Sweet as Sin

by J. T. Geissinger

  And the brick walk from the sidewalk to the front door was lined with glass bud vases. In each was a single, perfect lavender rose.

  The mariachis launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “La Canción del Mariachi,” a song I recognized as the one Antonio Banderas strummed on his guitar in the movie Desperado.

  The movie Nico and I had watched the other day at my house.

  The movie I had declared “totally romantic.”

  I turned to Chloe. She was beaming like she’d swallowed the sun. I tried to think clearly through the alcohol fog in my brain. “Chloe?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s your birthday present! From . . . ” She gestured wildly to the sky, as if indicating God. “Guess who?”

  I had a pretty good idea.

  On my other side, Grace was confused. “Wait. So these are the strippers?”

  “There are no strippers, dummy!” Chloe hopped from foot to foot as if she were fire walking. “That was just a decoy! For the real surprise, from Nico! Flowers! Music! Love!”

  She was speaking a foreign language. She had to be. I did not just hear her say “love.”

  Grace squinted at the mariachi band. “So what you’re saying is I’m not getting to look at all this hot Latin ass naked?” She let out a ladylike belch. “This party sucks.”

  I noticed old Mrs. Lewis from across the street peering out her front blinds. Then I noticed the man leaning against the Harley parked at the curb next door, watching me, and the next breath I took was sharp.

  Our eyes locked. I stared at Nico. He stared at me. Before I even knew I’d made the decision, I was running down the brick path, through the line of mariachis and across the street, into his open arms.

  In my enthusiasm, I might have knocked him back a step. I hugged him tightly, standing on my tippy toes, the asphalt rough and cool against my bare feet.

  He laughed a low, pleased laugh, hugging me back, his lips on my hair. “She likes her birthday present?”

  I spoke into his chest, avoiding his eyes. I didn’t know if I could withstand those eyes. “She likes. She likes a lot. Everything is so beautiful, the flowers, everything. And the mariachis are like . . . wow.”

  “Couldn’t forget mariachis. They were playing in the background on our first date.”

  I peeked up at him. He remembered what music was playing at Lula’s?

  “And on date one point five, in that movie you liked. So I guess this is our song.”

  Was this man for real?

  Nico saw my look of disbelief. He swept his thumb over my cheek. His voice dropped, becoming almost inaudible. “Needed to make you some better birthday memories, sweetheart. Needed you to know I’m a man who’s gonna take care of your heart.”

  Oh, oh, and oh. I squeezed shut my eyes, determined not to cry. I made a joke instead. “If this is a ploy to get out of my three-date rule, it’s totally working.”

  He was silent for a minute, while the band played on, serenading the neighborhood. “Know you got your girls over, or I’d take you up on that, darlin’. You can take another half date off our total, though. Seein’ as how there’s flowers and music and all.”

  I laughed softly. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Nyx. But I think we can make an exception, considering the flowers and music. You have a deal. We’ve now officially been on two dates.”

  He took my face in his hands. My own hands were occupied with exploring beneath the hem of his untucked T-shirt. Against my fingertips, his abdomen was warm, muscled, and hard. His abs contracted as I brushed over them, giving me an odd and wonderful feeling of power.

  Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the balmy evening air. Or maybe it was all I’d had to drink. But suddenly I was struck with the fiercest need to get closer to him. Physically closer. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to trace every plane and angle of his body with my tongue. I wanted to gobble him up. I’d never felt so ravenous.

  I’d never wanted a man as much as this one, right here, right now.

  “But, you know, no date’s complete without a kiss, Nico.”

  My quiet words sent a rumble through his chest. He looked straight at me, his gaze intense. “Not really askin’ for a kiss, are you, sweetheart.”

  It wasn’t a question. He knew. My answer came on the faintest breath. “No.”

  He bent his head, bringing his face to mine. With wonderful, slow strokes that made me shiver with desire, he brushed his mouth against mine, teasing my lips softly with his tongue. “What is it you’re askin’ for then, Kat? What is it you want, baby? Tell me.”

  He fisted a hand into my hair. He wound his other arm around my back. He held me in place against him, my head tilted up, my eyes staring into his.

  I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I should have held back, or played it smart. I probably should have done something else—anything else—but tell the truth.

  But deep down, I knew what I wanted, no matter how stupid it might be. And I’d always sucked at playing games. “You, Nico. I want you. All of you.”

  His eyes went hot and dark. Silent, he held me there against him for a moment, just looking at me. Then, chuckling, he cracked a grin. “Hmm. She’s had one too many, I see.”

  I was taken aback. That wasn’t the reaction I’d hoped for. “That has nothing to do with anything! Didn’t you hear what I said? I want you! You should be kissing me right now!”

  His grin grew wider. “Darlin’, that’s real sweet, but I don’t take advantage of drunk women.”

  Because I tended toward dramatic after an evening of cocktails and tragic love movies, I gasped in mock outrage. “What kind of rock star are you? Isn’t that in the job description? Rape, pillage, etcetera?”

  His face did a funny thing then. It was part flinch, part disgust, a bit of something I would have sworn was pain. But he closed off his expression so quickly it was almost as if it hadn’t happened.

  But it had. And it scared me. And because my verbal filter had been disabled by alcohol, I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Oh dear God please don’t tell me there’s an ugly story involving rape in your past.”

  Had it been physically possible, Nico’s gaze would have incinerated me. But if his eyes were fiery, his voice was the opposite: ice, ice cold. “That’s what you think? That I’m capable of that?”

  Not only was his answer evasive, but also it was one of those turn-it-back-on-you questions I absolutely hated. One of my exes used to wield that weapon with particular effectiveness. I stared at him a moment, trying to rein in my temper. “No.”

  He looked relieved. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

  “But . . . ”

  His relieved look vanished, replaced with wariness, and he stiffened.

  “There’s a story there, right?”

  After a silent moment spent combing his fingers pensively through my hair, he nodded. “It’s not my story, though,” he added when I began to pull away, alarmed. He gathered me back into his arms, and rested his temple against mine. He spoke softly, his warm breath caressing my cheek. “That’s not me, Kat. I would never . . . I could never do anything like that.”

  He was sincere. Or at least he sounded sincere. Into my mind, Grace’s voice made an unwelcome comment. Pathological liars are really good at that kind of thing.

  I was bummed that my pleasant buzz and the earlier sweet, sexy mood had evaporated, but I wouldn’t be deterred. “Okay . . . so are you going to tell me whose story it is?”

  The tension returned to his body. That didn’t make me happy. I withdrew again, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Look. This whole trust thing has to go both ways. I know you had a life before me, and I don’t expect a laundry list of all the things that happened in it. Strike that—I don’t want a laundry list. Your past is your own business. But you’re asking a lot if you expect me to take every strange thing you say on faith. Mystery is great. Mystery
I can take, because mysteries eventually get solved. But secrets?” I shook my head. “I’m not so good with those. If we’re going to get closer, you’re going to have to let me in. That’s part of the deal.”

  Seeing his stricken expression, I softened a bit. “Amazingly romantic gestures like a yard full of flowers and mariachis notwithstanding.”

  He stood there breathing shallowly. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or not, until he pulled me against his chest and gave me a hard kiss, edged with desperation. He broke away suddenly. “Fuck. I’m not good at this. Please don’t be mad at me. I just don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’ here.”

  A pang of pain speared my chest. “Doing here? You mean, with me?”

  “No! God, no, that wasn’t what I meant! I mean this—” he squeezed me—“us! I’m not a relationship guy, Kat. I’ve never done this shit before.”

  Shit? Our relationship was shit?

  He saw my expression, and groaned. “Christ. She’s thinkin’ too much again.”

  “Stop referring to me in the third person!” I was so mad, I could have stomped my foot. I wanted to stomp his foot.

  Suddenly he loomed over me. Large and intimidating, he grasped my face and held me inches from his own. “Listen to me!”

  That got my attention. He began speaking in a rapid-fire, urgent voice.

  “I’m gonna say a lot of shit that doesn’t come out right and I’m probably gonna do a lot of shit that pisses you off because I’m a stubborn motherfucker who’s used to answerin’ to no one and doin’ whatever the fuck he wants, whenever the fuck he wants! But I’m into you, and you’re into me, and we’re gonna give each other the benefit of the doubt until one of us fucks up, and then we’re gonna talk about the fuckup and move past it! Because I’m not gonna let the girl of my dreams walk away over some stupid shit like my dumbass ways or her need to overanalyze every little thing!”

  Ouch. That stung. Mostly because it was true: I did overanalyze. I could spend half an hour in the shampoo aisle at the store trying to decide which I needed more, moisture or shine. But then I forgot about that part and rewound, disbelieving what I’d heard.

  I whispered, “Girl of your dreams?”

  He shook his head, amazed by my ignorance. “You think I fly in the best mariachi band from Mexico for every crazy broad I know? You think I regularly buy jewelry for women I haven’t even fucked? You think I’d stand here in the street with that old lady glarin’ daggers at my back—” he jerked his head. Through her living room window, old Mrs. Lewis was indeed glaring daggers at his back—“lettin’ you cross-examine me, if I didn’t think you were the girl of my dreams?”

  The sweet, sexy feeling was making a reappearance. I decided the cross-examination could wait until tomorrow, after all the alcohol had worn off. “I’m guessing . . . no?”

  He said gruffly, “You’re fuckin’ right, no!”

  Behind us, the mariachi band ended the song with a flourish. Grace and Chloe clapped enthusiastically, and Chloe squealed something that included the word “love.”

  Of course that was the only thing I heard.

  Nico said, “Now gimme a kiss before I send you back to your girls and your main man Ryan fuckin’ Gosling.”

  He didn’t wait for me to say anything, he just kissed me again. When I was sure I’d pass out from want, he pulled away and stared into my eyes. “Tomorrow.”

  It was a promise and a threat, rolled into one. Tomorrow, if I saw him, would make date number three. I had the sneaking suspicion he knew all along exactly how the three-date rule worked, and whatever dance we’d been doing up to now would turn into something else entirely.

  Something I was equally desperate for and terrified of.

  I nodded. “Tomorrow.” More softly, I added, “And thank you, Nico, for all of this. It’s amazing. This is the best birthday I’ve had in a really long time. As long as I can remember.”

  Nico’s smile was dazzling. His eyes glinted devilish blue. Without another word, he climbed on his bike, revved it up, and roared off down the dark street.

  I watched him go. He hadn’t worn a helmet.

  When he was out of sight around the corner, I made my way back to Chloe and Grace, and stood arm in arm with them as the mariachi band launched into another song. Some of the neighbors strolled over to enjoy the music, and even old Mrs. Lewis seemed content, watching from her window, nodding her head.

  I was happy. It was my birthday, and things were good.

  But in one small, quiet corner of my heart, a voice had begun to repeat itself. It was a voice I was intimately familiar with. One I knew from past experience I should heed.

  Watch out. Too good to be true always is.

  I had no idea, then, just how devastatingly right that voice would turn out to be.

  Sunday morning arrived with all the pleasantness of a sledgehammer bashing my skull.

  When I sat up in bed, I immediately wished I hadn’t. Rooms weren’t supposed to spin and tilt in that awful way. Groaning, I flopped back against the pillow. From beside me came an answering groan.

  Apparently, Chloe had slept over.

  We were sprawled on my bed, still in PJs and boas, the bedcovers a tangled mess beneath us. Obviously we hadn’t had the presence of mind to get beneath them when we passed out.

  Through the cotton in my mouth, I said, “I feel like I’ve been beaten with a bat.”

  Chloe’s blond hair looked as if some angry nocturnal animal had made a nest in it. She winced, laying a hand over her eyes. “The infamous margarita bat strikes again. And why are you yelling?”

  Her voice sounded like thunder to my sensitive ears. “Look who’s talking, Miss Shouty Shouterton. They can probably hear you on Muscle Beach.”

  From the kitchen drifted the delicious scents of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon. I assumed that it was Grace’s doing, or I’d been burgled by a short-order cook. I waited a moment, breathing deeply, letting my stomach decide if it was going with violent barfing or if it could tolerate the grease and caffeine cure. After a moment in which my stomach stayed mute on the matter, I decided to try getting up again, this time with better results.

  Once standing, I looked at Chloe. “You know what we need?”

  She peered at me through her fingers.

  “Hair of the dog.”

  “There’s only one problem with that idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’d have to stand.”

  I walked to her side of the bed. “Walked” is actually a generous description of the herky-jerky movements of my body, but nonetheless I made it in one piece. I held out a hand to Chloe. She took it and sat up, swinging her long legs over the side of the bed. In her wake she left a drift of rainbow feathers on the sheets.

  She looked down at the boa lying listlessly on her chest. “This thing has definitely seen better days.”

  “So have we. Now get your ass out of bed. I need a transfusion of coffee and a Bloody Mary.”

  Chloe sent me a lopsided smile. Mascara was smeared beneath her lower lids, her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and that hair, but she still managed to look pretty. I, on the other hand, would be avoiding any mirrors like the plague.

  With the speed of ninety-year-olds, we made our way to the kitchen. Grace was reading a newspaper at the table, coffee cup in hand. She looked up at us, and snorted.

  “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in!”

  Chloe and I eased ourselves into chairs beside her. “How are you looking so bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning?” I distinctly remembered her keeping up with us drink for drink. At least until after the front yard mariachi serenade. After that, things were fuzzy.

  Grace raised her chin in the air, arch as the Queen of England. “Because I’m not an amateur, clearly.”

  It was my turn to snort. “If experience counts, we’re all professionals.”

  “Olympians,” Chloe agreed. Sighing, she folded her arms and rested her head on them on the table.
While I contemplated that Olympians were the exact opposite of professionals, Chloe appeared to be about to drift off back to sleep.

  “Children,” said Grace, rising to pour Chloe and me coffee, “there are three things one must do in order to prevent a hangover.” She set the mugs in front of us, turned to the stove and began piling bacon and scrambled eggs onto plates. “First, never drink on an empty stomach.”

  “We ate!” This from Chloe, speaking to the tabletop.

  “Not nearly enough, and not before you started drinking.”

  I thought about it. She was right.

  “Second, you should drink a glass of water for every glass of alcohol you have. Two glasses of water is even better.”

  “I hate water,” said Chloe. “It’s so boring. And it takes up so much room in your stomach.”

  I agreed via grunt.

  Grace ignored our input, setting the breakfast plates on the table. She took her seat. “Third, you should take an Alka-Seltzer before bed, along with a B-complex vitamin, and another of both in the morning.”

  “You could have told us all this last night.” I crunched into a piece of crispy bacon. Delicious.

  “Like you would’ve listened to me. Besides, this is so much more fun.”

  “For you!” Chloe warily eyed the plate in front of her. Her face turned faintly green.

  “Yes, for me,” Grace agreed. “What, you think I keep you two around for intellectual stimulation?”

  I kicked Chloe under the table. “Grandma’s grouchy this morning.”

  Chloe pushed her plate away, picking up her coffee cup instead. “Well, you know that old joke about women and menopause.”

  “There’s at least twenty years between me and menopause, Einstein.”

  Chloe acted as if Grace hadn’t spoken. “What’s the difference between a pit bull and a woman in menopause?” She paused, smiling sweetly at Grace. “Lipstick.”

  Grace pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile, though I could tell she wanted to.