Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  When she stops and chews on her lip, Chloe and I prompt, “What?”

  She sighs. “She wants to check Nico’s sperm.”

  I burst out laughing. “I’ll bet she does! The old-fashioned way?”

  Chloe elbows me in the side, but Kat waves her hand in the air like she’d expect nothing less. “Under a microscope, pervert. To see if his swimmers are strong or lazy.”

  The thought of Nico Nyx with lazy sperm is too much for Chloe, who goes beet red and puts her hands up in surrender. “Discussing the state of your husband’s semen is where I draw the line, my friend.”

  I say to Kat, “I guess this means you’re going to have to tell him sooner rather than later.” I link my arm through hers, Chloe does the same on Kat’s other side, and we head toward the clinic doors.

  “Yep,” says Kat, wearing a brave smile. “As soon as I get home. And then I’ll do a little sperm testing of my own, if you know what I mean.”

  She makes lip-smacking noises at Chloe, who makes a face and mutters, “Gross.”

  Kat and I grin at each other.

  Some things never change.

  By the time eight o’clock rolls around, my nerves are wound so tight I might snap. I’ve spent all afternoon thinking about the future, a dangerous proposition I rarely allow myself to indulge in. When the doorbell rings, I jump, sloshing the wine in my glass. Fortunately it doesn’t spill. I down it in one big gulp and go answer the door.

  Brody stands there, freshly shaved, with perfect hair and a smile that could bring world peace.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he murmurs, letting his warm gaze travel over me.

  “Hello, beautiful, yourself,” I reply, wowed by the incredible dark blue suit he’s wearing, perfectly cut, obviously custom made. He looks like a duke. “Is that Cifonelli you’re wearing?”

  Brody cocks his head. “How could you possibly know that?”

  I don’t bother to tell him that I once had a torrid affair with a famous architect who was so obsessed with the bespoke Paris suit maker that he owned over three hundred Cifonellis and built his entire house around his closet. Instead I say breezily, “It’s in the cut of the shoulder.”

  “Hmm.” Brody’s smile quirks up on one side. “Well, whoever he was I hope you broke his heart.”

  I grin at him. “That is what heartbreakers do, darling.”

  He steps over the threshold and takes me in his arms. “Darling, is it?” he murmurs, gazing down at me with fire in his eyes. “I like. So formal. Very James Bondy. And may I say you look like a Bond girl in this dress. Muy sexito.”

  I tilt my head to give him better access as he brushes his mouth down my throat. His lips skim my skin, leaving a trail of sparks behind. “If Magda hears you butchering her language like that, she’ll probably poison your breakfast.”

  His arms tightening around me, he inhales against my neck. “I’ve been expecting it for years. You smell incredible.”

  “Thank you. It’s Clive Christian.”

  Brody chuckles, kisses my collarbone, and looks at me. “Of course you’d wear the world’s most expensive perfume.”

  Now it’s my turn for lifted brows. “And how could you possibly know that?”

  Grinning now, he quips, “It’s in the cut of the shoulder.”

  “Ah. Well, whoever she was I hope she broke your heart. Although it doesn’t appear that way, since your ego seems perfectly intact.”

  Brody looks deep into my eyes. His smile fades. “No one’s ever broken my heart, because no one’s ever had it. Until now.”

  My heart thumping, I wind my arms around his neck and kiss him.

  When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Brody says, “If we’re gonna do dinner, we’d better go now because I’m about two seconds away from turning this beautiful dress of yours into a pile of shreds.”

  “You already did that with one of my dresses, Kong. If you keep it up I’ll be buying a new dress every day.”

  He grins at me. “Or you could just walk around naked all the time and save me the trouble.”

  I kiss him lightly on the lips and smile. “You wish, buster. Let’s go eat, I’m looking forward to this wining and dining you’ve promised me.”

  He kisses my hand and leads me out the door. His car, a sleek black Tesla, is parked in the driveway of the guest house. He opens the passenger door for me, lends me a gentlemanly hand as I settle in, and then jogs around to the driver’s side and hops in, slamming the door behind him.

  “Seat belt,” he directs sternly when he sees I haven’t fastened it.

  “Yes, sir.” I offer him a solemn salute and then do as he’s instructed. When he’s satisfied I’m all belted up, he clips in his own seat belt and starts the car.

  The electric engine’s utter silence makes me laugh. “Now that’s a really unsatisfying lack of noise. I thought all you bad boy musician types liked some macho rumble under the hood.”

  Brody’s smile is bright in the dim interior. “Oh, I’ve got some macho rumble under my hood, Slick, and you know it.” He winks.

  Laughing, I roll my eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “No, I’m adorable. And charming. And completely irresistible. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

  I go all clinical psychiatrist on him. “Oh, no, please continue! As a case study in derangement, you’re fascinating. Your state of delusion is unusually acute. If I write a paper on your particular pathology, I’ll probably get famous. But don’t worry, I’ll only refer to you as patient B so you can continue living in Crazy Town in total anonymity.”

  Grinning wider, Brody drives past the gate and out onto PCH, and guides the car into traffic. “Just admit it, Slick. You’re madly in love with me and you want to marry me and raise the octuplets on a ranch somewhere in Montana where I’ll be a farmer and you’ll dress the kids in hideous matching outfits you sewed yourself.”

  Heat flashes over me first, followed by a chill. He just worked the words “love,” “marry,” and “kids” into one sentence.

  I try to form a pithy response, but can’t because my nervous system is too busy having a meltdown.

  When I don’t respond, Brody glances over at me. “Oh,” he says. “I see I’ve hit a nerve. I won’t joke about that stuff if you’re uncomfortable—”

  “It’s just that I don’t sew,” I say, staring straight ahead.

  After a few moments, I chance a look at him. He’s staring back at me with an expression of surprise, hope, and fierce devotion.

  His voice husky, he asks, “What about the rest?”

  My pulse is flying. It feels as if I’m on the verge of a heart attack. “You should probably keep your eyes on the road.”

  He sends a cursory glance at the highway in front of us, and then looks back at me. “Answer the question.”

  Don’t answer the question. You’re smarter than this. Love is a myth, Grace! Love is just hormones! Love is the root of most of the misery in the world! You can still save yourself!

  Then the memory of Barney’s solemn, soulful words at the housewarming party inconveniently pops in.

  Love is the only thing that matters. Love is everything.

  Goddamn it.

  I hate being this conflicted. Life was a helluva lot simpler before this gorgeous complication named Brody Scott showed up.

  My heart and my brain warring, I finally say, “I can’t really see you as a farmer.”

  Brody warns, “Grace,” in a low, throaty growl. He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  Don’t be such a fucking mouse. You’re a lion! You’re a tiger! You were given this life because you’re strong enough to live it, remember? So why don’t you prove it for once?

  Well, hell. Leaping off cliffs seems to be what this relationship is all about.

  “I . . . I think eight kids is about six too many.”

  Brody pulls off onto the side of the highway so fast I gasp in surprise. When we’re stopped on the shoulder with a cloud of dust settling aroun
d the car, he yanks up the parking brake, turns to me, and takes my face in his hands.

  “You’re in love with me. You want to marry me. You want to have my kids.”

  He says it like a demand for confirmation, staring right at me, nose-to-nose.

  Instantly regretting what I’ve done, I shake my head. “No. That would be insane.”

  “No, that would be beautiful.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “And yet it’s what we both want.”

  My heart stalls out, and then takes off again like a rocket. “You . . . ?”

  “You know I do. You know how I feel. I’m yours, if you’ll have me.” He kisses me, his grip on my face caressing.

  Oh God. This is crazy. What am I doing? I need to put the brakes on this. I can’t do this to him.

  I groan his name against his mouth. “My memory . . . you need a woman . . . someone normal—”

  “I need you,” he interrupts in a tone of finality. “And I talked to someone about the memory thing. A guy I know, he’s a specialist—”

  “You talked to someone about me?” I say, horrified.

  “I didn’t mention any names, I just said I had a friend,” Brody replies gently, stroking his thumbs over my cheeks. “This guy is the best, Grace. I want you to look up his background, you’ll see he’s legit. I want you to see him. I think he could help us.”

  Us, he says.

  Not you. Us.

  I put my face into the shoulder of Brody’s perfectly tailored, monstrously expensive suit, and concentrate on breathing in and out.

  Brody says softly, “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Grace Stanton, and I’m not gonna let a little thing like your glitchy goddamn brain get in my way.”

  Gripping his lapels, caught up in a wave of intense emotion, I produce a shaky laugh. “My brain isn’t little.”

  Then Brody laughs, too. “I know. I can tell by the size of your head. You can never find a hat that fits, can you, Sputnik?”

  We sit in his silently running car on the side of Pacific Coast Highway, holding each other and laughing, the girl with the glitchy memory and the boy with an unnamed guilt, thrown together by chance, now held fast in the clutches of the ruthless terrorist that so perfectly blinds young and old, rich and poor alike:

  Hope.

  BRODY

  Dinner is dinner. It’s food. The restaurant is in Malibu, so celebrities are crawling all over the place like cockroaches, but I couldn’t tell you who was there or what they wore or anything.

  All I can tell you is that I’m in love.

  I’m in love.

  And I flat out don’t deserve her, which is probably obvious to anyone who gives us even a passing glance.

  Yeah, okay, I’m not a bad-looking guy, I’ve got money, and I’m in this band that’s kind of a big deal, but none of that means shit compared to who she is. The reality of who and what Grace Stanton is would melt the heart of even the most zombified, frostbitten White Walker George R.R. Martin could ever conceive.

  Everyone in the restaurant stared at her when we walked in. And I mean everyone, from the giraffe-necked hostess to the people crowded three deep around the bar to the toy Yorkie sitting on the lap of some overly tan socialite and eating off her plate. Grace just has this thing where she walks into a room and instantly owns it. There are a lot of stunning women in L.A., but I’ve never met one who can silence a dozen conversations just by entering the same air space. She’s a magnet, drawing every eye, stealing all the light, sucking every molecule into her orbit.

  She glows. She glows so bright she outshines everything else in sight.

  And I stand beside her, a fool in a five-thousand-dollar suit, basking in the warmth of her light like a reptile soaking up the sun so it doesn’t freeze to death from its cold, cold blood.

  Unfortunately, the dark residue of my guilt is the one thing that can’t be lightened by Grace’s beautiful shine, but at least it doesn’t tarnish her. After half a lifetime of perfecting my sunny mask, my stains are only ever seen by me.

  “You’re quiet,” she observes.

  We’re at a table in a corner of the elegant dining room. I’ve ordered wine and the waitress has poured it, but neither of us has touched our glasses. I think we’re both in a mild state of shock at what happened in the car.

  In my mind, there’s really only one thing that can happen next.

  I take her hand across the table and look into her eyes. “I have a proposal.”

  First her face pales. Then two spots of color bloom over her cheeks.

  “No,” I chuckle, squeezing her hand. “Not that proposal.” It stings when she looks relieved. “You don’t have to look like you just got a pardon from the parole board!”

  In what appears to be a stalling move, she sips from her water glass. She slowly sets the glass down, strokes her thumb up and down the stem, and, looking at our joined hands, quietly says, “You’ll be gratified to hear it wasn’t relief I was feeling.”

  I can’t describe the emotion that grips me. It’s like a giant invisible hand just reached into my chest and clenched into a fist. I lean closer to her and lower my voice. “No? What was it then?”

  She shoots me a look from under her lashes, her eyes sparkling. “That ego of yours certainly needs a lot of stroking, Mr. Scott.”

  I ignore that and inch my chair closer to hers. “Then stroke away, baby,” I murmur. “I’m all ears.”

  She looks down at my crotch. “Well. Not all ears.” When she looks up at me her cheeks have pinkened again.

  “Goddamn,” I say gruffly. “Do you have any idea how perfect you are?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “You keep saying that word. And I keep trying to tell you all my imperfections—”

  “You’re perfect for me.”

  That silences her. She starts to chew on her lower lip, and my heart begins to thump like crazy.

  She’s almost there. I can make this happen. I can make her happy, forever, and we can both be free.

  I say, “I want you to move in with me.”

  When her mouth drops open in astonishment, I press on before she can protest.

  “Now. Tonight. Forget about trying to find a place to live. Let’s move your things into the main house and just do this. For real.”

  There’s a vein in her temple that goes haywire whenever she’s feeling strong emotion. I doubt she’s aware of it, because she’d probably have had it removed years ago. Right now it’s giving me some very clear insight into what’s happening inside her body.

  As if her trembling hand and shallow, rapid breathing weren’t enough.

  “I . . .”

  “Say yes.”

  Her laugh is disbelieving. “Wow. This ‘dating’ business is intense. No wonder I’ve always avoided it.”

  I can see she’s feeling overwhelmed, so I sit back in my chair to give her some breathing room. The last thing I want to do is scare her off when I’m so close to having everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

  To lighten the moment, I say, “It was really Magda’s idea. I think she sees her chance to double the Brody Beatdown Team and isn’t gonna let it get away from her.”

  The waitress arrives to take our meal orders. I watch Grace carefully as she turns her attention to the menu, probing the waitress for recommendations, asking questions on this or that dish, knowing full well she’s buying herself time before we return to the subject at hand.

  She finally decides on a dish. I give the waitress my order, too, and then we’re alone again.

  I lean forward. Before I can speak, Grace says, “Before you repeat your incredibly flattering, incredibly stunning, and overall mind-bending offer, can we maybe just . . . talk?”

  “Talk?” I repeat, staring at her. Worry gnaws a hole in my stomach.

  “Yes, Brody. Talk. Like people do. On a date.”

  Our gazes hold. The sounds of the restaurant seem suddenly loud in my ears, silverware clanging and people laughing and the music play
ing on hidden speakers, delicate guitar chords and faraway violins.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I say quietly, “Okay. Let’s talk. I’ll go first. Move in with me.”

  She sighs. “Oy.”

  I make a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong response. Try again.”

  She pins me in one of her no-nonsense stares. “Why are you trying so hard to make this happen?”

  “Because it is happening, whether you’re comfortable with it or not. Whether we put the brakes on it or not. Whether we let our fears get the better of us or not, we want each other, we make each other happy, we’re two people who’ve sown a shit ton of wild oats between us, and there’s no reason we shouldn’t at least give it a try.”

  She looks down at the knife beside her plate and begins to stroke it in contemplation. “Okay. That’s fair. It’s just sudden.”

  “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

  The look she sends me could cut steel. “I know that’s a line from When Harry Met Sally.”

  Holding her lethal gaze, I reply, “Why do you think I said it, sweetheart?”

  After a long time, she says quietly, “Because you knew I’d know.”

  “Correct. This is true love. You think this happens every day?”

  She closes her eyes, smiling. “And now he’s quoting The Princess Bride.”

  “I’m irresistible, I keep telling you this. Also, the fact that you recognize every single quote I throw out there is proof that we were made for each other. Say yes.”

  She opens her eyes, tilts her head back, and stares at me with a challenge in her gaze. “Not to be a killjoy, but I recognize all the quotes Barney throws my way, too.”

  I chuckle. “Keeping me on my toes. I’d expect nothing less. Say yes.”

  “Can we maybe get to the appetizers before I commit to such a big decision, Mr. Scott?”

  I pick up the white linen napkin on my plate, snap it open, and spread it over my lap. I send her my most winning smile. “Of course. Have some salad. Then say yes.”