The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers Book 1) by Heather C. Leigh
Misfortune must have taken a coffee break, because I made it to the ladies’ room in time to duck into a stall before I upchucked the croissant I stuffed down on the drive to work. To my surprise, I felt instantaneously better after ejecting the offending pastry.
I flushed and stumbled to the faucets, wet a paper towel, and leaned heavily on the sink to dab at my pale, sweaty face. Relieved I only made half an ass of myself instead of full-ass had I barfed on someone, I tossed the crumpled paper in the wastebasket and got busy washing my hands. While I lathered, I made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. I froze.
Ohmygod, Rocco wasn’t kidding. I had changed.
To the point I didn't recognize my own reflection. Bright eyes looked dull and tired. Two huge, dark circles curved beneath them to further emphasize how exhausted I felt. If I subtracted my vomit-induced flushed cheeks from the equation, the rest of my complexion was waxy and washed out. I turned sideways and studied my profile as I ran a hand down my abdomen. My hip bones stuck out and my face appeared gaunt. Almost sunken.
Somewhere along the way, I lost several pounds and hadn’t noticed.
I lifted a hand to touch a too-prominent cheekbone and whispered, “What is happening to me?”
The bathroom door opened and I stumbled back from the sink. As I lost my footing, my hands slapped the flow of water and it sprayed all over my front. Two women entered, chatting and laughing, oblivious to my nightmare. I snatched a handful of paper towels and blotted uselessly at the ruined silk of my blouse. Tears stung my eyes, but I’d be damned if I broke down in the bathroom at CNN. I patted some more, which did absolutely nothing to mask the large, semi-transparent, splotch that stretched across my left breast.
I inhaled through my nose. Do not cry.
With my lace bra showing through the wet spot and paper towels clutched in my fist, I bolted from the bathroom and went straight to my car. I needed a moment to get it together. By the time I returned to the conference room, mostly certain I wouldn’t lose my shit, the meeting had ended. Of course. I peeked under the table. No bag.
Could it get any worse?
I sighed and awkwardly held an arm across my boob. Hopefully, Piper brought the bag to my cubicle, though I had to admit, if a less savory coworker decided to go on a spending spree with my credit cards, I couldn’t have cared less. There were other, more pressing matters that required my attention.
I swiped at my shirt one last time and gave up with a resigned huff. The only way it would dry was to give it time. I locked down every last one of the weepy emotions that sat on my chest and pressed down with the weight of a six-ton elephant, went to Rita's office, and knocked on the doorframe. Rita glanced up from her computer and did a double take, eyes wide.
My fingers curled into the sides of my wool trousers. I was sick and tired of everyone giving me that look. Fine. I get it. I can’t take care of myself and look like something the cat yakked up. That doesn’t mean I wanted or needed a pity reminder from everyone in my life.
“Kylie. Do you need to go home?”
Normally, I would brush Rita off and insist upon staying. Work was good at keeping me from thinking about, well… him. But I could practically see the unread texts and voicemails that hung over my head. There was no way I was getting anything done until I dealt with them.
I nodded and rested a hand on my stomach, which had started to act up again. It seemed throwing up a lung, and maybe a spleen, was a temporary fix.
“Yeah, I think maybe I caught a bug or something.”
Rita hummed in agreement. “Then go home and get some rest. And, Kylie…” I paused at the door and peered over my shoulder. Rita smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “Don't come back until you're feeling better.”
I swallowed, my throat tight, and said, “Thanks,” then hurried to collect my things while placating a few coworkers who asked if I was okay. They also gave me the look. The same one as Rocco, Nat, Rita, and every other person I came in contact with. Not quite pity, not quite concern, but rather, something in between, some nebulous emotional offering that did nothing but make me feel like a giant loser.
I went straight home, sat on my bed, and stared at my phone for over an hour before I deleted every last text and voicemail without reading or listening to a single one. I ignored the sharp ache in my heart and began the painstaking process of changing my phone number.
By the end, tears and snot were sliding down my face and hitched sobs kept breaking free until I eventually gave up and let it take its course. I cried until I was a sloppy, emotionally wrung-out, disaster. I hated to excise Seb from my life, but in the end, reality and self-preservation won out over hopes and dreams.
Because I knew if I didn’t cut and run, I’d fall in pathetically unrequited love with Seb. And if that happened, he’d destroy me, because I knew he’d never, ever love me back.
Better to make a clean break while I still retained a scrap of dignity. I sniffed and used the back of my hand to wipe the thick trail of mucous that dripped from my nose.
Dignity. Right.
What a joke.
Seb
I shoved my phone back in my pocket. Nothing. Rien. Zéro. Not a single response. No matter what I did, Kylie refused to talk to me. Refused to explain why she left me high and dry, both at my condo and again at the arena. Refused to explain anything.
I figured not knowing was the reason I ended up obsessed and desperate, to the point I’d gladly give my right arm just to speak with Kylie. I was floundering, needing to understand why she ditched me, ditched us—after we shared what was, for me, anyway, a life-altering moment.
Kylie took off and I became insecure and pathetic, left to grasp at straws to figure out what the fuck happened to turn her from relaxed and basking in the afterglow of amazing sex, to basically telling me to drop dead.
Or maybe that was all a bunch of bullshit I concocted to avoid the harsh truth. Excuses because I was too fucking scared to admit how I felt. To admit I cared about Kylie way more than I wanted to. That for the first time in my life, I wanted a woman for something other than an easy—though admittedly mind-blowing—lay.
And wasn't the universe one big fucking hilarious assclown.
After nearly a decade of screwing chicks whose names I didn’t remember and didn’t give two shits about before, during, or after I fucked each one of them senseless, Mr. Funny Fucking Universe decided to deliver a woman who was perfect for me in every way—a woman who, for the first time in my life, didn't make me want to slap duct tape over her mouth and kick her out the door—only to flip that shit on its head and send her running from me.
That cunning bitch karma bit me right in the ass. Not that I didn’t deserve every last shitty thing that happened to me over the years, considering what I did to my father, wasn’t there for my brother, and a lifetime of unapologetic, unrelenting selfishness. No one in his or her right mind would call me a saint. Nope. I’ll always be a bastard. The NHL’s High Priest of Assholiness. The Sinner.
"Dude, maybe you've had enough."
Evvy’s grating voice pulled me from my pity party.
“Fuck off, Ev.” I swung my arm over my head and to the side to keep my drink out of Evvy’s reach, and cursed when the cheap as fuck whiskey slopped over the edge and splashed all over my hand and sleeve. After the craptastic month I'd suffered through, I more than earned the right to get thoroughly and unequivocally shit-faced, and that was exactly what I was doing. No one was taking anything from me, not unless they wanted a broken wrist. Or two.
“Sebby,” Ev hissed in my ear and threw a heavy arm around my shoulders to keep me from swaying. “We’re in public. On the road, you fuckstick. If Coach catches wind of you being drunk and disorderly, he'll bench your fucking ass.”
Huh. We were on the road?
I shoved Evvy off and wobbled back and forth until I had the presence of mind to grab the edge of the nearest table. Once there was a fifty-fifty shot I wouldn’t immediately faceplant onto
Must’ve forgot we were on a road trip. I snickered. That was fucking hilarious.
“Where are we again?” I asked, knowing it would make Evvy throw a clot.
“Jesus Christ,” Ev muttered.
Hazey lumbered out of nowhere and thrust a fat finger in my face. “Idiot drunk need go to room to sleep.” The huge goalie turned to Evvy. “You need help getting stupid upstairs?"
I huffed, irritated at that nosy bastard Hazey, getting all up in my busizzz, buiszz, bizzee, bizzou… Fuck! Bizz-ness, dammit! Up in my bizz-ness.
I spun around, and surprise, surprise, tripped over my feet and accidentally elbowed some random dude in the back of the head.
“Watch what you’re doing, asshole,” the dipshit growled from his seat at the nearby table.
Our eyes locked and a slow, evil grin spread across my face. The night just kept getting better and better. Fuck Hazey. I found a bigger, stupider, and way more satisfying target to unload on.
“Well, well, well,” I slurred, drunk as hell and without a single shit to spare. “Sasquatch. How very not nice to see you.” I pretended to look around, then returned my gaze to Calloway and smirked. “Did Mrs. Sasquatch tag along? Or is she spending the week waxing her furry pussy?” Calloway grimaced, looking beyond offended, and I doubled over and laughed until my abs burned and my cheeks ached.
He pushed to his feet and I had to tilt my head back to look at the oversized fucker. “You’re a disgrace, St. Clair.”
I continued to grin as I poked Calloway in the chest with the hand that held my drink. On an extra-exuberant poke, amber liquid sloshed all over his crisp white dress shirt.
“Oops.” I snorted and quickly downed the rest. “Ta-da! No more spills.”
“What the fuck is your problem?”
I put the glass on his table and made a talking hand puppet. “Blah, blah, blah. You need to ask Doc about arranging to have that huge stick surgically removed from your ass. It’s probably starting to fossilize up there.”
Calloway’s face turned crimson and the tendons in his neck popped. It was fucking fascinating, like watching a rabid animal in its natural environment. He opened his mouth to say whatever the hell it is that Sasquatches said, when the music blared from his pocket.
“This isn’t over,” Calloway snarled as he yanked his phone out. He stomped off, but didn’t go far enough, because I heard him ask, “Is everything okay?” to the person on the other end.
That was all I caught because Sasquatch had left the building. Er, bar. What(hiccup)ever.
“C’mon, Seb.” Ev grabbed me by the biceps and hauled me toward the elevators.
“Hey. I'm not done. I wanted another.” He ignored my pleas and continued to shove and pull. I tripped several times, twice on my feet, once on someone else’s feet, and once on the carpet, staying upright only because Evvy held tight. “Oh fucking great,” I groaned.
Rocco Calloway stood by the elevators, looking all pissed and Sasquatchy as he waited, phone pressed to his ear. I scowled at the fils bâtard géante d’une putain, then giggled at my own wit.
“That means, giant bastard son of a whore,” I said to Ev, who had no clue what I was talking about.
Calloway’s annoying voice kept interrupting my buzz. “It's fine. I'll be home tomorrow and we can talk about it… Okay, good… Love you, too.” He disconnected the call and stuffed the device back in his pocket.
I leered and shuffled closer. “Mrs. Sasquatch?” I asked with a suggestive waggle of my brows. “Did you ask her about that alpaca pussy of hers?”
Calloway's dark eyes flashed and he gave me that look of his. The one that made me feel like a shitstain on his XXXL briefs. “None of your goddamn business. That's who it was.”
“Sorry, man,” Ev said.
I waved Ev off. “No worries, Evvy.”
Calloway and Ev stared at me like I sprouted a second head.
“He was talking to me, you fucking dipshit,” Calloway said with no shortage of disgust. “Apologizing for your idiot ass acting like a moron.”
I glanced back at Ev, who was shaking his head and staring at the ceiling. Fucking Judas bastard. The elevator dinged and the three of us stepped in. I started to crack a joke about there not being enough room, but as the doors closed a hotel employee with ruddy cheeks and a suitcase in his hand stuck his hand in the way and wedged inside when they popped back open, effectively ruining my plan to both insult Calloway and deck him in the eye socket the second the shiny chrome panels slid shut.
We, minus the sweaty bellhop, got off on the same floor. Calloway jostled us so he could be at the front of the tiny metal box. He stalked down the hall, reached his room, and slid his card in the lock while I was still stumbling off the elevator under Evvy’s power.
Perfect.
We would walk by right as Calloway got that door open. Then I would make my move. I was thinking donkey punch to the back of his ridiculously large head.
“Oh no you don’t, buddy. I don't think so." Ev correctly interpreted my intentions and dug his fingers into the meat of my arm.
“Ow! Fuck, Ev.”
Unbothered by my pain, Ev hustled me down the hall and once we got to my room, he thrust a hand in my pocket to dig out the key.
“Not so fast!” I said. Ev’s fingers squirmed and searched and I couldn’t stop giggling. “You hafta buy me a drink if you wanna get to third base there, Casanova.”
Evvy rolled his eyes and unlocked the door with one hand, keeping a tight grip on me with the other. He cursed until the light went green, and shouldered it open. With an unceremonious thrust, Evvy shoved me into the room.
“Hey!” I shouted as I tripped and sprawled face first on the hideous hotel carpet.
“Go to bed and sober up,” Evvy said. He chucked the key overhand. It bounced off my forehead and landed between my legs.
“I don't know what your problem is lately, and to be honest, at this point I can’t say I give a fuck. But when you do stupid shit that affects the team, stuff that…” Evvy sighed and rubbed a hand down his tired face. “Just grow the fuck up, Seb.”
I slumped, feeling like a toddler caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Evvy spun on his heel and stormed out, leaving me to wonder if there was any truth to what he said. I mean, what was I trying to do, getting drunk in public? I knew better. Did I want to self-destruct? Wallow in misery until I fucked up my career beyond salvaging and got dropkicked out of the NHL?
I sat on the bed, propped my elbows on my knees, and bent over to rest my face in my hands. It didn’t take a whole lot of self-reflection to figure it out. Even drunk I could easily pinpoint my problem. Three guesses? If you said blonde, sexy, and frustrating as hell, you win a prize!
None of this would have been happening if I never met Kylie. Everything was fine until she showed me everything I didn’t know I was missing and never really wanted until then.
Okay, that was total bullshit. Fine was stretching it. I wasn’t fine. It was more that life was tolerable. Before Kylie, I didn’t have an all-consuming emptiness that devoured my heart piece by piece. My bursts of rage were a million times easier to deal with than feeling pathetic, and lonely, and depressed all the damn time.
Unfortunately, I had no idea how to get Kylie out of my head and move on. No idea how to live without her smiles and touches and her sweet laughter.
Arms spread wide, I flopped back on the bed and went over every little detail about Kylie I could dredge up, every second we spent together, every touch, every sigh, every whisper, until the edges of my vision went black and I passed out cold.
11
Kylie
“Ky? You home?”
I flushed the toilet and struggled to get off the floor before Rocco found me and freaked out.
“Ugh,” I muttered under my breath as
After being out of town for eight long, never-ending days, Rocco was back home. I literally counted down the hours up until his return. Seriously, nothing made you appreciate having someone until you were sick and alone.
“Kylie?”
I glanced in the mirror to make sure I looked presentable and almost fell down. Oh my god, I looked awful. Like… like total crap! My complexion was sallow and my skin dull. I quickly ran my fingers through my tangled nest of hair and pinched my cheeks to give them color.
Yeah, no. Still looked like someone ran me over with a truck, then backed up and did it a couple more times for good measure.
I sighed. Total crap would have to do because… makeup? I didn’t have the energy. After a brief wobble and a pause to wait for the headrush to pass, I went hunting for Rocco.
Perfectly tailored in head to toe black, I found Rocco in the living room, looking like a movie star. He spun around and gaped at me. The “v” between his brows itself known and with a sinking feeling, I realized I hadn’t done enough to hide my impression of an extra on the set of The Walking Dead.
“Hey. You’re here,” I said lamely.
Rocco wasted no time confirming my thoughts.
“Jesus Christ, Ky. What the fuck happened to you? You look like hell.”
Beyond relieved to have him home, I laughed off his observation. “You're too kind.”
In two long strides, Rocco crossed the room and pulled me into an embrace, except it didn’t feel right. He didn’t wrap his arms around me or crush me against his chest. In fact, it was the opposite of one of his patented, bone-crushing hugs. Rocco held back, almost afraid if he squeezed to hard I would crack like an eggshell.
“You know what I mean,” he whispered in my ear. “God, Kylie. You said you were sick, but—”
“You didn't expect me to look sick.”
Rocco stepped back to look at my face. “Yeah. I guess so.” He reached up and ran his thumb across my cheekbone, eyes filled with worry. “You've lost weight and I can tell you haven't been getting enough sleep.” He traced the dark circles, so stark against my pale skin they looked like matching shiners.