was so jittery, I needed a good thirty minutes to regain my motor functions, get my hand to maneuver my computer mouse, and click on the green button to accept the invitation.

  Now, here I am, my confidence in rags and my nerves in tatters as I cross the garage and take the elevator on the backside of Hotel Astra.

  After the hydraulics press the doors shut, the silence continues while I gnaw on the inside of my lip so hard, I nearly bite off a chunk. The elevator is cleaner than a white room. No smudges or fingerprints on the walls. No dust or gum wrappers on the floor.

  I scratch the skin underneath my rubber bracelet. Maybe it’s just my nerves, but that thing itches like crazy. I was never into jewelry, no matter if fancy or cheap. The only stuff I wear other than clothing is an elastic to keep my hair out of my face. Mom loved the bling-bling and shiny stuff. She had an entire collection of nineteenth-century jewelry. She’d probably roll over in her grave if she knew Zoya and I sold most of it.

  Okay, back to my current predicament.

  Your name is Devonport. Devonport, not Ella. I repeat the name a few more times so it sticks.

  I have to be damn careful what I say in there. I’m a complete stranger to the guy I’m going to meet. A ghost in a dark room. We will talk. A lot. But I’m not supposed to spill too much. Whatever I say, I can’t blurt it out without applying a filter first. I mean, the guy could fall in love with me, and then we mysteriously stumble into each other, and he recognizes me, and then he starts to get obsessed, and then—

  The soft bing announces my arrival, and I jump a foot in the air. Taking a deep breath, I stuff my hands into my pockets so no one can see them trembling as the elevator doors open, leading me into a secret passageway.

  The pathway is eerily narrow. It feels as if the dark, ponderous walls are closing in on me as I scuffle my feet over the polished stone floor. No windows, of course. Just lots of overhead lights illuminating every nook and corner.

  It dawns on me that I’ve completely lost my orientation. Am I below floor level now, or am I higher up? Hell, I have no idea if the elevator took me up or down.

  Maybe I took a wrong turn somewhere.

  When I reach the end of the hallway, a chubby face comes into view and I exhale in relief. Judging from his Men-In-Black attire, and the way he stands rod-straight in front of the door, with his hands folded in front of his stomach, he’s the security guy.

  I approach him with hesitant steps.

  “Evening, ma’am,” he gruffs out, and I reciprocate with a curt nod.

  He shoves a small black device at me, expecting me to do something. I give him a befuddled look, and he nods to my hand.

  “Oh.” Raising said hand, I hold my bracelet over the screen, and I take the green light blinking as a good sign.

  There’s a moment of awkward silence while I wait for more instructions until he jerks his head to my bag.

  “Right. Sorry…”

  I open the zipper so he can inspect its contents, and I try not to groan when he rummages through my stuff with painstaking accuracy, digging his way through candy wrappers, pennies, loose tampons, and… a dead blood worm.

  Fishing out a pen from his suit pocket, he uses the tip to pick up the worm and cocks an eyebrow.

  “Uhm, I have an aquarium,” I mumble, and he lets it drop back into the bag.

  Next, he retrieves my pocket flask and pepper spray, leering at me, then jerks his head to the metal locker next to him. Scowling, I stow away my liquid courage along with my phone and keys.

  Last, he uses a metal detector wand to scan me from head to toe until he gives a resigned nod and steps aside to let me venture into the unknown.

  It’s just the changing room, Ella. No need to freak out yet.

  The lights flick up as soon as I close the door behind me, and I find myself in a luxurious chamber rimmed with all the be
lls and whistles.

  This is how I imagine a bathroom from a two-thousand-per-night penthouse suit. Everything is made of sleek, black granite combined with accents of red and gold, the round bathtub in the middle inviting you to have a lazy hour and relax. Sensory music floats from invisible speakers, and the pervasive scent of beauty products and herbal aromas creates an atmosphere of tranquility.

  Shrugging out of my jacket and shoes, I brave a look at the clock above the door. Ten minutes to eight. Not enough time to get my shit together.

  I amble over to the sink in front of the mirror and rifle through the glass jars and amenities: combs, brushes, toothpaste, perfume, pads, lotions, hair spray, conditioner, soap, and tons of other stuff. Enough to make me all shiny and fluffy.

  Five minutes to eight.

  Examining my agonized reflection in the mirror, I ruffle a hand through my hair in an attempt to flatten my windblown hairstyle. After the spicy masala pasta I had for dinner, I’d brushed my teeth three times and popped in a mint. It would be a little awkward if I scared off my best match with bad breath.

  Two minutes to eight.

  Why are you making such a fuss? It’s just a date, one they call a ‘meeting’ here. You’ve had dates before, remember? Sure, it’s been a few centuries, but you still know how to open your mouth and talk, right?

  One minute to eight.

  Timidly, I walk up to the milky glass door. There’s no handle or knob, but I know it will slide to the side as soon as I activate the blinking scanner. Leaning in, I try to see through the glass but to no avail. A spike of adrenaline makes my heart thump as I watch the secondhand ticking and ticking, getting closer to…

  Eight sharp.

  Showtime, Ella.

  Sweat breaks out on my palm as I lift my hand and let it hover over the scanner. An inch closer, and I will be blind, unable to see what awaits me on the other side of the door. Unable to see the guy who’s supposed to be my perfect match.

  You signed up for this. This is what you wanted. Just do it!

  Picking up all the courage I can muster, I swipe my wrist over the scanner, and the lights go out, plunging everything into utter darkness.