Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)

by L.J. Shen

  He didn’t look surprised. Why would he be? He knew I wanted her. Wanted her body. Wanted her virginity. Wanted it all. He took it from me, and it was a dick move. That was common knowledge. Trent and Jaime still gave him shit about it when we got drunk. And let’s not forget that if Dean and Emilia were truly meant to be together, Emilia wouldn’t have been so fast to pull the breakup trigger every time I blinked her way.

  Truth was she didn’t want him. She wanted me.

  “She was mine,” Dean said gruffly, downing his second glass of whiskey.

  Jesus. I threw my head back and laughed. There was no way he actually believed that, right? “Come on. Don’t lie to yourself.”

  Dean slid his eyes over my face, contemplating his next move. He wanted to get to me. To hurt me without punching my face and making a mess. I didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. On some level, I did deserve to be punched in the face for this. Just like he deserved it when we were in high school. It was my time to take a hit for my betrayal.

  Finally, he opened his mouth, a sly smile playing on his face. “Does she know you’re a heartless bastard?”

  I shrugged. “She went to school with me for a year.”

  He downed a third glass, and I hoped he wasn’t going to pass the fuck out on the carpet. I actually wanted to keep my relationship with his father intact.

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “No. Why would she? Did you ever try to find her?”

  “She told me not to.” Dean’s eyebrows collapsed into a frown.

  “Yeah, well, thanks for keeping her entertained until I came along,” I said, waving him off.

  I just wanted the conversation to be over with. He was going to beat me up, obviously. And I was going to take it, because I deserved it. We were just wasting time. But Dean didn’t make a move toward me. Not yet. Just when I thought he was going to pass out on the bed, he turned around again and chuckled.

  “Wait, do I not get a ‘thank you’ for breaking her in for you?”

  Fuck it. He was asking for it.

  I was the first to swing a fist at him. I slammed my knuckles into his nose, and this time I hoped his doctor wouldn’t be able to fix his pretty face. He grabbed me by my shirt and flung me across the room. I flew backward, crashing into the TV mounted on the wall. Dean tackled me, planting his shoulder in my stomach, pressing against me until I heard the screen crack behind us. I groaned and threw a jab to his jaw, but held myself back from doing more.

  I fucking deserved it.

  And I knew it was going to hurt.

  He poured punches to my face, and I took them all. Then he hurled me on the floor and hammered my ribs with his pointy shoe. Again, he was no Daryl. He was a friend, and I’d fucked up. I’d certainly given him a piece of my mind and my fist when he was the one chasing Emilia.

  Writhing on the carpeted floor with him, I bit my lip to stop a moan of pain. Everything throbbed. But hey, I had this shit coming.

  “You really fucked my ex-girlfriend?” he roared from on top of me, his voice laced with fury and disbelief.

  It was easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. I knew that all too well.

  He was hurt. So was I when I’d found out they’d started dating.

  Truth was, he was a dick for going out with her then, and I was a dick for doing her now. But she wasn’t his obsession. His vice. His fucking Achilles heel.

  “I did. If I were you, I’d squeeze in a few more punches before you go because I’m not going to stop fucking her. I’m going to own her.”

  He kicked me again, and I managed not to curl into myself. I knew it was the last time because he was bleeding from his nose and needed to stop the stream and reposition it before it got swollen. Scarlet blood dotted the beige carpet, and I knew I was going to have to pay for this crap.

  “Get up,” he ordered.

  I braced myself on the edge of the bed, scrambling to my feet.

  Dean smiled, smoothing his bloodied shirt. “You look good,” he remarked.

  I knew I probably had two black eyes and a cracked rib. I nodded. “So do you. Fucking terrific. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, actually.” He leaned against the desk where my laptop sat and gave me the same victorious expression I’d mastered over the years. “I’m interested to know, how the hell do you think this is going to play out? Your next stop is Los Angeles, and I’m moving back to New York. But hey, man, don’t worry. I’ll take care of her in my office.” He thumped his chest and winked.

  My body shook with rage, but I reminded myself that he was just taunting me for being an asshole to him. Still, this had to stop. “Just get the fuck out before I do something that will cost us millions and years of meetings in stuffy courtrooms. Go.”

  He didn’t budge. He didn’t look amused anymore either. I sucked in a breath.

  “Fire her, Vicious. I don’t want her in my branch, and I don’t want her in yours either. This girl fucked off with another guy when we were kids and didn’t even bother to return my calls.”

  No she didn’t. She left because I made her leave.

  “Not happening,” I said, even though I had no idea what to do. She wasn’t coming to Los Angeles, that much was clear, and Dean would never let her continue working at the office in New York. I didn’t know how I was going to keep her. I just knew I fucking had to.

  “Yes, it is,” Dean responded calmly, his nose still bleeding all over the carpet. Goddammit. “The girl screwed me over.”

  “She didn’t,” I finally roared. I threw my arms in the air, using what little control I still had in me not to go at him again. I spotted my lit blunt burning a hole in the bloody carpet behind Dean. He noticed where my eyes landed and crushed it with his designer Monk Straps.

  “She didn’t screw your life over. I did,” I repeated less heatedly. “I sent her off with twenty thousand dollars. In exchange, she promised she’d tell you she ran away with someone else, specifically stressing that she didn’t want to hear from you ever again.”

  “Why would she listen to you?” He crossed his arms over his chest, skeptical, his brows arched.

  “Because I threatened her. I told her I’d fire her parents. Her sister Rosie is constantly on meds. They needed the money.”

  Silence fell between us, heavy and loud.

  “You’re such a sick psycho,” he mumbled.

  I said nothing because it was an observation, not a question.

  “It doesn’t change shit, though, Vicious.” Dean finally moved to the door, and when we stood side by side, me squeezing the handle and him on the threshold, our eyes met. “You’re saying goodbye to Millie and firing her, or I’ll make sure you’re kicked off the board. Good night.”

  ROSIE GOT BACK FROM TODOS Santos on Monday morning, all smiles and stories about Mama’s new sewing machine and Daddy’s weird fascination with Toddlers and Tiaras. I had to admit, Little Rose had never looked better.

  I smiled through my heartache and tried to look like someone who was not losing her mind over a man who’d specifically and repeatedly told her that he was only looking for casual sex.

  We talked. For long minutes, maybe even an hour, but I didn’t listen. Not really. The room spun around me, like a ballerina on her toes, round and round, and in the blur, there was only him. His dark eyes. His scowl. His air.

  He was taunting me, even when he wasn’t there.

  “Did you see Vicious?” I finally asked, my words hurried. I hated that my voice was hopeful, and I hated that every single thing I learned about him made me crave him even more. It was all so stupid, and I was an idiot who needed to face the truth—I had feelings toward the man who was notorious for lacking them.

  Rosie shrugged. “He dropped by and packed up some his stuff from his old room on Christmas Eve after you called. I offered my condolences and he, in return, offered me his middle finger. He looked pissed off. I mean, he always looks pissed off, but this time he also looked like he wanted to maybe go on a shooting spree
and spare no one, kittens and puppies included. You know what I mean?”

  “Of course. It’s his usual office look.” I said dryly.

  “Speaking of which, why aren’t you at work? Oh yeah, the funeral’s today. Did you get an extra day off? Or better yet, did you quit?”

  I stared at the floor, my teeth grinding together. “Still deciding.”

  Truth was, my mind was already made up. It was easier to accept Vicious’s job offer when we were only two consenting adults with a shared past that was less than pristine. Ever since I’d found out what he really wanted from me—to break the law, to lie for him to Jo—paired with how he’d now sent those typical demanding texts, finally made me feel as disposable as he always wanted me to feel when we lived next to each other.

  But what really hurt the most was that he took me in my ex’s bed. That was the most humiliating part. The part I was desperate to forget, but never could.

  She chuckled, but it didn’t bloom into a laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with him while I was gone.”

  My face reddened, my cheeks answering the question for me.

  My baby sister knew everything about me.

  Every little secret and dirty thought that passed through my head.

  I would have eventually told her, but it was obvious that she didn’t need a verbal confession in order to put two and two together.

  “Millie, hon.” She rubbed her forehead in frustration, “I told you not to fall in love with him again. He is majorly screwed up. Not fun screwed up, either. Not like Justin Bieber. More like…Mel Gibson. He didn’t even look sad about his dad dying. Just like he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.”

  I swallowed. “People deal with grief in different ways.” I knew why he hadn’t looked sad—because he wasn’t. But I couldn’t tell Rosie that Baron Senior had let his son be abused. That was Vicious’s secret. Our secret. And as sad as it was, sharing a secret with him was holding on to some intimacy between us I wasn’t sure even existed anymore.

  “Why are you defending him?” Rosie shook her head in disbelief. “Listen to yourself. He’s wronged you so many times. Made you break up with your high school sweetheart—twice. Kicked you out of Todos Santos. Hired you to do something shady for him. What more do you need?”

  I nodded faintly, sucking in air and falling into a hug that was waiting for me by my baby sister. I told her about Dean’s apartment and Christmas Eve, and our day date, all the secrets that were mine to tell.

  “Ass-wipe,” she said as she stroked my hair while I bawled into her shoulder, feeling my bones and muscles turning into jelly.

  But I didn’t tell her about Daryl or Jo or even the will.

  I couldn’t stop lying when it came to Vicious.

  Lying to the world, and especially lying to myself.

  The day of the funeral passed slowly, with me perched on the couch eating Fruit Roll-Ups and watching a Gene Kelly movie marathon. I wanted a good, likeable male character to drown in since I was trying to forget a particularly vicious and broody one.

  Yes, I was hurt, though not vindictive about what Vicious had done.

  I was tempted to answer his calls. His dad had just died, and no matter the circumstances, no matter what he’d felt about him, Baron Senior was still his last living family member.

  But every time I made a move to my phone, Little Rose snatched it from me and shook her head.

  “No.” She stood up in the living room and growled—actually growled—at me.

  “He is going through so much,” I mumbled, but it was weak and bitter. Two things I prided myself in not being. Well, usually.

  “He doesn’t give a damn and you know it.”

  “Give me the phone.” I was getting tired of saying this. “This is ridiculous. Just because my precious ego has been wounded, doesn’t mean he deserves this treatment.”

  But this time, Rosie’s face brimmed with anger. “You should tell him that. He was at the hotel bar at The Vineyard last night, the night before the funeral I might add, with Georgia, sipping drinks. My friend Yasmine works there. She served them herself. They took the elevator up to his room.”

  My expression must’ve given away my disgust, because Rosie handed me back my phone.

  I had no one to blame but myself. No one.

  I felt my chin quivering. This was what he did to me, Vicious. He broke me. Again and again and again. I tried to stay away, but every time he came for me, I caved.

  But not anymore.

  Rosie was right.

  He was toxic, poison, and he was going to kill everything beautiful in my life if I let him. He was the storm to my cherry blossoms.

  This only strengthened my resolve to cut him out of my life once and for all. I flipped the finger to the flashing screen every time Vicious called me and refused to show him any type of mercy.

  THE FUNERAL WAS EXACTLY THE shit-show I expected.

  Josephine attended her husband’s burial decked out in a Hawaiian tan, a black Versace dress, and fake tears. Dean showed up and stood by his father’s side, paying his respects but not looking at me. And Trent and Jaime spent the ceremony trying to console me while stealing glances from me to him.

  The condition of Dean’s nose and my black eyes were a dead giveaway. They knew exactly what had happened. I felt like they held me responsible for everything but didn’t want to bring it up, seeing as I was mourning.

  Sort of.

  I felt nothing actually. My dad’s existence only burdened my conscience. Every day he was alive had reminded me that my mother wasn’t.

  A lot of things were buried when my father’s coffin was lowered into the hole. One of them was my frustration with him. But not the hatred. The hatred stayed, and with it, my turmoil. An unrest no one was supposed to know about.

  It was a tragedy, but it was my tragedy. I didn’t want anyone else to know.

  When I got back to the hotel, I sent Emilia another text telling her to call me. Now.

  I’d have the will in my hands tomorrow. It was time for her to pack a bag and get her sweet ass on a plane. I was also planning on telling her she’d need to stay in California for at least a couple of weeks and help me in LA. I was even willing to throw in an extra few hundred thousand to sweeten the deal. Hell, at this point I was going to give her whatever the fuck she wanted.

  But Emilia still didn’t answer.

  Did she cower, deciding she wouldn’t lie for me? It felt like a betrayal. Bitter and heavy on my chest, on my tongue, everywhere we’d touched.

  I threw my phone against the wall. It smashed, webbing the screen with countless cracks. The logical thing to do was to ask my PA to replace it with another one, only I didn’t have a fucking PA at that moment. I needed her and she wasn’t there. I needed her but I knew I’d die before admitting that simple fact aloud.

  I walked the green mile from my rental car to the Cole’s mansion. Time moved sluggishly in those moments. Or maybe too fast, I couldn’t decide. This, right here, is what I’d lived for, for years. This, right here, was the end and the beginning of something.

  The will.

  The verdict.

  The grand fucking finale.

  Before I knew it, I was in Eli Cole’s home office, and even before the envelope containing the will arrived, a bad feeling gripped me. The stale room, stuffed with law books and old leather and an old man, felt like the wrong place to be.

  Eli wasn’t overtly nice to me anymore. Not impatient either, but instead highly professional. When he ushered me over to a chair, he didn’t refer to me as “son” as he often did, and he didn’t insist on serving me coffee or tea when I told him no the first time. Instead, he looked at me like he knew I’d fucked up his son’s face, and that made me restless.

  After the messenger delivered the will, he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, slid his reading glasses on, and cut the envelope with a letter opener, utterly silent. My posture on my seat in front of his desk was guarded and tense. I f
ollowed his pupils as he skimmed through the verbiage. He was quiet, too quiet for the longest time, and I felt hot blood whooshing between my ears.

  Jo had looked so fucking smug at the funeral. She hadn’t exchanged one word with me. Didn’t try to beg…

  But then, I was so careful…

  So cunning…

  So agreeable to my dad all those years, up until our last encounter before he died, when I told him…

  “Baron…” Eli kept pulling at an imaginary goatee, like he was trying to rub the concern off of his face. His tone told me what I didn’t want to hear.

  I shook my head. This was not happening. I didn’t need the fucking money. I made millions myself. Not a fraction of what my dad had, but still.

  It was about Jo not getting away with fucking murder.

  It was about not walking around the world feeling hollow and cheated.

  It was about justice.

  “Give that to me.” I reached for the file and snatched the will from his hand. I flicked through the document as fast as I could, my pulse hammering so furiously I thought my heart was going to explode. Hell, half the shit I was reading didn’t even register. But there were two things that stood out to me immediately:

  First, the will was handwritten. It would be almost laughable, if it weren’t for the fact it was, indeed, my dad’s handwriting and dated well before he got sick. I flipped to the final page to the signatures of the two witnesses. I didn’t recognize either name, but that wasn’t unusual. Lawyers often called in their employees in to act as witnesses.

  Second, there was a disinheritance clause.

  “He put in a fucking disinheritance clause!” I punched Eli’s desk on a dry scream.

  The more I read, the more my blood boiled. He’d appointed Josephine to be the executor. But that didn’t bother me as much as the main deal: Josephine Rebecca Spencer (née Ryler) was to inherit his entire estate. I was getting a measly ten million dollars.

  The disinheritance provision meant that if I were to challenge the will in any way, I’d get nothing. Just an extra fuck you to his beloved only son.