Absinthe Of The Heart (Sins Of The Heart Book 1)

by Monica James

  “That promise!” I call out, running faster than the wind.

  Freedom has never felt this good.

  The breeze smells sweeter, cooler against my heated flesh as I take off in a dead sprint. I know the moment he gets the wind back in his sails, he’ll be chasing me down and ensuring I pay for kneeing him in the groin.

  I have no idea where I’m going, but it doesn’t matter.

  Who would have thought bringing down your enemy would feel so good? A surge of adrenaline kickstarts my heart, and I jump down from a ledge, deciding to steer from the path. My sneakers kick up the fallen leaves and earth, but I continue running, a sense of independence biting at my heels.

  I can actually look after myself. Not that I doubted I could, but to bring down London just confirms that I’ll be okay in this big, bad world. I may not be privileged like my peers, but I won’t let that or anyone stand in the way of my dreams.

  I push faster and faster, a hysterical bubble of excitement lapping at the surface. I have no idea where I am, but I’ll figure it out. I’m Holland Brooks-Ferris, and no one can stop me.

  That’s the last thought I have until I hear someone hot on my trail. “Stop!”

  His voice is like a jumpstart, hurling every part of my body into sensory overload. How did he catch up with me so quickly? A little, irksome voice reminds me that he’s not the star quarterback for nothing.

  But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I stop running from him.

  His warning only has me charging forward, jumping over fallen branches and dodging and weaving between trees and massive boulders.

  “Holland!” he roars. To hear my name, pass through his lips is beyond foreign to me, as I can’t remember the last time he called me by it.

  He must be so mad.

  The thought drives me faster and farther until everything blurs around me. I keep running, not looking behind, only forward. As I duck past an old enclosure, I see that to the left, about a hundred yards away, a curve seems to lead to a paved path. I decide to head for it, as I have no doubt London will maim me if he catches me out here with no witnesses to note his assault.

  The adrenaline surge pulsates through my veins, giving me a new lease on life. As I run toward my escape route, I don’t hear him until I feel him collide with me, knocking me to the ground. He must have cut through the terrain because he takes me down from the right.

  The moment I hit the dirt, I gasp for breath because he’s knocked the wind right out of me. He’s sprawled out on top of me, his heavy breaths clouding my senses with a hit of pure Sin. His weight is suffocating, but I like it. I like the feel of his sticky body pressed to mine. He is so big, while I can’t ever remember feeling this small.

  But I shake my head, appalled and disgusted at myself for even thinking such blasphemous thoughts. “Get off me!” I shriek, pounding my small fists against his rock-hard chest.

  The strikes are pathetic, laughable in fact, but I can’t just lie here and surrender because I hate that a small part of me wants to.

  “Sshh!” he hisses, inches from my face, pressing us nose to nose.

  His boldness makes me lightheaded because the full moon chooses to come out of hiding, illuminating his brilliance for the first time all night. Looking into his feral eyes, I get lost in the magnetism, completely under his spell.

  His long hair flicks over his brow, somehow emphasizing the hardness of his jaw, but the softness of his bowed lips. A bead of perspiration trickles from his hairline, tracing down his angular cheek, before detouring and slipping past his parted mouth. His breath is hot, heavy, fanning my cheeks, and that signature fragrance crashes into me as it’s exacerbated tenfold, amalgamated with his masculine, refined scent.

  The bead continues its journey, sashaying over his thick stubble before plunging from his chin and landing with a graceful backflip onto my lips. I’m hit in the face with a salty punch, and instinctively, my tongue darts out to lick at the foreign flavor. London’s eyes drop to my lips, the surprise clear on his face.

  He’s a delicacy on my palate, and I hate it.

  Enraged at myself for having these constant obscene thoughts, I lash out, ready to end this complete madness once and for all. “Get off, you son of—” My words die in my throat however when he slams his hand over my mouth, gesturing for me to keep quiet by placing his pointer finger to his lips.

  I scream beneath his palm, which only comes out as a muffled cry. I squirm under him, but he presses his weight into me, his eyes darting from left to right. I don’t feel frightened. Lord knows I should, but I have a gut feeling he’s doing this to protect us—to protect me.

  All my questions are answered seconds later when the distinguishable flashing of red and blue lights up London’s face, and the sound of heavy footsteps charge toward us. London groans and rolls off me, running his fingertips through his snarled hair. Sitting up, he raises his hands in the air, as if he’s done this a thousand times before.

  It takes my startled brain a moment to register what’s going on, but when I hear the words, “Don’t move, LAPD!” I know that my freedom has come with a price, one which cost me dearly.

  I’ve never been inside a police car before, and I most definitely haven’t been inside a police station, interrogated by a cop who looks like he’s watched one too many episodes of CSI.

  “What were you doing tonight?” he asks me for the tenth time, and my answer is the same it was nine times prior.

  “I-I told you, I was looking for my friend.” I wipe my sweaty palms onto my jeans, still unable to believe I’m here.

  Being hauled to my feet and searched for drug paraphernalia was absolutely not on my list of things to do before I die, but I can check it off. I can also check off being treated like a criminal because I’ve been charged, yes charged with trespassing.

  I may as well say goodbye to Stanford now because I’m pretty certain they don’t offer scholarships to felons.

  Groaning, I place my head into my cupped palms, holding back my tears. I wish I could blame someone, but I can’t; this is all on me. If only I had stayed on the path and not veered into an area obviously patrolled by the police. That was why London stopped me. He was trying to protect me. That admission is a lot harder to stomach than I thought it would be.

  He could have let me go, allowed me to get caught on my own, but he didn’t. He chased after me, and even when the police were yards away, he could have made a break for it, leaving me to take the rap on my own, but he didn’t. He stayed.

  Why?

  They cuffed him after he ran his smart mouth off at them. Memories of him being slammed against the hood, wearing a smug, carefree grin still haunt me. I still don’t understand why he didn’t run. He had the opportunity to do so, but he sits in the room next door, most likely bored and being his usual wiseass self.

  Rubbing my temples, I wonder how long I’ll be here. “I want to see my parents.”

  Sergeant Cooke laughs sarcastically, propping his hand on the back of my seat as he lowers his face to mine. “You’re in no position to be making demands, little girl.”

  Recoiling backward from his coffee-soaked breath, I shake my head. I’m done playing nice. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m sixteen. I really should have had an adult present when you questioned me. I know my rights, but I’ve cooperated because I have nothing to hide. But the fact you’re treating me like a criminal has me changing my mind.” His rubbery mouth parts, as he obviously was not expecting that response.

  I don’t like bullies. I especially don’t like a bully in uniform. This is one of the many reasons I want to study law. At the moment, I’m up close and personal, but I wish the circumstances didn’t involve me sitting in this chair, praying I could erase the past hour of my life.

  When the sergeant sees I’m not budging, he sighs and finally gives me back my personal space. The door opens a second later, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see my parents.

  “Sweetie! Are you all ri
ght?” my mom exclaims, running into the room and throwing her arms around me.

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’m just glad you’re here.” I snuggle into her, never feeling safer than I do right now.

  I can only stay nestled for so long because I know I have to face the music sooner or later. My father’s anger is palpable. “What were you doing, Holland? Whatever possessed you to trespass, and with London Sinclair nonetheless!”

  “Bobby.” My mom releases me, shaking her head lightly. “Not now.”

  “Dee, I need to know what possessed our daughter to betray our trust this way.” The anger I can deal with, but not the disappointment. “Just tonight, she asked we trust her, and this is how she repays us—by getting arrested!”

  I lower my eyes, sniffing back my tears. I hate that I’ve disappointed them this way.

  “Is it drugs?”

  “What?” My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. “No. How could you even ask me that?” I fold my arms across my chest defensively, angered my father would think that of me.

  He paces the room, running a hand down his exhausted face. “Because I’m trying to figure out what was going through your mind.” The room falls still, and I run out of fight.

  Sergeant Cooke clears his throat before leaving the room. I don’t blame him. I wish he’d take me with him.

  My parents are right. I did betray their trust tonight, but it wasn’t intentional. That doesn’t make it any less forgivable, however. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, tugging at a loose thread in the hole in my jeans.

  “Sorry? Do you know what this does to your reputation? What it means for you and Stanford? You’ve completely ruined your future. Look where you’re sitting!” He sweeps his hand around the plain room fitted with a table, a chair, and a two-way mirror.

  “I know!” I cry, tears filling my eyes. “I know I messed up my chances at getting a scholarship.” The reality of that statement hits home, and a violent sob robs me of breath. I cover my face, ashamed and embarrassed.

  “Bobby, we can discuss this at home,” Mom says, gently rubbing my shoulder, but I shrug her away because I don’t deserve her compassion.

  My father is right. One choice, one rash decision, has changed the course of my life forever. I have no idea what to do because never in a million years did I think I’d end up in this predicament.

  “Was it London? Did he make you do it?” My mom is attempting to get to the bottom of this, but I can’t speak. All I want to do is go home.

  As the door opens, I sit upright, blinking back my tears. Sergeant Cooke’s poker face is still in place, so when he says, “You’re free to go,” I stare at him, confused.

  “She’s free to leave?” my father says, attempting to decode what he means.

  The sergeant nods, standing by the open door, hinting we’re to disappear.

  “What about her charges?” my mom asks, standing behind me, forever my guardian.

  “The charges have been dropped.”

  My mouth hinges open and closed like a stunned goldfish. “W-why?”

  The sergeant looks beyond annoyed by the twenty questions, but he humors us anyway. “London Sinclair-Arrington has confessed to forcing you there against your will. He’s taken the blame, so he’ll be charged, but you’re free to go.”

  It takes me three attempts, but I manage to spit out, “What? London did what?”

  I know the sergeant’s patience is close to snapping, but I don’t understand what is going on. “Mr. Sinclair-Arrington has admitted to pinning you down while you attempted to get away. You were held against your will, were you not?”

  “I-I…” I’m a blubbering mess, and I doubt a coherent reply will leave my lips any time soon.

  “Were you or were you not held to the ground by London Sinclair-Arrington?” he poses, his eyes narrowing as if he’s beginning to doubt London’s story.

  “Yes, but…”

  “Son of a bitch,” my father utters with contempt, but I ignore him.

  “And did you attempt to escape?”

  “Yes…”

  “Did he give you that black eye?”

  I feel like I’m standing in front of the firing squad. His questions come at me so quickly, my scrambled brain can’t process them fast enough.

  “Miss Brooks-Ferris, did London give you that black eye?”

  “Yes, but…” He’s twisting the story, and my head pounds in protest.

  “Did you want to press charges?”

  “Charges? Against London?” I ask, unable to keep up.

  He nods, while I gasp, horrified. He’s serious. “No. I do not want to press charges. What is the matter with you?” I screech, standing, and spreading my arms out wide.

  “I think I should be the one asking you that question, Miss. Now, I have real work to do. I hope I never see you in here again.” His dismissal is crystal clear, but the need to defend London’s character overcomes me, and I storm forward, ready to give him a piece of my mind.

  My father is quick to advance, however, grasping my forearm and stopping me from making a bigger mess than I’ve already made. “Come on, Holland.”

  “Dad!” I plead, shrugging from his hold.

  I can’t allow London to take the fall for this. This isn’t his fault, and he never held me against my will. He held me to protect me, and he’s protecting me once more.

  “Miss,” the sergeant’s sharp voice snaps me to attention. “If you’re so insistent on staying here, maybe I can show you to a cell.”

  Well, screw you too, buddy.

  My mom grabs my blazer from the back of the chair, quickly putting a potentially nasty situation to rest. My parents stand on either side of me, not so gently coaxing me out the door. I stand my ground, however, and glare into the sergeant’s eyes.

  “What happens to London?”

  I don’t know why I care, I just do. I can question it during the endless solitary hours I’m sure to face because I know I’ll be grounded until I’m twenty-one.

  Sergeant Cooke stands arrogantly as if he had a part in nabbing “the bad guy.” “He’ll be charged. With his prior convictions, he’ll probably spend some time in a juvenile detention facility.”

  A wavering hand covers my mouth. This can’t be happening.

  A smug smirk tugs at his lips, and I want to slap it from his cheeks. “Don’t look so sad. One less thug off the streets makes my job a lot easier.”

  “London is not a thug.” It’s out before I can stop myself. Yes, he may be an asshole, but he doesn’t deserve to do time, especially because of me.

  “Let’s go, Holland.” My parents push me out the door, and I follow, because if I have to look at Sergeant Cooke for one more second, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.

  The bright fluorescents burn my retinas, but I welcome the pain because I’m an appalling, life-destroying fool. How could I have just stood by and allowed London to take the fall? I was so concerned about what this would do to my future, but thanks to London, tonight never happened.

  Stanford is still in sight, but all that is in London’s—a rap sheet and a stint in prison.

  Oh god, I feel sick to my stomach.

  My nausea can take a back seat, however, because a door down the long hallway yanks opens and out emerges London and his parents. My father knows me better than I know myself, because he suddenly tugs me back, but I retaliate and break from his hold.

  “London!” I call out, almost falling on my face as I run toward him.

  The polished linoleum squeaks under my sneakers, so I know he can hear me, but he doesn’t lift his gaze. A navy trucker hat sits low on his head, obscuring most of his face, but the hard press of his jaw reveals he’s just as affected as me.

  Kayla Sinclair’s perfect red painted lips twist into a scowl the moment she sees me charging toward her son. “Ms. Sinclair, please let me explain!” I beseech her to stop and listen, but she turns her regal nose in the air and scoffs.

  She’s rocking the shit out of her
resting bitch face.

  “I think you’ve done enough, young lady. Come on, London.” She latches onto his arm, and I’m surprised when he doesn’t pull from her vise-like grip. He still won’t face me.

  “Mr. Arrington, please.” I will plead my case to anyone who will listen, but he appears as if he wants to get as far away from this situation as he possibly can.

  London’s mom never changed her maiden name, but neither did my mom. My mom’s reasoning was because she wanted to honor her lineage, while rumor has it that London’s parents never married. Whatever the reason, it’s not my business. But seeing them together, standing by their quiet son, I think London is the way he is because his parents couldn’t give two shits about him.

  I never took the time to get to know London because most days, I’d have rather he was living on the other side of the world, but now, I think his behavior was a cry for help. Or maybe…attention.

  There is no love between them, and I can’t help but compare my parents to London’s. They appear beyond annoyed, as if coming down here was a chore and disrupted whatever bullshit thing they were doing, which was obviously more important than helping their son.

  Yes, my parents are livid, and I doubt I’ll be able to go to the bathroom unsupervised, but I have never questioned their love for me. Can London say the same?

  “This isn’t London’s fault!” I blurt out, desperately beseeching him to look at me. But he doesn’t. His downturned gaze never wavers from his scuffed Chucks.

  There is no denying Kayla’s beauty. Seeing her up close and not from afar, I appreciate just how young she really is—how young both our parents are.

  No older than thirty-four, most women her age would be in their prime, dominating life and enjoying their newfound love for being in their thirties. But a heavy cloud of bitterness hangs over her, and that only turns to a thunderous storm when she looks over my shoulder. I know without turning around why that is.

  “Your son gave my daughter a black eye,” my father spits, placing a steady hand on my upper shoulder.