Seven Dirty Sins: A Hot New Adult Erotic Romance Boxed Set

by Morgan Black

  “Which hospital?”

  “Baptist.”

  “Let’s go!”

  “Damien!” Jasmine grabs my arm tight and looks me in the eyes. “It’s not good.”

  * * *

  “Was it intentional?” I ask the doctor as we walk to the ICU. He is a tall, Indian man.

  “There’s no way to tell,” he says. “This usually happens with kids who start using and don’t understand dosage. But the scars on her arm indicate years of experience.”

  We reach the door to the ICU, and the doctor turns to me.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cage,” he says. “There is nothing more we can do.”

  The doctor opens the door to let me in. A nurse sits, monitoring the vast array of equipment in the room, and I can’t believe what I see. This can’t be happening.

  This is the moment I die.

  My world is destroyed. Nothing is worth anything anymore. It’s over. Life is over.

  I move to the bed, and take the hand of the most beautiful girl I have ever known.

  But she is unrecognizable.

  Tubes are everywhere—her mouth, her nose, her chest, her stomach—fluids move around and things beep. The machine breathes for her.

  Her face is misshapen. Right side of is huge, her eye stretched and bulbous. Open just a tiny bit. The other one closed. If I hadn’t been told that this was Marcellina—my Marcellina—I would never have believed it. There is almost no vestige of the beauty that once lived in this pristine body.

  Kissing the hand I know so well, I close my eyes and lick her knuckle. Yes, that’s her. I know her taste.

  How can it be her? How can this happen to me?

  I’m Damien Cage. Rock star. Shit like this just doesn’t happen to me.

  Not to people I love. Not to her. Not to Marcellina.

  I haven’t cried since my dad died eight years ago. And those were tears because I never got to know him.

  But this girl ...

  She was part me.

  What happened? How did everything spin out of control? What did I miss? What else could I have done? Did I cause this?

  No, it was that fucking Arely! Her damned cousin! I’ll kill him! I’ll wrap my hands around his throat until his eyeballs pop out of his head!

  Maybe she’ll wake up. Maybe this isn’t permanent. No, they said she has severe brain damage. The best she’ll ever do is function with the brain of a three-year old.

  But I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it!

  I’m Damien Cage. I can change this!

  I’ll stay here every day with her. My love will bring her back.

  She will live again. She will rise again!

  I can’t see. Fuck, I’m crying. What the fuck? Big, tough rock star Damien Cage is crying.

  Of course I’m crying. Because I’m dead.

  I’m a walking dead man. There is no life left in the world, nothing more to live for. I can’t ever be me again ... because me, the me I know, is destroyed along with her brain cells.

  They say she’s gone. Then I must be gone, too.

  God, please ... take me now. I can’t go on.

  Chapter 10

  The next three months are a blur to me. I know there was a lot of Jack Daniels. Lots of fights. I punched a few people, but don’t remember who. Jasmine was one of them, I’m pretty sure. She didn’t deserve that.

  The only thing I remember clearly is visiting Marcellina every day. She eventually breathes on her own and they move her to a hospice, but she remains in a coma.

  I cling to hope. It’s all I have. They keep reminding me that even if she wakes up, she won’t be the Marcellina I know.

  Fuck them, that’s bullshit. When she sees me, she’ll come back.

  I know she will.

  * * *

  “What the fuck, Damien?” says Trent.

  For once, the tables are reversed. I’m usually the sober one yelling at him.

  “Start again,” I say, leaning on the microphone.

  Trent, Ace, and I are in a studio in downtown Miami, working on new songs for our next album.

  “Eon Sphinx,” I say into the microphone with mockery.

  “Yes? That’s the name of our band. Good job remembering it, dickwad,” Trent says.

  “I remember them,” I say, continuing a mocking tone. “They hit number three once on the Billboard charts. But never number one.”

  My words have become sing-songy as I talk. Yep, I’m hammered.

  “Never number one,” I say. “And, boys, I got news for you ... we’re never going to be number one.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Ooooh, big, bad Trent is mad now. Now he cares. Now Trent Axel ... real name Bobby Wojohowicz, ladies, suddenly gives a fuck about the band.”

  “I’ve always given a fuck about the band. It’s you who’s destroying it. Look, I’m sorry, Damien, but she ain’t coming back. It’s been six months. You’ve got to snap out of it!”

  He says something under his breath as he turns and walks toward Ace, which sounded like bucking horn tar.

  “What did you say?” I ask as I spin around.

  “Nothing. Let’s just start the song again. Ready?”

  “No, what ... did ... you ... say? You just muttered something under your breath.”

  “Nothing. Just forget it. Let’s play,” Trent says, shaking his head.

  “Sounded to me like you said fucking porn star.”

  Trent stares at me as he releases an annoying little laugh. I put my guitar down next to my bottle of Jack.

  “Damien–”

  I punch him in the face. He goes down hard. Next thing I know, his shoulder is in my chest, smashing me backward into the wall. He pins me there. I smash my fist into the side of his head. He leans back and pounds his fist into my face.

  I go down. The cold concrete floor is oddly comforting as the world wobbles on its side and I go to sleep.

  * * *

  The sun hits me in the face.

  I open my eyes and see Ace’s drum set sitting on its side. My head is pounding.

  I make it to my feet. I'm alone in the large studio. Fuckers abandoned me here. What the fuck ever. Where’s my bottle?

  I spy my trusty friend Jack Daniels right where I left him by the stool I had been sitting on. My guitar is on the floor next to him.

  So much for writing new shit today.

  I stumble to my feet, using the stool as a balance to reach down and pick up the bottle.

  However, something takes hold of me. A presence. Instead of the bottle, I pick up the guitar. Not sure why. Something hits me. A chorus. A bridge. Words.

  I hear it.

  I strap on the guitar and sit on the stool. “Coming home tonight,” I sing, “shattered and broken ... crashing down tonight ... the words unspoken ... where else can I go ... once all my bridges have been burned? Come back to me ... my tattered angel.”

  Chapter 11

  Brimford, Massachusetts is an old working-class town. Abandoned mills sit rotting on the Merrimack River. Some have been converted into loft apartments but not all. Lots of triple-deckers, so common to the Northeast. Many in disrepair.

  I like Boston. Been there many times. Love the red brick, the clustered city streets, the sense of history. Unfortunately, I’m getting none of that from Brimford, which is only twenty or so miles north of Boston. I’m sure there is some charm here, but not on this cold, dark January night.

  About a foot of snow is on the ground, and the temperature is in the twenties. Fucking cold. How does anyone live here?

  I’m in disguise. Fake black goatee. Big black-frame glasses. Boston Red Sox cap. Winter coat, Levi’s, and work boots.

  I stop at an intersection, which I recognize from Google Maps. I rehearsed this trip about a hundred times. Probably not a good idea if I get caught and this goes to trial.

  A 1990s model Honda with a mismatched door pulls up next to me. Two Latino guys glare over at me. I rest my hand on the 9mm Glock on the passenger
seat next to me.

  The light turns green. They move ahead of me, their exhaust pipe leaving a visible trail behind them in the frigid air.

  Hard to believe that these streets were once blessed with her presence. She probably walked along this main drag a million times while I was playing gigs all over the country.

  Wish I could go back in time and see her. But then is then and now is now.

  Soon I see it. The guy I hired to find him said Arely hangs out at Club Cabrillo. That’s the name on the sign. Not much of a club. Just a sign and a door. A neon Miller Lite sign glowing in the front window.

  I drive around the block.

  Do I really want to do this?

  Yes, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

  I come up around to the club again, then turn into the tiny parking lot out back. According to what I was told, Arely currently drives a 2001 Hyundai.

  Classy. I pull into a space two over from it.

  Dammit, there are buildings with windows all around me. All are dark. What if somebody’s in one of them watching me? Fuck it, it’s a chance I have to take.

  Slipping the gun into the holster under my jacket, I get out of the rental car, my breath visible in front of me. Swiftly I walk over to Arely’s Hyundai while I take out my switchblade. I nab three of his tires. The front left one is lit by the light from the street so I skip that one. Three should be enough.

  I go back to my rental car and turn up the heat. My heart is beating out of my chest. I take out a fifth of Jack Daniels I bought for this occasion and slurp down a quarter of it.

  Then I wait.

  Two other sets of Club Carillo patrons get in their cars and leave. One, a big black guy, glares at me. I pretend I’m texting someone. They drive out.

  Now it’s just his Hyundai and me in the tiny parking lot.

  At 2:03 a.m., Arely comes stumbling out back. I recognize his shape all too well, even though he’s wearing a coat.

  He gets to his car and climbs in, not even noticing his flat tires. Dumb fuck.

  After starting his car, he backs out and realizes something is wrong. He pulls in again, then gets out of his car. He looks down and starts swearing in Spanish.

  My cue.

  I get out and walk over to him, making sure to stay out of the bright light from the street.

  “¿Que pasa, amigo?” I say in my best Dominican accent.

  “Someone slashed my tires,” he says in Spanish.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Danner Street.”

  “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Thanks.”

  He shuts his car off and stumbles toward me. Best of friends. Like we’ve known each other forever.

  When he gets to the passenger side of my car, a light bulb—a dim one—goes off in his head.

  “Do I know you?” he asks in Spanish.

  “I was inside,” I say in Spanish, taking a chance. “I bought you a drink, remember?”

  It wasn’t much of a chance. He’s clearly shitfaced. He just nods and gets in.

  I start the car, pull out onto the street, and head toward I-495.

  “This is the wrong way to Danner Street,” he says in Spanish.

  “Hello, Arely,” I say in English as I point the Glock at him. He stares at me wide-eyed, struggling to figure this out. “Don’t even think it, Arely. I will kill you right here.”

  “You!” he says in English, recognizing the voice. “What the fuck?”

  Near the turnoff to the highway is a road that runs into a dark glade. In good weather it’s probably beautiful, but tonight it’s just snow and blackness.

  Shutting off my lights, I swerve off the road on to the grass and into the trees. I put the car in park and shut off the engine.

  “Get out with your hands on your head,” I say, keeping the gun pointed directly at him as I get out and step in front of the car. The snow crunches under my feet. I’ll have to ditch these boots when I’m done.

  “Damien, don’t do this,” he says. “You don’t need to kill me. It won’t bring her back.”

  “Shut the fuck up! Move over to the rocks.”

  An outcropping of rocks in a hillside creates an outdoor space hidden from view of the highway and the road. All is quiet and private here. I chose this spot well. Google Maps makes things just too easy nowadays.

  “Damien—” he says.

  “The rocks!” I say, cutting him off. “Now! Hands on your head.”

  He walks to the rocks. Stumbles, actually. I stay a good distance behind him, gun firmly in both hands.

  “On your knees,” I say.

  “Damien–”

  “On your knees now!” He gets down on his knees in the snow, and I take a couple of paces toward him. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the family member who raped her when she was six, weren’t you? It was you all along, wasn’t it? The sex. The heroin. The porn. You did it all, right?”

  I take a step forward, the barrel of the gun pointing directly at his forehead.

  “I told you, compadré. You don’t understand. Our life is nothing like yours. We can’t escape the streets. It’s always in us. Can’t get rid of it. You tried to get it out of her with your money. But once it’s in you, it’s in you forever. It’s like a disease.”

  I’m breathing heavily now, my heart thumping loud enough for me to hear it. I reach into my pocket and deftly remove the cap off the fifth of Jack with one hand. I take a swig.

  “You’re the disease, Arely. The streets didn’t destroy her. You did.”

  “I am the streets,” he says. “It’s all I am. When she hatched that plan to punch you in the face, I told her she was crazy. Street girl can’t make it in your world. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  “You dumb fuck! She did make it! We made it! Don’t you see? She was on her way. She was out. She could have helped you. She could have helped others. Taken a ton of them with her! Why is the simple concept of bettering one’s life and the lives of those around you so complicated?”

  Arely just stares at the snowy ground. “You wouldn’t understand, man.”

  “You’re wrong, Arely,” I say. “It’s you who wouldn’t understand. It’s you who held her back. You who dragged her back.”

  “I didn't need to, man! You were just supposed to be a tool for her to use. She didn’t fall all over you like all the other dumb fucks that surround you. Her plan was to use your money, don’t you see?”

  “Was?” I say. “You said was. What do you mean by was?”

  He stares off at the headlights passing by on I-495, swaying a little. Then he mumbles something.

  “What? I didn’t catch that.”

  “She loved you, man, all right?” he says. “Plan backfired. She fell for you. You got to her.”

  The gun shakes in my hands. I blink. I can’t see Arely clearly through the wetness in my eyes.

  God, I was never sure. She never said it, but he just did. Can I trust him?

  “You’re lying!”

  “No, man,” he says. “I told her not to fall for you, but she did. She even told me to get lost.”

  “And that’s when you got her using again, right?”

  He nods, and I tighten my grip on the gun.

  “During the movie,” he says. “I felt her drifting away. It was like everything we had ever done together was going.”

  “You were lovers?”

  “Of course we were,” he says. “You know that. Her older brother in the movie was her lover. That was me. Everyone was her lover. All of my cousins. A thousand porn guys. But she never loved any of them. Any of us. Just ...”

  “Just what?”

  “Just you.”

  I finish the Jack Daniels and wipe my eyes. Droplets of tears are freezing to my cheeks. “Say it again.”

  “Say what again?” Arely says.

  “Tell me that she loved me.”

  “She loved you, man. Heart and soul. She was going to give it all up for you. Hav
e babies and everything.”

  I lower the gun, pointing it at his chest.

  “And you gotta know something else,” he says. “I wasn’t the one who raped her when she was a kid. Never beat her neither. That was my cousin, Rafael. Rafael Ruiz. You can kill him if you want. I’ll show you where he lives. We hid from him in the abandoned warehouse where we used to shoot up. One day, she showed me what he did to her. And then we were always sort of together. I got her H, she fucked me. It just went on like that. I didn’t care she was with other guys so long as she always came back to me. But finally I saw she was going to leave me. Up there in Canada. So I got her some stuff. Don’t know how she OD’ed, though. That’s not like her. I had nothing to do with that.”

  This is a fucked-up place. I’ve got to get out of here. I put the gun back into its holster.

  “Stand up!” I say.

  He wobbles to his feet, and I punch him in the face.

  Hard.

  He falls down into the snow, and I kick him.

  Hard.

  Blood spurts from his clearly broken nose. I kick him in the crotch.

  Hard.

  Groaning, he curls into a fetal position. Splotches of blood surround his head on the snow. Cars on I-495 whiz by.

  I get in my car and start the engine, keeping the lights off until I pull onto the ramp. In five minutes I’m back on the highway, heat on high, heading toward Boston.

  Chapter 12

  “Marce,” I say as I hold her hand. The machines beep, assuring me her body is alive.

  But where is she?

  “Marce, I want to ask a favor. You never said you love me. All you have to do is squeeze my hand three times. Please. Boom, boom, boom. I-love-you. Doesn’t have to be a hard squeeze. Just something.

  I wait. The machines beep. The door opens.

  “Five minutes, Mr. Cage,” says the night nurse.

  “Okay, Jackie,” I reply. “I’ll be out.”

  The door shuts, and I turn back to Marcellina. Even though supposedly she isn’t here, I feel her. I sense her. I know she’s here.

  “C’mon, baby,” I say, “squeeze my hand. Three little times. Boom, boom, boom. I-love-you.”

  Nothing.

  “Okay,” I say, “but I’m going to keep coming. I’m never leaving you, Marce. I love you and always will, no matter what. The world used and abused you, and threw you away. But I never will. Even if you never speak again. I will never throw you away, understand? I’m always with you. In life, in love, in the next life. Got it?”