The Sinner

by Heather C. Leigh

  “You gave up a lot for me. I know that, and you've been there for me when no one else was.” Rocco opened his mouth but I was determined to get it out. If I was going to submit to Rocco's wishes to worm my way out of the situation, I was at the very least, going to cling to a teeny, tiny bit of pride. “But I need this, Rocco. I need to do my own thing. Please? How about a compromise?” I bumped him gently with my hip and smiled. “How about when I go out, I promise to call if I'm going to be late getting home so you won't worry?”

  Rocco scrubbed his hands over his face. His palms scritched across the quarter-inch of growth on his cheeks. His arms dropped to his sides and, dammit, he looked crushed. My big, strong, rock-steady brother was breaking. I swallowed.

  I did that.

  I put that vulnerable look on Rocco's face, and even though I hated seeing it, I did have needs of my own to take into account. Needs Rocco didn't need to know about. Needs that required fulfilling. Needs my brother wouldn’t understand. I was stuck between a rock and a firing squad, either way, I lost.

  “I’m sorry.” I whispered.

  “Me too.”

  Rocco reached out and wrapped his arms around me. Surrounded the familiar, comforting warmth, and the scent of the body wash he'd used for as long as I could remember, I allowed myself to feel loved. I emptied my mind, used the moment to let go of my problems, all of them—Grant, the look on his face when I told him to bring me home, fighting with Rocco. For that moment, I loosened the binds that connected me to the piles of stress and worry that stuck to me since the day our parents drove to a party and never came home, a tragic result of impossible circumstances. The harsh Minnesota winters combined with a broken streetlight and a perfectly placed patch of black ice.

  I laid my cheek on Rocco's wide chest, closed my eyes, and sank into the embrace. As usual, the silence in my head didn't last nearly long enough, and the heavy weight of guilt and doubt crept back in.

  How could I be so heartless to my brother? After all he did and sacrifice for me? He took me in. Raised me. Fed me. Hell, he was still taking care of me, paying for my undergrad degree and the roof over my head. I felt like an ungrateful, whiny, brat.

  Rocco squeezed tighter. “I think your compromise sounds good. Thank you,” he murmured into my hair.

  Overwhelmed by both Rocco’s unwavering love and the truck full of guilt that dumped its load on my shoulders, I stepped back and Rocco dropped his arms. I picked at the hem of my shirt and gave him a watery smile.

  “I-I’m pretty tired. I'll see you in the morning?”

  “Yeah.” Rocco patted my arm and I snuck one last peek at his face. At least he looked more like himself. Gone was the deep wrinkle and furrowed brow, along with the hostility he used to mask his stark fear of something awful happening to the only remaining member of his family. “Oh, one more thing,” he said. I froze, worried Rocco might know something, maybe about Grant or even the weird semi-crush I had on Sebastian St. Clair. “No more motorcycles, Ky. My heart almost gave out when I saw you on the back one.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I nearly shit my pants.”

  That, I could do.

  I exhaled and quickly nodded. “No problem.”

  I was lucky to have him and I knew it. Rocco was so brave and reliable it was easy to forget that I wasn't the only one who lost my parents. Rocco suffered too, and from that unspeakable day forward, he was absolutely petrified he might lose his sister as well.

  After facing way too many hard truths about myself, I was done. While the getting was good, I fled to my room and locked the door right as the first hot tear fell onto my cheek. I flopped onto my bed fully dressed, and wondered why I changed my mind about Grant.

  I could have told myself it was fear. Or inexperience. But I knew the truth, something no one else would ever know. Not even Nat. And if Rocco found out… I shivered. He couldn't.

  I could keep it from them, but not from myself. As Grant led me out of the bar, I pictured someone else holding my hand. I imagined what it would be like if Sebastian St. Clair was the one taking me home, not Grant. Fantasized about what Sebastien would do to me, whether he would be gentle or rough, what he smelled like, what he tasted like, what his skin would feel like under my fingertips. And I knew, Grant was a poor substitute. He wasn't who I wanted. It didn't matter that I would never have Sebastian St. Clair, my mind knew the difference and rejected Grant flat out.

  Eyelids heavy, I pictured Sebastien’s beautiful face. The bright blue eyes, the full lips, and that knowing look he gave me at the game. I closed my eyes and imagined his bedroom, and the hungry, urgent kisses he would rain down on my mouth and throat. I could almost feel the power contained in his muscular body and the way he harnessed it, in a fierce, take no prisoners attitude. I decided he would be aggressive and forceful. In my fantasies anyway. My body tingled as I pictured him throwing me down, pinning me to the mattress, and making me feel deliciously helpless as he kissed me.

  I was just getting to the good part when my rational mind kicked and I realized what I was doing. I couldn't fantasize about Sebastian St. Clair. Nothing good would ever come of it, and even though none of it was real, I felt guilty doing it. Like I was betraying Rocco. What kind of sister wanted to get down and dirty with her brother’s worst enemy?

  And because I’m warped, the idea turned me on that much more.

  I had to stop torturing Rocco with my tendencies to engage in spontaneous and reckless activities. Like the time I hopped in a car with a couple classmates and we drove to New York City for the day and ended up staying the night in some fleabag motel outside Trenton, New Jersey. Oh, and maybe I forgot to call Rocco and tell him where I was. Or the time Nat and I blew off class to go skydiving on a whim. Boy, did Rocco blow his top over that one when I may have, sort of, accidentally, possibly on purpose, posted a video of it to my Instagram account where I knew he would see it.

  God, I really am a sucky sister.

  The image of Sebastian St. Clair popped back into my head and my cheeks burst into flames. No way. I refused to entertain fantasies of him. At least not while I lived with Rocco. Wait, what? No! Not even when I moved out. It was out of the question. The temperamental hockey player was off-limits.

  I buried my face in my hands, so stressed I couldn't even enjoy an erotic fantasy about a hot guy. I hated to seem ungrateful. I was beyond blessed to have such a wonderful, caring brother and I knew it, but why did I have to be so messed up in the head? Why couldn't I do the one night stand thing with a regular guy without panicking like a freak?

  Why did everything always have to be so freaking complicated?

  Sebastian St. Clair’s face flashed through my mind again.

  Ugh. Like I said, complicated.

  Seb

  “No man, I'm telling you, she was without a doubt the hottest chick I've seen in my life.”

  “Who?” Evvy asked as he accepted a new beer from our server.

  I took a long swig from my bottle before answering. “The one I saw tonight, you know, when I was throwing down with Sasquatch.” Evvy gave me a blank look. “Sasquatch.” More blank staring. I rolled my eyes. “Dude, c’mon! Rocco Calloway.”

  Evvy rolled his eyes back. “Oh. Riiiiight, I think you might have mentioned her a time or twenty. The blonde in the Calloway jersey, the one you won’t shut up about. How could I forget?”

  I punched Ev in the biceps and scowled. “First of all, it's a sweater, Evvy, not a jersey. Second, you didn't see her, you unlucky bastard.”

  I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of the breathtaking blonde. At the time, she had been all riled up, furious even, but somehow the anger aimed my way did nothing to detract from her stunning good looks. In fact, the slight curl to her upper lip and the blazing fire in her eyes only made her that much hotter.

  “Too bad you missed her, because she was smoking. And for the record, Evvy, you're an asshole.”

  Fucking Everette raining on my parade.

  I sucked
down the rest of my beer and stared off into space. Thinking about the girl had me half-hard, which served as a reminder to how I left things with Amanda. I winced at the memory.

  And I was calling Evvy an asshole? Pot meet kettle.

  “You got that part right,” Ev said as he slugged down the rest of his drink and belched. “At least I'm proud to be an asshole.”

  “Whatever, Ev.”

  Evvy didn’t get it and obviously, I was terrible at explaining exactly what about the girl at the King’s game made her different, and why her face decided to imprint directly on my gray matter. Even I didn't fully understand why I couldn't shake her loose. Not that it mattered. Hell, I didn’t know why I bothered to tell Evvy about her in the first place. I didn’t discuss women—or feelings, or any other girly crap—with anyone. Though the rare times I felt the need to purge something from my system, Ev was my go to guy. Still, I never waxed poetic about women. Especially not one particular woman.

  I lounged back in my chair and pretended to check out the bar. No way did I want to look at Evvy after spewing all that embarrassing shit. Apparently, my mouth to brain filter broke. Probably when Calloway dropped me to the ice. There was no other explanation, because I hadn’t been able to stop talking. After spotting her, I yammered in Evvy’s ear, going on about Hot Blonde from the final buzzer right up to the present, minus the ten minutes I took to duck into my room and call Rémy. In the span of a few hours, the blonde had become an unhealthy obsession.

  I picked at the label on my beer and tried to figure out how to get my man card back, but my one-track mind had other plans. When I locked gazes with Hot Blonde, something happened. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. Christ, I could hardly admit it to myself. It was like we had an instant connection or some other equally ridiculous bullshit. You know, the kind of fantasy nonsense they put in chick flicks to get women all mushy and teary. The kind of crap that’s so far-fetched you know damn well it never happened in real life.

  Except it did. To me.

  The primitive part of my brain didn’t seem to care that, unlike most women, Hot Blonde hadn’t been flirting or tossing me sultry looks. Quite the opposite. When we locked gazes, Hot Blonde was furious. She repeatedly slammed her hand on the plexi while cursing me out. Worse, despite the fact that she looked like she wished my face would melt off, I felt something. Saw something. Something in her bright chestnut colored eyes. Fuck me, I sounded like such a pussy. I drained the rest of my beer, snorted at how ridiculousness it was, and patently ignored Evvy’s questioning stare.

  I was losing my damn mind.

  It wasn’t my fault. Whatever mysterious woo-woo magic spell Hot Blonde cast on me, it worked. She sank her claws right in and refused to let go.

  My cock thickened when I remembered her luscious mouth. Thick, red lips that would look perfect wrapped around my hard length. Hot Blonde was fucking gorgeous. In fact, her only visible negative trait was her downright hideous taste in hockey players. Who in their right mind wore a Calloway sweater? In public?

  Evvy’s inability to understand, combined with the knowledge that I'd probably never see Hot Blonde again, pissed me off, and I didn’t need anyone’s help getting angry, thank you very much. Bottle empty, I raised my hand and signaled the server to bring another round.

  Evvy tipped back his chair until the front legs lifted off the ground, and did an exaggerated stretch so he could not so subtly scope out the DC hotel bar. His eyes flared and the chair dropped to all fours with a bang, startling me. Naturally, I was taking a sip of my brand new beer and jerked at the sound. The glass rim of the bottle clanked against my front tooth.

  "What the fuck, Evvy?" I put a hand to my mouth and pulled back my fingers to check for blood. None.

  “Check it out, Sebby.” Evvy leaned across the table and used a tilt of his head to point to his left. “Brunette and blonde, big tits, tight dresses, and two almost empty cocktail glasses.”

  I followed Evvy's gaze and found the women. Not that it was hard to figure out who he meant. They stood at the corner of the bar and were so out of place, they may as well have been wearing dresses made out of flashing neon lights. Yep, Evvy might not know what those women were, but he could tell they were easy prey. They were attractive, hot actually, if you went for the super high maintenance type. The kind that wore loads of makeup and had fake tits and big hair and would let you do whatever you wanted to them, just so they could say they fucked a hockey player.

  On a normal day, I might be interested… as long as one of them was agreeable to my preferences. Tonight? Even with anger that simmered just beneath the surface of my skin, desperate for release, there wasn't a single thing about either woman I found appealing. Not in the least. Though it was blatantly obvious they were interested in us. No one with a set of functioning eyeballs could miss the way the women used their mouths to do provocative things to their straws while boldly attempting to make eye contact.

  I shook my head and took the easy way out. “Dude, I told you hundred times, I'm done with puck bunnies.”

  That part was true, but also I wasn't about to explain to Evvy that it wasn't the fact that the women were bunnies, so much as I just wasn't in the mood to fuck. At least not anyone who wasn't Hot Blonde. And wasn't that realization a shocker? The fight with Calloway and subsequent argument with Rémy were the exact types of confrontations that cranked up my stress level, which made having a handy outlet on standby a necessity. In essence, I should have jumped at the chance.

  But I didn’t.

  Evvy continued to drool over the bunnies. He couldn’t peel his gaze away. Good for him, I guess. It sucked that I couldn't manage to scrape up even a tiny spark of interest, because puck bunnies are easy lays and perfect for releasing all kinds of tension. I’m a pretty good judge as to whether or not a woman would be interested in my brand of kink, but I wasn’t in the mood.

  First time for everything.

  Besides, they really were bunnies, and yes, I would do any number of depraved things, but I refused to fuck puck bunnies. I wouldn't touch one even if it meant I imploded from sexual frustration.

  Evvy glanced at me and checked out the women again. His forehead wrinkled and he grunted. "You positive they’re bunnies?”

  Puck bunnies are hockey groupies. Women whose solitary goal in life is to fuck hockey players, typically with the aspiration of landing one as a husband. Or trapping one. And I would know.

  At the beginning of my rookie year I got the exact same speech as every other newbie. Management warned us about the flocks of women that hung around arenas and scoped out the bars of the hotels the team stayed at. They advised us to keep our distance from the bunnies. Awkward as it was, they even laid down rules and insisted every player follow them when it came to puck bunnies, or any hookup for that matter—keep your cock wrapped, never give out your phone number, and don't bring anyone to your place.

  Of course, every rookie idiot nodded and said, “Okay, no problem.” Then those same idiots went and screwed their way through the pack of bunnies anyway. What nineteen-year-old man on his own for the first time passed up such easy pickings, especially when it was flung in his face left and right? Not me, and not most others, either.

  Clearly, I outgrew the bunny phase faster than Ev, who was practically drooling at the posing women. I quit the scene cold turkey after a particularly terrifying incident involving a puck bunny, a pregnancy, and nine months of sweating it out until the paternity test proved the kid wasn't mine. Seemed Evvy was gonna need a scare of his own before his wayward dick learned its lesson.

  “They’re definitely bunnies. Not interested.” I waved a dismissive hand.

  It was surprisingly easy to say no to guaranteed pussy. My mind was still back in the arena with Hot Blonde. Picturing her standing on the other side of a smudged piece of plexiglass, staring at me with loathing… and what I blatantly recognized as desire. Too bad there wasn't a way to find out who she was. I might pass on puck bunnies, but no fucking
way would I pass up a night with her. Shit, I'd even be the bigger person and overlook the fact that her taste was so bad she wore a Calloway sweater. I might even be willing to fuck her vanilla, if it was all I could get. She was that hot.

  Evvy pushed back his chair, stood, and shot me a wicked grin. “Well, if you're not down for some action, all the more for me.” He rubbed his hands together like some kind of movie villain. “Catch you later.” He winked and sauntered, yes, motherfucking sauntered, over to the puck bunnies. Minutes later, the three left the bar, one of Evvy’s arms thrown over each girl’s shoulders.

  I shook my head and chuckled. Idiot. I tossed down some bills to cover the tab and headed up to my room. Alone. Yeah, I was thrumming with electricity, and I was tense and pissed I lost the fight with Sasquatch, and still needed to release the rumbling mass of pent up energy that vibrated inside my body. Screw it. I’d just have to jerk off in the shower like a horny teenager. It wouldn't do much, but it would take the edge off.

  Like I told Evvy, Hot Blonde or not, when it came to puck bunnies, lesson learned.

  A couple weeks after DC and Hot Blonde—and spending countless hours stroking my dick raw to the memory of her face, while imagining what she’d look like naked and tied to my bed, screaming my name—I entered the Comets’ locker room. My shoes squeaked as I came to an abrupt halt.

  Something felt off. Way off. Confused, I glanced around before I dared to cross the threshold. It didn't take long to figure out what was wrong. The boisterous sounds were missing. The pregame excitement. The hustle and bustle. The teasing, the jokes, the cursing. It was quiet. Too quiet. Especially for game day. The guys were always extra hyped and crazy loud before every game. I frowned.

  Son of a bitch.

  There wasn’t a player in the league who didn’t know what a silent locker room meant.