A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  Me, too.

  Eli turns on one foot and disappears down the hall. The room cools with his departure.

  I open my suitcase and unpack it, putting everything away. Can’t stand living out of luggage, and no way will I do so at home. Jordan used to make fun of me for that. We traveled a lot, and he was obnoxious about leaving his bag unsorted once we returned. I hated doing it for him, but most often did, rather than leave it for him to get around to, and then have to field his complaints about wrinkled suits and ties.

  As I work, I can’t stop thinking about what just transpired between my stepson and me. The attraction is undeniable, but I don’t understand it. Even when I was a teenager, boys that age did nothing for me. Well, except for one.

  Lucas Turner was a designated high school heartthrob. He came from a well-to-do family, drove a decent car, played sports, and ran track. His interest in me was purely physical, but I was barely sixteen and still naive enough to believe teen-boy bullshit. He swore he’d never met a girl like me, that I was beautiful and smart, maybe even too smart to be his girlfriend. Too bad that didn’t prove to be the case, though he definitely taught me a lesson, one that sparked my better-educated dating philosophy going forward.

  Lots of boys came on to me, but in overtly sexual ways that reminded me of my mom’s men. I valued myself more than that. I would not be my mother. I was a “woman” with taste. And Lucas seemed to fit the bill. He took me to the movies, to the arcade, to UNLV games, not that I cared about football or basketball. But I was with Lucas, who claimed to love me, and at first everything was fun.

  Well, everything except for the sex, which was expected in return for the actual fun. I didn’t mind so much, though it was all about him getting off. I’m not even sure he understood that I was supposed to enjoy it, too. I didn’t.

  He grew possessive. Obsessive. Demanded to know where I was every moment of every day. If other boys so much as looked at me, he’d go off. At them. At me. More than once he grabbed me hard enough to leave a bruise. I’d suffered enough brutality at my mom’s hands. I was not about to put up with it from a guy. I wasn’t sure what love was, but I knew it didn’t look like that.

  When I broke up with Lucas, he cried. Actually cried. When that didn’t work, he threatened suicide, but I knew he meant too much to himself to follow through. In fact, when I wouldn’t change my mind, he didn’t choose the noose. He chose to come after me.

  I should’ve known, or suspected, at least. Enough to be cautious, and I wasn’t.

  I’d just gotten off work at my crappy fast food job, the one that I did my best to keep despite having to squeeze in hours around school. It was a fifteen-minute bus ride, plus an eight-minute walk to our house. I was waiting at the bus stop when Lucas pulled up at the curb.

  “Get in. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  I hesitated. “That’s okay. Wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “Please? I just want to talk to you.”

  Whether out of naivete or sheer exhaustion, I let down my guard and got in the car, and immediately he hit the gas. “Hey, slow down.”

  “Why? You like speed, don’t you?”

  He accelerated, diving in between cars and trucks and bicycles, and didn’t even try to brake when he passed the turn to my house. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you somewhere private.”

  That was the first real clue that I might be in some kind of trouble. “Lucas, please.”

  “Please? Yes, I like that. Say it again.”

  When I wouldn’t he drove even faster, away from the city, up into the hills, to an isolated spot he was obviously familiar with. As soon as he stopped, I jumped out of the car and started to run. But he was faster. Stronger. He caught me, threw me to the glass-littered ground, pinned me down, and raped me.

  It was a vicious assault, and he alternated between laughter and foul vitriol. I fought back as best I could, but he completed the deed and left me lying there, bloodied and oozing evidence. As he fishtailed away, spraying gravel and dust, I picked myself up, straightened my ruined clothes, and picked debris from my tangled hair. Then I limped back toward the city until a nice woman stopped and offered to take me home.

  I filed a police report. Even turned over my semen-soaked panties. But when the cops questioned Lucas, he agreed the encounter was rough but swore it was consensual. Enough of our schoolmates knew we’d been dating to make it a tough call. His word versus mine, the charges were dropped.

  I was force-fed a couple of valuable lessons. One: travel through life with the blinders removed. And, two: sometimes victory lies in retribution.

  This is a memory best left behind, and to escape it I go into the bathroom and reach for opiated relief, knowing it will lower me into sleep. I glance at the clock as I lie down. Four twenty. By dinner all will be well. As the curtain lowers, I allow myself the pleasure of reliving the revenge.

  Lucas had taken to coming into my work and sitting where he could try and intimidate me while wolfing a taco or two and chugging an extra-large Coke. It wasn’t every day, but it was often enough, and I could afford patience.

  My mom’s medicine cabinet was overstocked with prescriptions designed to mitigate her depression, obsessions, etc. It was easy enough to pilfer one here and one there until I collected six with the highest dosage per. I figured any more than that and Coke would not disguise the taste.

  Turned out that was not a problem. He gulped down the whole, spiked thing. Not only did he OD but he passed out behind the wheel. Somehow the other cars managed to miss him as he crossed over the oncoming lane, ran up over the sidewalk, and crashed into a building.

  He survived, but barely.

  Sports were no longer an option.

  I didn’t care at all because he never bothered me again. . . .

  A growl wakes me.

  Growl?

  Yes. My stomach, I think.

  Some alarm.

  I’m hungry.

  Annoyingly so.

  Watery light illuminates the bedroom window. Evening? No, morning, I think.

  “Cavin?”

  No answer.

  No movement.

  No noise in the house I can decipher.

  My mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing cotton, and I think someone’s mixing cement inside my head. Oh, yes. I resorted to Vicoprofen, something I’ve steadfastly refused for a while. Why did I cave again?

  A tsunami of recollection flushes me out of bed. But I won’t swim against that tide again. Not now. Not ever.

  As I tidy my half of the covers, I notice Cavin’s side is untouched, so maybe it’s evening after all. I slip on a robe, go to the kitchen. Padding through the living room, I find my husband snoring lightly on the sofa and jiggle him awake. “Cavin?”

  His eyes flutter open, catch sight of me, and he smiles. “Morning. What time is it?”

  “Not sure. In fact, I wasn’t certain it was morning, but since it seems to be, that means I slept for, what, thirteen hours?”

  “You were definitely dead to the world when I got home.” He sits up, still wearing what must have been yesterday’s clothes, and his hair is in complete disarray.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  He pulls me into his lap, kisses me, too easily. “I tried, but you didn’t budge. I figured if you were that deep under, you needed to sleep.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around six thirty. I bought Chinese, by the way. There are leftovers in the fridge.”

  Takeout. Right.

  “Why didn’t you come to bed?”

  “I read for a while. Guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew, I was looking up at your gorgeous face. Good thing you woke me. I was having a very nice dream, and would probably still be with you in Carmel otherwise. I’m due in surgery this morning.”

  “Go get ready. I’ll make coffee.”

  I’ve accomplished that task and am warming leftover broccoli beef when he returns. He reaches for a mu
g, fills it with fragrant French roast, then sits on a bar stool. “So, I was thinking about your desire for escape. I always take time off around the holidays. How about we spend Christmas in Carmel?”

  “Christmas is still five months away.”

  “I know, but it’s never too early to start planning a vacation.”

  “True enough, and if I can’t ski, beach walking sounds divine. We’ll just have to figure out what to do with Eli.”

  “We can always bring him with us, though it kind of defeats any notion of romance.”

  “Maybe we’ll just kennel him instead. Although we might have to neuter him first.”

  Cavin almost loses his mouthful of java. “Tara . . .”

  “Of course, considering the way he pants after women, that might not be such a bad thing. I mean, Kayla. Sophia. Genev—”

  My mouth snaps shut.

  He reaches for my hand. “You never actually told me how you feel about Genevieve.”

  I’ve had only odd snatches of time to think about her, so the total weight of the loss has yet to solidify in my mind. “I guess, between what happened to her and burying my mom, how I’m feeling is mortal. I mean, I’ve already managed to spend a couple more years on this earth than Genevieve had, so maybe I should feel grateful for that. But I do hope I get more time than my mother did, especially now I’ve found someone I want to share a decade or four with.”

  “Four? Just so you know, I plan to celebrate my hundredth birthday.”

  “Such ambition is at once admirable and a bit disturbing.”

  The microwave signals my food is hot. “Chinese for breakfast?” queries Cavin.

  “Absolutely. Want some?”

  “No. I’ll grab a couple of breakfast sandwiches and eat them on the way.” He starts to get up, rethinks, sits back down. “Oh, about your revision. I asked Cory Heinlen to step in and he agreed. Pissed Roger off, but I couldn’t care less. One botched procedure is one too many. Cory’s looking at his schedule. We’re thinking end of August, if your ROM allows.”

  That elicits my heavy sigh. Better come clean.

  “What?”

  “I want to hold off on the surgery, at least for a while. I’ve been walking some in addition to the stationary biking, and the knee seems to be getting stronger. At least, it doesn’t hurt as much.”

  He is silent for a few moments. “When did you decide this?” he hisses.

  I ignore the tone. “I’ve been mulling it over for days now. I know you believe it’s the wrong decision, but ultimately it’s mine to make.”

  I expect hot irritation. Instead, he cools off, all the way to frosty. “You’re absolutely right. It’s totally your decision. I hope it’s the right one. Meanwhile, I’ll let Cory know you’ve decided to wait.”

  “Thank you. I’d really rather avoid it if possible.”

  Cavin finishes his coffee. “Guess I should be off.”

  Once he’s gone, I get dressed, then go to the office to check my e-mail. There’s one from Whittell High School, reminding the parents of Eli Lattimore that the first day of school is approaching and that any student under the age of eighteen who has a driver’s license must provide proof they meet minimum attendance standards to the DMV to keep said license. That’s a recent Nevada law, but not sure how it will affect Eli personally, as he turns eighteen not long after school starts.

  Hopefully it will get him up on time for classes for a short while, anyway. And who knows? Maybe he’ll surprise me about that, too.

  Next up, an e-mail from the real estate agent. The Bairds’ loan was approved. They’d like to close by September first. Is that okay?

  Other than arranging for a mover, I’ve closed the book on Russian Hill. I tell her it’s fine and make a mental note to take care of that today, along with all the other annoying details I must attend to.

  Now, from Mel: Hey. Guess what. Ricky Martin’s playing at Tahoe the Friday night after your birthday. Want to go? I mean, if we can find tickets.

  Ricky Martin is really not my thing. Still, how can I say no? Mel loves him, and it’s rare that she asks to do something with me. A quick peek on StubHub reveals two front-row tickets for the early show, at an exorbitant price. I go ahead and grab them, regardless. Happy birthday to me.

  It strikes me that my sister would never go to such lengths for me. I wonder if anyone would. I’ve been blessed—or cursed—with the role of organizer for most of my life. People expect it. Then again, I expect it of myself and generally demand to be the decision maker, something rooted in my chaotic childhood. Once I refused to submit to my mother’s abuse, I was reborn.

  I answer Mel: Tickets purchased. This will be fun.

  Finally, I find an announcement from the bank where Cavin and I opened a joint account, letting me know the statement is available online. I take the time to investigate and almost wish I hadn’t when I notice an unfamiliar cash withdrawal, and a large one at that. What would Cavin need $5,600 for? My alert meter jumps into the red zone.

  Where’s the phone? Seems like my husband forgot to share some important information. He’s probably already in surgery, but I’ll text him in case he’s still free. Next time you make a large withdrawal please let me know. I’d hate to overdraw our account.

  There. That’s good. Not overly accusatory, but he’s definitely on notice.

  He’d better have a damn good excuse.

  twenty-three

  A PPARENTLY CAVIN DID HAVE a good reason for withdrawing so much cash. The day I messaged him, mentioning it, I got a return text within a few hours: Sorry. It was supposed to be a surprise. Please trust me.

  That was more than a week ago, and he wouldn’t tell me what the surprise was, exactly. Trusting him hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed to stuff my inquiries and wait it out until today, which happens to be my birthday. I never mentioned that fact to Cavin. I’ve always preferred to cruise through the day with little fanfare. Another year slipping by like water in a stream, so what?

  But this morning, he drew me from dreams, pulling me backward into the spoon of his body. “Happy birthday, beautiful lady,” he whispered, lifting my hair and kissing the back of my neck. His hand crept over my side to cup my breast, and my nipples rose taut, waking before the rest of me totally did. He scissored them between two fingers with enough force to shoot sparklers, hot and just painful enough to bring me completely conscious and aware of his erection, snaking between my legs.

  I rolled onto my back and he lifted above me, reaching down to reward me with passion-steeped kisses.

  Forehead.

  Eyes.

  Mouth.

  Neck.

  Luscious circling of my breasts, with emphatic pauses at the tips, heightened by the roll of his tongue.

  Left-right beneath them, across my rib cage, then down my stomach, stopping to rest his chin on the mound beneath my belly button. “Goddamn, I love you,” he exhaled before ducking his face into the space between my knees.

  Right-left up my legs, which I gratefully parted, granting access to the tunnel already sodden. His mouth settled at the entrance, tongue dancing over the desire-hardened marble before curling down inside of me. I came in twenty seconds.

  “My turn,” he said, moving into position and stopping, the knob of his cock tantalizing. “Say please.”

  “Please!”

  As wet as I was, his breathtaking girth slipped in easily, and his well-practiced hips drove the length of him all the way in, up against my sweet spot. He pulled back, so slowly, an exquisite tease before rocking back into me again.

  “Don’t come,” I begged, just as he brought me off with a huge cloudburst. “I want to watch you jack off.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He pulled out of me, slick with my orgasm, and his hand closed around his cock, stroking it in a circular motion, effort on the forward direction, which surprised me. I always thought it worked the opposite way. It was a powerful turn-on, especially when he said,
“If I’m doing this, so are you. Touch yourself.”

  I touched myself.

  He stroked himself.

  We traded off.

  And we came together.

  Afterward, he gathered me into his arms and we lay, collecting our breath and our thoughts.

  Finally, I asked, “How did you know it was my birthday?”

  “I have my ways.” But when that didn’t satisfy me, he added, “It was in Caldwell’s report. I just happened to remember it.”

  Ah yes. Dirk Caldwell, the private investigator Cavin hired when thinking about dating me. At first that bothered me mightily, but upon reflection I could be only so angry, since it’s a tool I’ve used myself.

  “Now let me ask you something. Why the masturbation thing? You been watching porn?”

  “Not in a very long time.”

  And only with Jordan. Raul was much too old-school. Finn was much too jealous of attributes he didn’t possess. Jordan didn’t care, as long as there were plenty of, as he called them, “dripping pussy shots.”

  I claimed I didn’t know why I wanted to watch my husband pleasure himself, and I didn’t at the time. But now, sitting here waiting for my very special birthday dinner at our favorite Italian bistro, I think it had everything to do with being yanked from a dream that featured Eli masturbating while I smoked weed in the hot tub. I push the thought away as our Summer Fresh Tomato Caprese arrives at the table, delivered by the irrepressible Paolo.

  “I hear this is a special day,” he says. “Chef Christopher has created an exceptional prix fixe menu for you, and I have personally selected the wine pairings, unless you don’t trust my suggestions?”

  “How can I not trust you, Paolo?” He’s a master sommelier. “The only thing I’d ask for is a bottle of Cristal to go with our dessert.”

  “Like I could forget your appetite for this champagne? I will always remember the first night you came limping in here on Doctor Lattimore’s arm. I had a feeling it was only the beginning of a long relationship.”

  “Really? And how could you tell?”

  Paolo winks at Cavin. “I’d never seen such a glimmer in the good doctor’s eyes before. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a distinctive pinot waiting for you.”