Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

by Karina Halle

  “I’ve been better,” she says, standing on her tiptoes for a kiss.

  I want to ask. But I keep it to myself. She’ll tell me in time.

  With my arm around her waist we head off down the street until we catch up with Ben who seems to be in his own tortured world.

  Violet controls the conversation, putting on a brave face and leading us through the bands who are playing, the ones who are worth checking out, the history of the festival, and the philanthropist who started it. Her voice is high, speaking fast. She’s nervous and even gives me the occasional pained look that tells me she notices it, too.

  Things change as we enter the festival grounds, however. Tens of thousands of people, all drunk, stoned, or something else, are joining the pilgrimage with us into the tall, fog-shrouded trees of the park. Somehow, two of Ben’s friends appear from the crowd and manage to find us.

  I don’t pay them much attention and don’t even recall their names. They look like college boys, young and naively self-assured. They think the world is their oyster, but they’ll find out pretty quickly just where they stand.

  The guys want to check out this classic folk band that used to be the pioneers of indie rock, but Violet’s stomach is growling and I’ve seen her get hangry before. We tell them we’ll catch up and head to the nearest food trucks instead.

  I have to admit, it takes me a moment to let everything sink in. In fact, it’s all catching me off guard. The festival, all these people here, young and old, all races, all religions, filling up the space, here to listen to music and live and be.

  I’ve never been to anything like this before. My childhood was strangely sheltered, in the sense that I was never allowed to have a normal one. Though I went to school, it was a security risk to have me hang out there and make friends, so Juan would shuttle me there and back, and that was the extent of my social life.

  I used to have friends when I was younger, but I was about ten when that stopped. Gone were the sleepovers or the camps or the parties. I understand now that there was only an illusion of freedom, that wherever I went there were guards, that I was only allowed to be friends with the boys and girls of the people who worked for my father (which, at one point, seemed to be everyone).

  As I got older, my friends were taught to respect me, maybe fear me. They realized I was different from them, that I stood above them and apart.

  Vicente was the son of el jefe. You couldn’t be friends with him. You could only keep your distance and watch your mouth. I learned how to use their fear to my advantage, even if it made me feel hollow inside.

  High school followed a similar pattern until I was fifteen.

  I got in a fight with a former friend, the son of one of my father’s henchmen (for lack of a better word).

  I’d slept with his girlfriend.

  I was completely in the wrong and I knew it.

  Didn’t care.

  I was young, ready to fuck anything that walked.

  She was there.

  She wanted me.

  The power.

  It was the first time I really understood the cards I’d been dealt. I had a royal flush. Everyone else had nothing. I knew then that for the rest of my life, I could have everything I wanted.

  Almost, anyway.

  So the next day at school, the boy punched me.

  Nearly broke my nose.

  The funny thing is, it didn’t piss me off. Everyone was sure he would be dead, that I would kill him right there with my bare hands and no one could or would do a single thing about it. The Bernals owned everyone.

  But I let it go.

  Maybe because I knew I deserved that punch.

  The next day, his father was found in a ditch with a bullet in his head.

  A henchman no more.

  And my parents kept me away from school. I was to be homeschooled from now on by a matronly teacher—Marta—who would teach Marisol as well.

  It was safer that way.

  But it meant that both my sister and I were cut off from the rest of society. We only knew the world within the compound. Isolation was control. But Marisol was the luckier one. She often went to be with our aunt Alana in the Caribbean, or with Marguerite in Manhattan. She was able to escape. My mother made sure of that.

  I, on the other hand, was stuck. When I left, it was always on business, always for the business. The more control you have, the more you are controlled, and I was a wheel that had to keep spinning for the sake of the cartel.

  I had always thought that having power meant having freedom, but I’m not sure if that’s true.

  No, I don’t think it’s fucking true at all.

  “Are you okay?” Violet asks.

  I blink, steadying my gaze at her. I think I’ve been staring at the chalkboard menu for this chicken and waffle food truck for a good five minutes.

  “Would you believe it if I told you I’m a bit overwhelmed?”

  Her forehead crinkles in surprise. “You?”

  “I guess it happens to the best of us.” I pretend to study the board.

  I feel her lingering attention on the side of my face, wanting me to elaborate.

  Sighing, I say, “I’ve never been to a music festival before. Or even a concert.”

  “What?” she cries out. “How is that possible? You like music, don’t you?”

  “Si,” I tell her. “But…it just never worked out that way.” I look around, at the mix of people eating, laughing, drinking, the thump of faraway acoustics. There’s an awful lot of happiness here, and it’s nearly disorienting.

  No one here thinks there’s a price on their head.

  No one here is worried that their life is in someone else’s hands.

  No one here thinks they might be kidnapped and dragged to Mexico as a peace offering, a way to earn favor and respect.

  Not the person who should probably think that, anyway.

  Fuck.

  Violet places her hand on my shoulder, making me flinch.

  “Vicente,” she says softly, her voice filled with concern. “Do you want to leave?”

  I shake my head. No. No, please keep me distracted from the things I need to do.

  I don’t even know if I want to do them anymore.

  I just want her.

  I’m a motherfucking fool.

  And I’m in way over my head.

  I fix my eyes on her, determined to put things back on track. “Tell me about your brother. What happened last night?”

  She nearly shrinks at that, rubbing her pink lips together. I wish she didn’t turn me on like a light switch at the most inappropriate times and for no real reason other than being her sweet little self. “Can I eat first?”

  I wait while she gets a paper plate of sliced fried chicken covered in maple syrup with a giant waffle bun. I don’t know much about American cooking, especially from the South, but it’s pretty fucking good.

  We eat and walk down the gravel road, away from the food trucks and stages. I smoke half a cigarette before she starts talking.

  “Ben isn’t my full-brother,” she says abruptly.

  Hell. This is news to me.

  “Our dad was married before he met Mom. Ben is from that marriage.”

  Camden, you snake, I can’t help but think. “How did you find out?”

  “Well, that article that Ben found. That was the big thing he needed to tell me in person. The child in the article was him, the mother was his mother, Sophia Madano.”

  “And for your whole lives this Sophia was never mentioned?”

  She stops in her tracks, holding out her hand and counting off on her fingers.

  “Look, this is what Ben and I have known all our lives. Our mom and dad were high school sweethearts that grew up in Palm Valley in the desert. They moved to Gualala before I was born. We moved to San Francisco later. My grandfather on my mother’s side is Grandpa Gus, who lives in Gualala with his wife Mimi. She’s not my biological grandmother—I mean who knows if anyone is fucking biological a
nymore—and I don’t know much about my supposed real one, other than she’s dead. The same goes for my dad’s side. Both of his parents were supposed to be dead. For a long time.”

  “And now you know that’s not true. I’m assuming you’ve seen Ben’s birth certificate and it doesn’t mention Sophia.”

  “I know he has seen it. And I’ve seen his passport.”

  “All those things can easily be faked.”

  She opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it, frowning.

  “What?”

  “I was going to say I can’t believe my parents would fake his birth certificate but then…”

  “But then you remembered your instincts and that you can somehow believe all of this. Because your parents aren’t who you think they are.”

  Her eyes are sharp as she glances at me. “What do you know?”

  I raise my palms. “I know nothing. The same as you. I’m just going on what you told me. Hey, I’m sorry about Ben. I really am. That’s got to be rough on him.” I pause. “You know you have to tell them now.”

  “I know I do,” she grumbles, folding her arms across her chest. “Believe me, I really want to. But I’m waiting on Ben. He’s the one who has a mother he knows nothing about.”

  “And you’re the one living in a house of lies.”

  She glances at me, thinking that over. The wheels in her head seem to turn for a long time. “What are you doing with me?” she finally says.

  I balk, caught off guard. “What?”

  She sighs, running her hands over her face, turning away with a low moan. “I mean it, Vicente. What are you doing with me? What do you want with me?”

  I don’t like these questions. I don’t like the heaviness they’re adding to my heart. It makes breathing just a bit harder.

  “I don’t understand…”

  “I’m a fucking mess!” she yells, eyes blazing as her hands drop away from her face. “Look at me! You just met me and I’m sure you wanted a quick fuck and now you’re roped up with all this…this…ridiculous fucking drama! From my family! I mean, how perfect is this timing? You show up, finally a guy who gets me, who really fucking gets me, and then my family just explodes into shit!”

  I watch her, completely enthralled at the anger pouring out of her. I want to see more of it. I want her to own it.

  “Everyone has problems with their family,” I tell her. “Even me.”

  “Not like this! You know who your parents are, don’t you?”

  I swallow, nodding.

  Unfortunately, yes.

  “Now you’re going to leave me and I’ll be stuck with them, stuck here in this life I don’t fucking want anymore.”

  I ignore the stabbing sensation in my chest. “I’m not leaving, Violet,” I say as patiently as I can. “I told you that last night.”

  “Yeah fucking right. You’re saying that because you’re too nice.”

  I burst out laughing. “Nice? You just called me nice?” That’s a new one. Vicente, the nice guy.

  She recoils at my laugh. “Well, you are. You’ve been more understanding of all this shit than anyone else should be. Right now, it should just be about you and me. Us. That’s it. My family should have nothing to do with this.”

  Oh, my blackbird. That will never, ever be the case.

  Our families would die before they ever let us be together.

  “What if I were to tell you that I’m not as nice as you think,” I say to her, grabbing her hand and pulling her to me. I run my fingers over her cheeks before placing my palm against her throat, my fingers gripping around her neck. “Would a nice boy tie you up and choke you? Would a nice boy encourage you to leave all of this and your family behind?”

  She stares up at me warily. Her throat is warm and presses against my hand as she tries to swallow. “What do you mean?” she whispers.

  “You want it to be about just you and just me?” I lean in, kissing the side of her mouth. “Then you come away with me. You leave their bullshit and their lies behind and you become the Violet McQueen you were always meant to be. You become free.”

  Images of blackbirds fill my mind, flying away, singing into the dead of night.

  Her eyes shimmer as they gaze up at me. I find it impossible to look away, impossible to let her go. “Come with me,” I whisper.

  It will be so much easier this way.

  Her mouth drops open for a moment, sucking in air. “Where?” she finally asks, shaking slightly. This scares her. It thrills her. Even the fucking thought of it all. I can practically smell her getting wet over it.

  Escaping.

  With me.

  To a place far, far worse than here.

  “Anywhere you want to go,” I tell her and I’m not lying. Not right now. I do want to take her where her heart desires. “We can leave tonight. Drive to Seattle. Drive to LA. Go to Vegas. Go to New York. Just you and me and the car and, mirlo, I promise you you’ll see things you’ve never seen before. I’ll open your eyes to the world.”

  “Vicente…” she trails off, breaking her gaze. I tighten the grip on her neck until she looks back at me.

  “I’m serious. You say the word and we’ll go.”

  There’s a flash of pink tongue as she licks her lips nervously.

  That does me in every time.

  My cock hardens. I push it against her thigh.

  “I don’t…I don’t know.” She closes her eyes. “I…I have school. I have no money, you know, and I don’t want to depend on you.”

  “Just think about it,” I murmur in her ear, releasing her neck and sliding my hand down over her breasts, pressing my cock harder against her.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Promise?”

  She nods. “Yes…if you promise me something.”

  From the glint in her eye I know it’s going to be something I’ll like.

  “What?”

  “Fuck me.”

  I blink at her, unable to hide the grin. “Right here?”

  She doesn’t say anything but I can see the determination on her brow. She’s in need of a distraction from all of this, wants to get out of her head.

  She turns and starts to walk for the trees, a faint path winding away from the festival.

  I follow, grabbing her hand, letting her know I’m there for her. She keeps walking, as if leading me and we wind our way through the forest in silence. The wind is picking up, whipping long sections of clouds through the trees. Giant grey whales of mist that float past and disappear.

  She brings me to a grove of eucalyptus trees, the smooth bark peeling off in greens and greys and rust, and we go behind them, leaving the crowd in the distance. The music is now reduced to a dull thump, like it’s happening in a dream.

  Her hands go to my face, fingers so soft and cold, and she stares at me, her eyes searching mine through a million different feelings and I’m torn in a million different ways, ways I shouldn’t be.

  One minute I think I know what I need to do.

  The next I’m not sure I can do it.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” I tell her. A lie. And I can tell from the fire in her eyes that she doesn’t want to hear it.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. She pulls my face down to hers and kisses me, hard, deep, as if she’s suddenly afraid that she won’t survive without my lips on hers, my tongue lost in her warmth. She really believes I’ll leave her, that her family drama and her messy life is far too much for me.

  It all comes out in desperation as her hands slip down over my dick, pressing hard against my firm length and coaxing a deep moan from me.

  She wants to escape.

  I will gladly do what I can.

  I move away from her hands and undo the button on her jeans before unzipping them. I pull them down to the ground and her lacy underwear along with it.

  “What did I tell you about wearing these?” I say, like I’m chastising a child.

  I kiss her hard and then drop to my knees, re
moving her boots and tossing her jeans aside. Without saying a word, I start licking up her cold, bare, naked thighs until she shivers and moans, until goosebumps erupt all over her sensitive flesh. I slide my fingers into her cunt, wet and wanting, just as I thought. She’s practically melting into my touch and I melt into her.

  “Look how wet you are,” I moan, kissing briefly down her legs. “You’re ready to come in my mouth already.”

  Once she begins breathing hard, swaying her hips for more, I keep her pressed back against the tree and bring up one of her legs, hooking it over my shoulder. She grabs the top of my head for stability, her fingers sinking into my hair as I leave soft, wet kisses from the side of her knee all the way up her inner thigh. My lips and tongue tease her mercilessly, one of my favorite things to do.

  Her body tenses and relaxes from my touch, and I grab hold of the sides of her hips, hard, as I bring my face between her legs. My lips meet her swollen ones and I tease her clit with the tip of my finger before sliding my tongue along her cleft and plunging it inside her.

  Jesus.

  So hot, so tight, so wet.

  She’s unbelievable.

  Her exquisite, heady taste dances on my tongue, reaching deep inside of me and igniting this primal layer, the caveman at my core.

  I want to devour her until there’s nothing left. I want to make her scream and squirm and moan into oblivion.

  I want to be all there is for her.

  She cries out, her fist in my hair, yanking hard as she sinks further into me, hips rocking for pressure, for purchase. I give it all, my fingers going in deeper, sliding along the right places, my tongue working her clit overtime, her sweetness running down my chin.

  I’m not sure I can ever get enough of her. Of this.

  I’m doomed in the most maddening way.

  No matter what fucking happens between us, I’m not going to walk out of here a winner.

  Neither of us will.

  We might not even make it out alive.

  She’s close to coming now and I swear, somewhere in the distance, I can hear people talking as they make their way through the trees.

  It doesn’t matter.

  She comes hard into my mouth, her clit pulsing beneath my lips, and I drink her all in, keeping her coming until she moans for me to stop.