Sin With Me (Bad Habit) Read online

  Also by J.T. Geissinger

  Bad Habit Series

  Sweet as Sin

  Make Me Sin

  The Night Prowler Series

  Shadow’s Edge

  Edge of Oblivion

  Rapture’s Edge

  Edge of Darkness

  Darkness Bound

  Into Darkness

  Novella

  The Last Vampire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477824047

  ISBN-10: 1477824049

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  To Jay. Who knew?

  Start Reading

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “The hottest love has the coldest end.”

  ~ Socrates

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been thirteen years since my last confession.”

  I don’t have to count the time. I remember exactly how long it’s been since I’ve knelt in a small, stuffy confessional booth and stared through a tightly woven wooden lattice at a shadowed figure beyond.

  I remember because it’s the last time I trusted God.

  The priest seated behind the screen murmurs, “The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  I make the sign of the cross over my chest, fold my sweaty hands together, and rest my elbows on the narrow ledge jutting from beneath the lattice. My heart pounds like I’ve been running a race.

  But it’s not a race that makes the blood roar through my veins. It’s that old familiar demon I’ve spent half a lifetime with. The one that’s carved its name deep into my heart.

  Shame.

  After a long, silent moment, the priest gently prompts, “Tell me your sins, my son.”

  “I . . .”

  My throat closes. I swallow, fighting the claustrophobia that always follows me into small spaces. I envy everyone who’s never felt this clawing, animal panic, this nauseating sense that all the walls are closing in. I feel trapped. Sick. On the verge of screaming.

  Through sheer force of will, I manage not to leap to my feet and bolt. I clear my throat and start again. “I’m guilty of everything. I don’t know where to start. Just . . . assume the worst.”

  The priest answers gently, “Try to think of one specific thing. Start with whatever is most bothering you today.”

  My grim laugh makes the priest tilt his head. I see him only in profile, the shadowed figure of a gray-haired man wearing black vestments. His posture indicates he’s listening. He’s interested. I wonder if he really thinks he can offer me absolution.

  I wonder what he’d say if I told him he can’t.

  “A sin I committed long ago still eats at me, Father. And today . . . something happened today that reminded me of it all over again.”

  “Have you confessed this sin to God?”

  “Yes.”

  His answer is swift. “If God forgives you, son, you must also forgive yourself. The sacrament of reconciliation washes us clean and renews us in Christ.”

  Washes us clean? Bullshit. If I were clean I wouldn’t be on my knees whispering my secrets to a stranger.

  I grit my teeth, draw a slow breath through my nose, and fight to keep my voice steady. “I don’t believe that.”

  I’m startled to hear the priest chuckle. “Then why are you here?”

  Uncomfortable, sweating, fending off a sudden sharp dizziness that makes the room tilt, I retort, “Old habits die hard.”

  The priest sagely nods. Though I can’t make out his features or expression, I get the sense that he approves of my honesty.

  I don’t need his approval. I need an unbiased ear who’s legally and morally obligated to keep his mouth shut. I need a guilt dumpster.

  And if a Catholic priest isn’t the perfect person for that, I don’t know who would be.

  “What is this sin you can’t forget?”

  When I remain silent, wrestling with the horror of saying the words out loud, the priest adds, “Some sins against other people can’t be undone, but instead of hating ourselves, we can view it as a learning experience and an incentive to do good in the future instead of evil.”

  An incentive to do good.

  My breathing hitches. I shift my weight, relieving the dull ache that’s begun to settle into my left knee. “So doing good can help . . .”

  “It can help you forgive yourself, even though God has already done so.”

  My ears buzz with a high-pitched sound, like a nest of wasps is hovering around my head. Forgiving myself isn’t something I’m capable of. There’s a reason shame and guilt exist. That reason is punishment.

  Sinners deserve punishment. It’s the one thing the Catholic Church and I wholeheartedly agree on. But his words have caught fire in my mind.

  Maybe the answer I’m seeking has nothing to do with me. Maybe it has to do with . . .

  Restitution.

  Hope rises inside my chest like a cresting wave. “Do I tell this person what I’ve done?” I blurt.

  Beyond the lattice, there’s a weighted pause. “Only if it would be good for him or her. Would your admission benefit them in any real, concrete way? Because if disclosure would cause more pain than good, you should bear the weight of your transgression alone. A confession to another person motivated solely by a selfish desire to make oneself feel better is, in itself, a sin.”

  My heart pounds. My hands shake. Water pools in my eyes, making my vision swim. I say hoarsely, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  The priest says, “Well, my son, until you know, hold your tongue and trust in God.”

  I can’t trust in God. He abandoned me years ago. But I can hold my tongue. I’ve been doing that since the last time I confessed.

  And until I find out if disclosure is the right way to go, I can do good.

  I whisper the Act of Contrition. The priest recites words of absolution. I rise unsteadily, open the door of the confessional
booth, and walk slowly past the empty pews, my heart thumping hard under my breastbone.

  When my cell rings, I fish it from my pocket and answer it without even looking to see who it is. “Yeah?”

  “Brody! Where the fuck are you, brother? We’re all at the hospital. We thought you were following right behind us!”

  I push through the heavy carved wooden doors at the front of the church and step out into a warm, brilliant Los Angeles afternoon. Even in February, it’s a perfect seventy-two degrees. I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun. “I’m on my way, Nico. Just had to make a quick stop.”

  “Well, hurry the fuck up! Chloe’s about to fuckin’ pop! You gotta be here when the baby’s born!”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. And Nico?”

  “What?”

  I open my eyes and look directly into the sun, letting it blind me. “Tell Grace . . .”

  Would your admission benefit her in any real, concrete way?

  “Tell Grace what, brother?” Nico says with a knowing chuckle. “That you like the way her brains fill out her sweater?”

  “Just tell her I’m coming,” I reply softly. “And that . . . she should call me if there’s anything she needs me to pick up on the way.”

  I disconnect the call before Nico’s stunned silence can turn into questions. Then I jog over to my car, parked in the church lot in the shade of an early-flowering magnolia tree. I feel the cold, familiar presence of my demon as he jogs along unseen behind me.

  Do good. Do good. Do good. God help me to do good.

  The demon’s growling laugh follows as I tear out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

  God isn’t listening, Brody-boy. But you already knew that.

  I press my foot hard against the gas pedal, on my way to seek the redemption that’s eluded me all these years.

  GRACE

  “Grace, if you don’t wipe that look off your face I’ll slap it off,” mutters Kat, standing next to me inside the luxurious private maternity suite that A.J. booked for Chloe’s labor. The suite has three rooms, two bathrooms, freshly cut orchids stuffed into vases all over the place, and a flat-screen TV almost as large as the one in my living room.

  Like everything else A.J. does for Chloe, it’s completely over the top.

  It melts my heart how that giant, surly caveman is such a teddy bear when it comes to his woman. They say music can tame a savage beast, but I have solid evidence that love is really the magic potion at work. Love can turn even the most terrifying beastie into a purring ball of fluff.

  “What look?” I turn to my best friend with my brows arched.

  She hisses under her breath. “The look like you’re trying to hold in a monster fart during church! I know you’re not big on babies, but this is Chloe’s special day!”

  “Oh stop, Dramarama.” I wave a hand dismissively in her face. “For one thing, I wouldn’t set foot in a church if God Himself descended from the heavens on a golden chariot and ordered me to. Churches give me the creeps. All that hypocrisy, guilt, and repressed sexuality—ugh. And for another thing, even if I do hate everyone else’s spawn, I’m going to love Chloe and A.J.’s as if I produced it from my own vagina.”

  “Then what’s with your face?” she presses. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

  Instead of admitting I’m teary-eyed and emotional that this day has finally come and my normal resting bitch face is having problems maintaining its status quo, I say breezily, “I just can’t stand the smell of hospitals.”

  That isn’t a lie. Hospitals have a distinct smell—antiseptic with undertones of agony and dead things—that’s burned into my memory.

  In fact, it’s one of the very first memories I have.

  I dig a bottle of Clive Christian perfume out of my handbag and spritz it into the air. “And this place could really use more flattering lighting. No one wants to push a new human through her cooch under the harsh glare of fluorescents. It’s uncivilized. I’ll get some candles from the gift shop downstairs.”

  Kat snorts. “Oh dear lord. Please don’t tell me you’re gonna check the thread count on the bedsheets next.”

  I narrow my eyes at the hospital bed near the window. “Now that you mention it—”

  “Here we are, ladies! All checked in! The nurse is bringing Chloe up in a moment!”

  Grinning like mad, Chloe’s father, Thomas, bustles past us into the room. As usual, he’s impeccably dressed in a bespoke Brioni suit—this one a gorgeous navy blue—a crisp white dress shirt, and black Ferragamo loafers. He’s also wearing a tie, a silk pocket square, and a watch worth north of one hundred thousand dollars. He’s the only man I know who’d come to his first grandchild’s birth dressed like he’s having lunch in Cannes with the president of the European Union.

  I expect it of Chloe’s mother, Elizabeth, however. She’s the daughter of a British countess and would literally rather die than be caught en déshabillé. She follows Thomas into the room, sailing by in pink Chanel, a cloud of Shalimar, and gleaming ropes of pearls.

  “Grace.” She takes my hands and kisses me on both cheeks. “You look divine, as always.” Eyeing my necklace, she asks, “Is that the new Divas’ Dream collection from Bulgari?”

  The woman can spot anything expensive or couture from a thousand paces. It’s no wonder we get along so well.

  I nod, smiling. “It is. I bought Kat and Chloe one, too. Matching push presents for all of us.”

  Elizabeth pats my hand, clucking like a mother hen. “Such a good friend. Hello, Katherine.” She turns to Kat and presents her cheek for a kiss. Kat obliges, and then Elizabeth hands Kat her purse as if she’s the coat-check girl in a restaurant. As Elizabeth minces away and disappears into the bathroom, Kat looks at me and rolls her eyes.

  I try not to laugh. Adopting Elizabeth’s genteel accent, I say, “Dear, my shoes could use polishing when you have a moment—”

  Kat elbows me in my ribs. “Shut up. And why are you the favorite? I’ve known Chloe’s parents longer!”

  I sweep my hair over my shoulder. “It’s impossible to compete with perfection, darling.”

  Kat makes a retching noise and tosses Elizabeth’s handbag onto a nearby chair.

  Emerging from the adjacent sitting room he’s just inspected, Thomas enthusiastically claps his hands. “So! What are we drinking? Scotch? Vodka? A little gin and tonic to get the party started? We’ve got a fully stocked minibar here, ladies. It would be a sin to let it go to waste!”

  Knowing Chloe’s father as well as we do, neither one of us finds it odd that his first order of business is distributing cocktails. He’s an interesting mash-up of James Bond and Al Capone—always perfectly dressed and smooth as silk, with a martini in one hand while the other fondles a loaded gun stashed in his pocket.

  He might be a wealthy and well-respected attorney, but I know a carefully crafted mask when I see one.

  After all, I’ve got one, too.

  Kat says, “I’m good, thanks.” She glances at the small suitcase near her feet. “I want to get Chloe’s stuff ready before she gets here.” She makes her way to the bed, flops the suitcase on top of it, and then proceeds to unpack the few items of clothing inside.

  Thomas looks disappointed, but shrugs. “Grace? What can I get you?”

  I drop my handbag on the chair next to Elizabeth’s. I’m not sure my nerves will make it through the next few hours without fortification, so I say gratefully, “I’d love a vodka rocks. Easy on the rocks.”

  He beams. “Coming up!”

  As he disappears into the adjacent room, a nurse pushes Chloe through the doorway in a wheelchair. She’s wearing a blue cotton hospital gown and a pair of white ankle socks. She’s also pale, sweaty, and clutching her huge belly with one hand.

  Holding her other hand, the enormous blond bulk of her fiancé, A.J., follows right alongside. Despite not being able to see even a foot in front of him because of the brain surgery he underwent last year that left him blind, there’s
a distinct swagger in his walk. His grin stretches from ear to ear. His chest is puffed out like he’s about to pound on it with his fists and let rip a deafening Tarzan yell.

  Look at him. He’s a proud papa already and the baby isn’t even out yet. That man is going to be an incredible father.

  I quickly swipe at my eyes before anyone notices the water pooling in them.

  The nurse, a curvy thirtyish brunette with alarmingly tall hair-sprayed bangs and penciled-on eyebrows, says soothingly, “Okay, Chloe, this is your maternity suite. You’ll be here for a while longer until we’re ready to go into the delivery room. Your doula will be here any moment to start timing your contractions—”

  “Fuuuck!” Chloe doubles over in the wheelchair. Her face is contorted with pain.

  Kat and I gasp. A.J. cries, “Angel!” and drops to his knees beside her. The nurse, who has obviously seen this all a million times before, says cheerfully, “Whoops, there’s another one!”

  While Chloe groans, Kat and I rush over to her, squawking and flapping our hands like a pair of hysterical pigeons.

  “Honey, what can I do for you—”

  “Deep breaths, Chloe, remember your training—”

  “Do you need water—”

  “Did you get your epidural—”

  “Should we move you to the bed—”

  “I started unpacking your clothes—”

  “What can we do to make you comfortable—”

  “Your father’s making drinks—”

  “Girls!” thunders A.J.

  Kat and I instantly shut up.

  More softly, he says, “Thank you.” His unfocused gaze turns to Chloe. He rests his big paw on her shoulder and gently squeezes. “Chloe, sweetheart—are you okay?”

  Panting, she says between gritted teeth, “There’s a person the size of a watermelon trying to escape from my uterus. No, I’m not okay.”

  Above her, the nurse shakes her head and mouths at us, She’s fine.

  “Darling! Goodness!” Chloe’s mother stands outside the open bathroom door, clutching her pearls.

  A.J. says, “She just had a really strong contraction, Mom.”

  Another thing that melts my heart is how A.J. calls his future mother-in-law “Mom.” The man has so many layers of sweet under that scary tattooed exterior, it really gives me hope for the rest of humanity.