Sinful Truth (Sinful Truths Book 1)

by Ella Miles

  When I don’t move to help her, she huffs and then starts kicking wildly again, lugging me along behind her.

  I see the sky changing from dark to light. It must be the light that everyone talks about seeming just before they die. And I know my time is almost up.

  The woman sees it as a sign to swim faster in the water.

  Until she suddenly stops.

  I don’t care why she stops. With us no longer moving, I can study her features more clearly, I can see the light freckles dusting over her nose, I can see the gold flecks in her otherwise dark brown eyes, I can see the streaks of red in her hair as the sun catches it just right, as it begins to rise over the horizon behind her.

  And I know in this moment she is my angel. She is here to take all of my pain away. And I’ll forever be thankful for her.

  She shakes her head at me again, disappointed, but I don’t understand why.

  She reaches for something behind her, and my gaze runs along her tanned arm to the tip of her red painted fingernails as she grips the first rung of the ladder.

  A ladder?

  She hosts herself out of the water, dragging me to the ladder behind her. I grip on automatically, and then I’m pulled into a boat.

  We both fall to the wooden deck, exhausted and panting heavily.

  “I don’t know why I risked my life to save you when it’s clear you wanted to die,” she says.

  “Die?” I ask.

  She nods. “You dove under the water just as I shouted that I was going to throw you a lifesaver.”

  My eyes widen. I have no idea what she’s talking about. I never heard her speak before I went under.

  Her eyes soften as she realizes I didn’t hear her. I was just an anguished man, who was tired of the pain and needed to end his life on his own terms.

  She quickly looks over my body until she sees the blood oozing from my chest where the bullet hit me. She grabs for a towel behind her and holds it to my wound, applying pressure with her hands.

  “Is this real?” I ask. Or is this the end? The pressure of the ocean squeezing out the last drops of oxygen from my lungs?

  “This is real. You are on my sailboat off the shores of Saint Kitts. We can make it back to the island in about two hours if the weather is in our favor. Do you think you can hold on that long, sailor?”

  I nod.

  She gives me the faintest hint of a smile or at least what I assume for her is a smile. Her lips thin, her eyes turn bright, and her cheeks shade pink.

  “You’re my angel,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “I’m no angel.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Siren.”

  Siren—such a beautiful, unique name. A name that for thousands of years meant death to any sailor who met a siren. But this woman isn’t like the mythical stories. This woman saved my life.

  I close my eyes, needing rest.

  She strokes my face, running her hands through my long hair.

  She starts humming, and it’s the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. Calming, entrancing, enduring. If I could stay awake, I would, just to listen to her voice.

  “I shouldn’t have saved you,” she says. But then she’s right back to humming and singing with her heavenly voice.

  She’s wrong. I will make her see that risking her life was worth it. She saved me. Now I owe her. And I never relent on a debt.

  1

  Siren

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  I was raised to tell the truth, no matter what. It should be my greatest virtue. Instead, I consider it my greatest weakness. Maybe it’s because of how I learned the skill that makes me feel this way. But the truth of the matter is that I can’t lie.

  Can’t—as in can’t physically make my mouth form the words to tell a lie. I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s my truth.

  It started when I was three. My best friend in the world at the time, Gavin, ripped my favorite doll out of my hands, so I pushed him. He ended up crying for the next twenty minutes, loudly enough that my father came to check on us. When he asked me what happened, I lied. I said he had fallen and hurt himself, not because I pushed him. That was my first lesson, my first mistake.

  What my three-year-old self didn’t realize was that my father had been listening to Gavin and me fighting in my bedroom behind the door. He heard me shove him. He knew I wasn’t telling the truth. And I paid for my sin, dealt by my father’s belt.

  At three, I didn’t quite realize what sinning was, but over the years, my pastor father and religious mother drilled the message into me. Lying was a sin equal to murder in their eyes. Whether it was the smallest of white lies or biggest of lies, it made no difference in their eyes.

  It was a sin.

  I was a sinner.

  And so I had to be punished.

  But I also learned another important lesson in those first few years of life; I’m not a fast learner. The daily beatings did nothing to stop my lies. I didn’t lie about anything big—just normal childhood fibs.

  Did I eat a cookie before dinner? No, I lied. Slap.

  Did I finish all my homework? Yes, I lied. Slap.

  Did I drink alcohol at the party? No, I lied. Slap.

  And over and over again. I lied. I sinned. I was punished.

  It took me almost eighteen years to finally learn my lesson. Eighteen years of groundings, spankings, beatings. Eighteen years of being wrecked and broken—until the lies finally stopped.

  I can’t lie now, even as a thirty-two-year-old woman. I got pulled over for speeding last year. When the cop asked me if I knew I was speeding, I said yes. I couldn’t lie, I couldn’t fib and say that I didn’t know the exact speed I was going. I said I knew I was going exactly twelve miles over the speed limit. I got the ticket.

  But it’s not all bad. Telling the truth has saved me as many times as it’s gotten me into trouble. For example, when I was twenty-one, my boyfriend at the time and I went through an adventurous sex phase. We tried all the toys, positions that we could find. One drunken night my boyfriend thought he was shoving a dildo into my ass turned out it was a spiked paddle. I bled, we got scared and ended up in the emergency room. Normal, rational people might fib, embarrassed by the truth. But I told them exactly what happened and got medical care much faster.

  But sometimes a lie could save me, even from the smallest of things. When my friend, Rue, asked me how her butt looks in her new dress, I told her the truth—it makes her butt look too big. Times like those, I wish I could lie. I wish I could spare her feelings, my cheek when she slaps me, and the turmoil our friendship goes through every time I tell her the truth when she’s looking for me to lie.

  It’s my burden, my curse, and my greatest strength.

  My sailboat floats into the harbor of Saint Kitts with just me aboard. It’s a beautiful day, but why do I have a sinking feeling in my stomach every time I come back here?

  I try not to focus on the feeling in my gut; after all, I’ve learned not to trust it. It’s led me in the wrong direction many times before.

  I tie off my sailboat, and then I hop down to the shaky pier. The wood beneath my sandaled feet is worn, the paint stripped from the harsh weather here. Each step I take, the wood creaks, the pier sways. All it would take is one mediocre storm to wash this all away. Yet, somehow day after day, year after year, the pier and the small town relying on it, remains.

  I strut down the pier with my bag thrown over my shoulder. Even though I’ve been a resident of this island for years, it doesn’t stop the men’s eyes from stalking me as I walk.

  Each gaze says something different.

  I want you.

  I’m imagining you naked.

  You don’t belong here.

  This is a man’s world.

  I’ve learned not to let the inappropriate stares and whispers bother me. There was a time I would have pummeled each and every guy who dared to look at me or comment about my appearance. But I’ve learned it’s n
ot worth my time. Sometimes, my body is even an asset.

  I’ve considered dressing more conservatively, at least when I’m here. But that’s not who I am. And honestly, I like the stares. The stares expose each man’s true self. They tell me the men I should stay away from. They tell me the honest men from the pigs.

  My clothes are a test. My jean shorts barely contain my ass; the front pockets hang lower than the hem. My cut-off shirt reveals my tanned stomach and dips down, showing my more than adequate cleavage. And my hair is loose in a long mane of thick waves. The island is windy, and my brunette locks are constantly in my face. But when I flip my hair, it’s the ultimate test. The men can’t resist a good hair flip. It’s like I’m calling out to them, alerting them to a hot female in their presence. And every man on the pier failed.

  I smirk as I walk off the pier with my duffel bag over my shoulder. I find my white 1980 Toyota Land Cruiser parked right where I left it three months ago when I was last here. Three months—such a long time, but it also feels like no time has passed at all.

  I prefer the sailboat to the island. The ocean is unpredictable; you never know if you will live or die. You have to constantly be on your guard. You have to be prepared for anything.

  I unlock my car and toss the duffel bag in the back seat.

  I guess life on the island is the same. Each day is a struggle to live. On the ocean, it’s just me and the water. Here—there is more than one danger I have to deal with. The men on the island are my biggest threat.

  I climb into the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition, which, I’m happy to say, starts. I’ve come back from many trips when the car wouldn’t start. Or it was stolen. The fact that it starts is a win. I back out of the beachside parking lot. It’s one of only three free spots you can park in long term.

  A shadow crosses in my rearview mirror. I slam on the breaks to avoid hitting the tall man standing behind my car.

  “Shit.”

  I grip the wheel like my life depends on me hanging onto the wheel. I pant heavily as beads of sweat form on my forehead. I run my hand through my hair, changing the direction of my part from left to right. And then I let my eyes flicker up to look into the rearview mirror and pray I didn’t hurt the man. Hopefully, he’s still standing.

  But when I look into the rearview mirror, I don’t expect what I see.

  The man is still there, but his face is only barely visible in the mirror. He towers over my SUV. He’s standing in ripped jeans and a snug white T-shirt that barely fits his bulging biceps. His body is tall, fit, and rugged. But that isn’t what draws me to him. His face does. It’s a face I’ve seen before. Dark scruff clings to his chin, not in the messy I-don’t-care-what-I-look-like kind of way that most men on the island wear. His looks like it is a part of him. It’s tidy and neat. His hair is pulled back into a messy man bun. Not something I would usually be attracted to, but on him, his hair brings out the beast below the surface. But his eyes are what have me captive. I recognize the brown ambers of his eyes.

  The same eyes I pulled from the ocean a little over three months ago.

  He’s alive.

  I wasn’t sure if he would make it. When I pulled him from the water and saw the damage his body had been through, I was afraid I would arrive in town with a dead man in tow. Somehow he hung on, even though he was clearly hallucinating. He called me his angel. But I don’t think he meant that I was an angel because I saved his life. At one point, I think he actually thought he was dead, that he was in heaven, and that I was a real angel.

  But this man lived long enough for me to get him to the island. I shoved him in the back of this very beater. I glance at the backseat that is still stained red with his blood. No matter how much scrubbing I did, I couldn’t get it out. I knew for sure he was going to die as I drove him to get medical help. But again, he proved me wrong. For a man so intent on dying when I first jumped into the water to save him, he sure as hell fought to live once I pulled him out.

  Even though he survived the hours it took to get to the island, the car ride to get medical help didn’t mean he was out of the woods. Our small hospital doesn’t have the same level of equipment and care most hospitals have. It wouldn’t have been enough to save him. Which is why I didn’t drive him to the hospital. I drove him into danger, but it was the only way I could think of to save his life.

  And it paid off. The man is alive. Despite me almost running him over with my car. How ironic would that be? It took every ounce of energy and determination I had to save him three months ago, only to run him over with my car and kill him in a split second now.

  I never thought I’d see him again. I thought one of two things would have happened by now. He’d either be dead or gone. No one stays on this island long term if they know what’s good for them. They flee the first chance they get. Sure, tourists always say they’d love to live here. But they don’t really mean it. The island is paradise and hell. Its beauty draws men in, only to torture them with regret as soon as they make the island their home.

  So what is the man still doing here?

  What was his name again?

  I pushed his name from my mind. I knew I couldn’t keep his name in my thoughts. His name would haunt me. When I saved him, I knew there would be unforeseen consequences of my actions. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will.

  Enzo?

  Kai?

  No, neither was his name. Just names he muttered in his sleep.

  The man’s eyes cut to mine, and I think he remembers me as his head tilts to the side to try and study me better. But he can’t see me, at least not enough of me to make a positive ID. My windows are tinted to help keep the burning sun out of my car and so I can’t be seen.

  He can’t see me.

  But maybe he senses the change in the air—the familiar unease growing in my belly with him near. I don’t know why everything changes with this man near. And not in a good way. I’ve never felt my pulse race so quickly, my stomach flips in unsettling ways, and I’m nibbling nervously on my bottom lip, like that is somehow going to help.

  “Zeke,” one of the men from the pier shouts in our direction.

  Zeke—that was his name. It fits him. It’s a powerful sounding name. And he must be a powerful man to have survived this long. The island wears people down, but he looks better, stronger. I study him closer, trying to decide if he has money. His clothes don’t give me any designer, rich person vibes. The man shouting for him is just a fisherman who doesn’t make a lot of money. All the signs say he is nothing. Probably doesn’t even have enough money to buy a plane ticket off the island. Or maybe he has amnesia and doesn’t know where to buy a plane ticket to? Or even how to access his bank account?

  No.

  This man doesn’t carry himself like he doesn’t know who he is. He stands tall and proud. The twinkle in his eye tells me he’s a man that likes to laugh and live well, yet he prefers to use his size to intimidate any person he perceives as a threat. The look now is meant to tell me to back off, that he could kill me with his fists alone. I don’t doubt that he could, but I also see the softness in his eyes. It’s a deadly combination. He can make any man fall to his knees in fear, while every woman would fall to their knees in front of him for a very different reason.

  Zeke knows exactly who he is. He’s a burly man who knows how to use his body to get what he wants. I can’t imagine a man like him doesn’t have money.

  So what is he still doing in a place like this?

  “Zeke, you coming?” the man on the pier asks.

  Zeke nods but doesn’t stop looking through the rear of my car straight to my soul.

  He can’t see me. He can’t see anything.

  Finally, Zeke looks away and starts walking toward the pier.

  I exhale a breath, pushing the air too quickly through my lungs, so it almost hurts to breath. And then I zip out of my parking spot, trying to put the events behind me. I can’t think about Zeke. I can’t think about anything other than my
job.

  But I can’t help but glance in my rearview mirror as I drive away from one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. A man I can’t read. Is he a good or bad man?

  Who am I kidding? All men are bad. I’ve learned that lesson enough times by now. Even the good ones have an evil streak. Even the good ones will damage my heart until it is no longer recognizable. Until my heart is no longer mine.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Damn, stupid heart speeding up just thinking about Zeke.

  My heart still hasn’t learned its lesson. Not that I have a heart left to give. My heart is no longer mine. I haven’t had anything truly mine in a very long time, including my own body.

  But it doesn’t stop my heart from yearning. From yearning to know more about Zeke. To wondering if he could be the one—the one who is different. The one who could stop my pain. The one who could save me.

  Ha—I don’t need saving. I chose this life. I want this life. Any other life would make me weak and vulnerable. My life makes me strong.

  I’ve already chosen my fate. I know how my story ends.

  Saving Zeke was a mistake, I know that as I watch his shadow disappear from view. He wasn’t just any sailor who wasn’t experienced enough and fell victim to the sea—he’s different. He’s going to wreck my perfect little world, blow it up in a way I’m not prepared for.

  Saving a man should absolve me of my sins. But instead, saving him will cost me everything.

  2

  Zeke

  I can’t shake the strangest feeling as I walk down to the pier. I’m not even sure what my body is reacting to. The beat-up Land Cruiser almost hitting me?

  No, that was hardly life or death. The car stopped long before it got close to me.

  But I can’t shake the déjà vu feeling. Maybe because I’ve passed that beat-up SUV parked along the beach every day I’ve been coming to work. And to see it actually move put me into shock. Yea, that has to be it.