by L.J. Shen
“Racist bastard,” Trent mutters into his beer, and we all jerk our heads toward him. He doesn’t swear around Luna, but sometimes we forget that she is around. Trent looks down, kisses his daughter’s cheek, and whispers, “Sorry. Daddy said a bad word. Won’t happen again.”
She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t answer. Just stares at him with her blank eyes.
“Come again?” Vicious asks, spinning the wheel of the conversation back to safe water. Trent’s eyes flare, the recollection of what makes him call Van Der Zee a racist flashing through his mind.
“Guy’s a racist. I had an incident with him. To say I don’t like him would be the understatement of the fu—” his eyes dart down to Luna, and he clears his throat, “of the fudging century.”
“Well, none of us are going to buy him a beer—or a fudge, for that matter. But maybe he was a poo-poo head to you for the sake of being a poo-poo head. It’s kind of his thing,” I offer, refraining from saying the words ‘little shit’ and adding, “Is that his kid over there?”
I sure the fuck hope it is, because otherwise, he has passed Sugar Daddy territory and is now in Sugar Grandpa zone. It’s hard to miss the girl beside him because he doesn’t let her move. Literally. He is clasping her slender arm in his and spits when he talks to her. She is too young for me to form an opinion about her looks. Eighteen or nineteen, maybe. Her skin is ghostly fair, she has long hair the color of the sun, two hoops for nose rings, and even though she doesn’t want her father to know, when she tried to jerk her arm away, her shirt rode up and a tattoo peeked on her abdomen. Not a small one, either.
“Edie Van Der Zee,” Vicious confirms my assessment. “Poor kid.”
Jaime laughs. “Poor, she isn’t. And since Edie is easy on the eyes, I bet he’s just trying to make sure she doesn’t get harassed by the harem of corporate dickbags we work with.”
We all frown at Jaime.
“Little Edie looks twelve,” Trent retorts in horror. It’s been three years since Val bailed on his ass, and he’s never bothered reclaiming his throne as the king of one-night stands. No interest in the other sex whatsoever. It’s like his blood turned blue or something.
“Not twelve,” Jaime says evenly. “She looks twenty. Twenty-two, maybe? Totally legal, but still taboo. Lethal combination. Danger is my favorite flavor.”
“She is eighteen.” Vicious puts Jaime out of his misery, tsking his disapproval. “Her dad just bought my old car for her birthday. Jordan believes in showing Edie money doesn’t grow on trees and all that jazz. Fun guy. And what the fuck is wrong with you?” It’s his turn to punch Jaime’s arm. “You either go for the old ones or the young ones. No middle ground for you.”
“Fuck you, my wife is not old.”
“Your wife is not old, but she is here,” Trent reminds him, and we all shift our gaze to watch a very pregnant Mel. “So you might want to stop drooling over a teenager. And while you’re at it, stop cursing in front of my kid.”
“Shit, sorry, Luna,” Vicious says. Jaime laughs. I shake my head. Our kids are going to talk like drunk sailors before they hit ten.
“She doesn’t look a day over sixteen,” Trent offers his two cents on Van Der Zee’s daughter. Yet, his eyes are fixated on her. I’m not sure what to make of it. On one hand, it’s a good sign that he is actually looking at someone. On the other, he is looking at the wrong fucking person. Story of our lives, I guess.
“Sixteen, huh? Is that why you’re glaring?” I smirk. Trent looks away and frowns before sliding a burger onto a bun, squishing ketchup onto it, and handing it to his daughter.
“We were having a conversation about her, so I stated my fudging opinion.”
“Stated your fudging opinion, or imagined how it would feel to fudge her?” I start, and Jaime cuts into our conversation.
“This is getting creepier by the second. Make me one as well.” He points at the burgers.
My dad walks over to us, holding a red Solo cup with a very virgin punch. Everyone slaps his back. I stay put, but when he comes in for a hug, I stretch my arms open and let him in. My arms, my heart, my life.
Shit, I sound like a cheese ball, but it’s true.
Three years ago, I spent a month and a half in the hospital nursing my dying girlfriend.
Three years ago, she came back to me.
Three years ago, one night, when I thought she was for sure going to die, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of beeping hospital machines. I snuggled next to her every night, one hand pressed against her heart—I didn’t trust any fucking machine other than the beating organ in my chest—and realized that her flesh was warm again. My Rachel came back to me. Fourteen years it took me, but this Jacob got the sister he had yearned for.
I love my friends, but they don’t get it. Me. I have to fast-forward everything to truly enjoy life. That’s why Rosie and I eloped four days after she left the hospital. That’s why I can’t afford to hold a grudge against my father and mother. That’s why I finally let go of the bad shit and let all the good come in, even if it cracks my cocky bastard armor.
“Knight is trying to start a fire using two rocks by the fountain,” Dad warns, tilting his head to the far end of the garden. He adds, “Vaughn is helping him.”
Vicious grins. “And you said our kids can’t tolerate each other.” His shoulder bumps mine. “Of course, they can, when there’s enough destruction involved.”
“How old is she again?” Trent asks out of nowhere.
“Eighteen,” Vicious enunciates. “And you’re thirty-three, in case I need to remind you of that, too.”
“I’m well aware, assface.”
“Then peel your eyes off of her body, dickbag.”
“Language, boys,” my dad says, and it never gets old, even when we’re thirty-three.
Trent looks away, smiles a genuine grin for the first time in years, and pats Luna’s head as she wolfs down her burger. I wonder if she understood anything from the conversation we just had, and if she did, how much of it. Her doctor claims that there is nothing wrong with her, that she is mentally in line with kids her age.
But she doesn’t speak. To anyone. Ever.
Completely mute.
“I’m going to make sure they don’t burn my house down.” I motion with my chin to the fountain, right near the swan stone benches. We sit on them every night when we look at the stars. They’re the place where I tell Rosie that I love her, that she is the only one, that she will always be the only one, no matter when she leaves me. It’s the truth. If Rosie’s lungs collapse tomorrow, and with them, my whole life, I will not bother to pick it up again. I will be there for my son—soon-to-be sons—and I will raise them the best I can, but the ride will be over for me.
“Knight! Vaughn!” I stride in their direction, and they both whip their heads around, looking guilty as fuck. I wiggle my finger before they do something stupid. “Stop trying to set the place on fire. How much trouble are you going to get yourselves into if this is what you do at four?”
“My guess is just as much trouble as you gave us.” Dad chuckles behind me.
We all get back to the house—three men from different generations—and Vaughn. I put the two boys where I can see them. The media room we set up for Knight and his baby brother.
“Did you ever check on your mom?” I ask Knight.
“Yeah. She said she is good. She also said that she loves me more than she loves you.”
I narrow my eyes. “She did not.”
“Did too.” Knight shrugs, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Bull…’s head.” I clear my throat. Knight jumps and high-fives Vaughn.
“Told you I’d get him to say a bad word! I’m goooood.”
He is good, and I am blessed.
And whole.
And fucking alive.
Thanks to her.
What makes you feel alive?
My family. My home. My men. My belly. I’m alive. And my therapist was right. I
am going to live forever.
“Dean, stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate it when you do that.”
“What am I doing?”
“Singing the ‘super sperm’ song.”
A dark chuckle leaves his mouth. I roll my eyes and turn on my back in bed, my huge belly poking out. I have a high-risk pregnancy. I don’t get out of the house very often. I see my doctor every other day. My body was not designed to carry another person, and while my appetite quickly caught up with the plan, my lungs are struggling to function for two. But it happened. I fell pregnant. And I fell pregnant because…
“Superrrrrr spermmm.” Dean hits those high notes, walking out of the shower and into our bedroom, his sex hair still dripping water. Not that we’ve been having sex recently. Which is a crying shame, because pregnancy makes you really horny. My hormones took the wheel eight months ago and drove me into the arms of soft porn and erotic books. Doctor Bernstein said no funny business until I pop this kid out. “Gets the fucking job donneeeee!”
Oh, yeah. The super sperm song has rhythm and double meaning. Justin Timberlake, watch out.
“Daddy, you said another bad word!” Knight calls from his room, ecstatic. It’s ten o’clock at night. What is he doing up? “This is the best bet ever. Vaughn is going to owe me a lot of candy.”
Sometimes I feel like Dean doesn’t even try not to cuss in front of Knight. I don’t resent him for it. That’s who he is, and if people have a problem…well, fuck them.
He doesn’t say that—he probably wouldn’t admit it, either—but I know that one of the reasons he agreed to sell all those shares to Jordan Van Der Zee is because he wanted to spend more time with us. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Neither do I. But I do know that both my boys are going to be in very good hands. This is the man who impregnated me after I was told that there was only a 0.0001% chance I will be able to conceive. He took that slim chance and made it happen. Since he doesn’t carry the CF gene, my son will be healthy and strong. Just like him.
“Put a dollar in the jar for me,” Dean yells to Knight, smirking at me and opening his towel before knotting it back. “I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
“There’s a twelve percent interest on that,” Knight yells back. Dean chuckles.
“Are you sure he is not biologically mine?” He gives me that look. You know, that look, that still makes me damp and begging for his dusky side to spank me.
I shrug, downplaying his effect on me. “He is the closest thing to the real you.” Other than the one that’s in my stomach.
Dean walks over, flattens his palm against my huge belly, and sits down beside me.
“Hey, Sirius?”
“Yes, Earth?”
“Why do you shine so fucking bright? You make it hard for me to sleep next to you.”
“Mmmm.” I take his hand and kiss his palm, smiling. “Thanks for the cheese, but it gives me heartburn.”
“Okay, what I’m really trying to say is that you started snoring about two months ago and fuck, I’m tired.”
“This too shall pass,” I say, teasing. “Soon, my snoring will be replaced with a baby who cries all night for the next two years.”
He kisses my temple, then my belly, then between my heavy tits, making a suckling sound. I love him. I love him so much I don’t know why I didn’t do what I should have done all those years ago. Push my sister aside when she came running into his arms and claimed him as mine.
Because he always was.
Every part of him.
The good and the bad, the happy and the sad.
Mine.
Just like I was his.
Nina died weeks after I left the hospital three years ago. Drug overdose, back on the farm she lived on in Alabama. Her husband by her side. I was there to pick up the pieces of Dean’s broken heart. To see him finally break, finally admit that he cared. That he loved her and wanted nothing but to be her son. That his heart was never going to be the same again.
Lev means a heart in Hebrew. Lev is also going to be the name of our son.
I count my blessings. Every single day.
I count them when I kiss Knight good night, when I watch Dean from the window trying to turn on the sprinklers, kicking blades of grass before remembering that the sprinklers are automatic, and when Millie and I do brunches and watch the kids play and fight and shout.
“You know what I just realized?” Dean leans down, and now he is kissing my lips and I get all dizzy, knowing that we can’t take it any farther. Not just because of the pregnancy. Knight has been known to burst into our room and negotiate his bedtime. He is getting pretty good at it. By six, he will start giving his dad a run for his money as far as trading goes.
“What?” I smile.
“Baby LeBlanc is having a baby. And it’s mine. I fucking love you. Love your face.” He kisses my nose. “Your tits.” He kisses my nipple through my tank top, biting it softly. “The kid you’re making for us.” He kisses my belly and mouths into it, “And you, too, buddy.”
“The fucking spectacular sex that we have—I’m saving all my sperm for our reunion, so be warned, I might knock you up again in no time.” He kisses between my legs. “And down to your feet, that I worship every day.” He kisses my toes.
I take a deep breath. I don’t need my inhaler. I have him.
“And I figured out one more thing.” He raises his body back up and boxes me underneath him. His arms are flexed, his bulging muscles are making it hard for me to concentrate on what he is saying, and suddenly, the room just got a little too hot for my liking.
“What?” I whisper as our lips brush together.
“Jacob got his fucking Rachel. And she gave him a baby. They will live happily-ever-after. Grow old together. It’s in the Bible, Baby LeBlanc. You can’t dispute it.”
“I love you.” I laugh.
“I love you,” he says back.
“I love you’s!” Knight bolts into the room, throwing the door open, jumping onto the bed between us, hugging my belly.
“We love you.” Dean puts his hand on my stomach, and now we all touch Lev.
And what does Lev do? What HotHoles do. Ruin.
“God, oh,” I moan.
“Yes, baby, I’m a god, but our son is here. This will have to wait.”
“No, Dean. My water just broke.”
“Oh,” we all say in unison. “God.”
And I now have my happily-ever-after. At least in this moment.
Now is forever, at least for me.
For I am not a wilting Rose, I’m in full bloom.
Thanks to him.
THE END
First, I would like to thank my editing team. Angela Marshall Smith, Elaine York, Bex Harper, Ellie McLove and Paige Smith. Each of you gave a piece of yourself to this book, and it shows. Thank you for that piece (you’re never getting it back, by the way.)
To Letitia Hasser for the gorgeous cover—thank you for always knowing exactly what I need and making it happen, you’re fifty shades of awesome. Stacey Blake for the lovely and artistic formatting. You ladies make my books look so pretty.
To Sunny Borek. I’m not even sure what to list her as. Beta reader? Manager? Sister-from-another-mister? Probably all of the above. I owe this girl so much, and yet she never expects anything back.
To my beta readers: Paige Jennifer, Ilanit Adani, Ava Harrison, Ella Fox and Amy Halter. I don’t know what I would have done without your guidance.
My street team – Kristina Lindsey, Julia Lis, Becca Szurken, Lin Tahel Cohen, Sher Mason, Ilor Tsabar, Ofa T Booklover, Sonal Dutt, Vanessa Serrano, Josephine McDonnell, Tanaka Kangara, Sabrina Shalalashvilli, Brittany Danielle Christina, Avivit Egev, Shiri Karni, Jessica Meade, Galit Hadar Shmaryaoo, Sheena Taylor and Bernadett Lankovits and Amanda Suderland. You girls are such a huge part of my life and success. I love you to bits.
To my agent, Kimberly Brower, who took the Sinners of Saint series and made sure everybod
y knew about it—you are a star and I am so lucky to have you.
To the Sassy Sparrows reading group—popping in and saying ‘hi’ when I’m in the writing cave gives my life color. Thank you for the memes, man candy, teasers and fun times. Most of all, thank you for your continued support in my career.
To all the bloggers who share my work and push my books forward—I see you. I see you and I am grateful every single day for everything that you do. You are the real force behind this indie industry. Don’t you ever forget that.
To my readers—I always say the same thing, but it’s the raw, naked truth. I am nothing without you. You make my dream come true every single day, and I thank you for your time, effort and for every time you talk about my books. Please consider leaving an honest review—positive or negative—when you finish this title.
Love,
L.J. xoxo
Sinners of Saint
Defy (#0.5)
Vicious (#1)
Ruckus (#2)
Scandalous (#3, coming soon)
Tyed
Sparrow
Blood to Dust
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