Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  I almost sneer. Of course he doesn’t want to go. How’s he going to explain his injuries to a doctor? I sexually assaulted a girl and got my ass kicked by her cousin?

  “Is he all right?” Aunt Margot asks. “What happened?”

  “Oh, he got into a fight over some girl. Silly.” Mrs. Wentworth sighs, half embarrassed and half annoyed. “But what can you do? Boys will be boys.”

  My lips press together. That dismissive “boys will be boys” attitude is why guys like Caleb exist.

  “A fight? She must really be something,” Aunt Margot says in a gracious, indulgent tone.

  “I don’t know. I tell him to be careful, getting involved with girls who don’t deserve him, but you know Caleb. Always thinking with that big, soft heart of his.”

  Indignation and outrage burst in my chest, especially after Yuna told me what Caleb really meant to do with the drink. Before I can stop myself, I jump into the den. “There’s nothing soft about Caleb’s heart,” I say, bristling. “If he even has one.”

  Shock erupts on Mrs. Wentworth’s face. Aunt Margot turns to me, her jaw slack. “Ivy, what on earth…?”

  “I don’t know what he’s telling everyone, but it’s all lies.” I go over what happened, including how he deliberately tried to get me to have a drink known to knock people out fast, how he forced a kiss and groped me. “If it weren’t for Tony, believe me, Caleb wouldn’t have stopped there.”

  Mrs. Wentworth turns bright red. “That’s a lie! Caleb isn’t like that!”

  “Really? Why don’t you ask him? He ripped the black and white dress Aunt Margot bought for my competition last year.”

  She’s visibly shaking. Aunt Margot’s eyes flash with fury and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. She turns to Mrs. Wentworth. “Belinda, I think you should leave,” she says, her voice unnaturally calm.

  “Margot! You don’t really believe this? Whenever a girl feels bad about what she did at a party, she claims she was ‘forced’ to make herself feel better!”

  I take a step toward her, furious. No wonder Caleb is such an asshole.

  Aunt Margot’s terrible voice stops me. “What I don’t believe is that insinuations about my niece are the way to go here.”

  Mrs. Wentworth pulls her lips in, but her face is red and her cheeks are puffy, like she’s barely restraining herself.

  “I also don’t believe we can continue discussing the fundraiser right now, do you?” Aunt Margot says, her voice as smooth as ice.

  After shooting me a death glare, Mrs. Wentworth gathers some brochures from the table and storms out. As she passes by, she mutters, “Little bitch. That sister killer didn’t do it for you.”

  I inhale sharply, wondering if I misheard. But there’s no doubt about the vicious glitter in her eyes. She didn’t speak loud enough for her words to reach Aunt Margot. Not many people in this town want to make an enemy of my aunt. And Joel Wentworth in particular needs the Blackwood family’s support if he wants to remain sheriff of Tempérane.

  Jonas materializes and escorts Mrs. Wentworth out. I clench my hands around my sheet music, loathing all the things she said.

  Finally, Aunt Margot says, “Ivy,” and gestures for me to sit down, her face unreadable.

  I take a seat and wait, biting my lower lip. Being under her unblinking gaze is almost worse than being told I was lazy by my first piano teacher because I half-assed my practice sessions. It takes an effort not to squirm.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Aunt Margot asks quietly, her tone devoid of accusation or anger.

  “I did. Just now.” I clear my throat. “The earliest chance I got.”

  She says nothing, but stares like she’s seeing through me.

  “I just want you to know Tony’s a hero. He saved me,” I say, trying to deflect her a little and also wanting her to know how awesome Tony was.

  Instead of looking proud, she looks conflicted. “Did he?”

  “Yes. It would’ve been terrible without him.”

  She looks away briefly, seeing something beyond the wall. “Wasn’t Harry there?”

  “Yes,” I say, hoping I’m not getting him into trouble by admitting that.

  “He should’ve looked after you.”

  “But he didn’t know I went,” I fib, suddenly worried she might be angry with Harry. It isn’t his job to be my chaperone. Since I want Aunt Margot to focus on how Tony protected me, I add, “Besides, Tony—”

  She raises an elegant hand, then stands. “I’m very happy you’re okay, Ivy. I don’t know what I would’ve done if…” She pauses to inhale shakily. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go rest. Excuse me.”

  Then she walks briskly away. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was fleeing…from the fact that her son Tony did something heroic and good.

  Chapter Seven

  Anthony

  I spend the entire morning at the gym and grab a sandwich before going home. I’d like to stay out longer, but there are only so many weights you can lift, and only so many things to do in a town as small as Tempérane. The movie theater shut down a couple years ago, and the few coffee shops seem uninspired after Europe. I’m too old to hang out at the mall.

  Not to mention the attention I draw just by being who I am. People’s curious gazes weigh me down the entire time I’m out. None of them approach, of course. After a while, I feel like yelling, “What? Just say what you want to say!”

  But I don’t. It would embarrass Mother, and people would make sure she heard. So I go home.

  As I walk out of the garage, gym bag slung over one shoulder, I come close to running smack into Mrs. Wentworth. She’s leaving the house, her strides short and tense. There is a palpable indignation around her, like a cat popped on its nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

  She stops just short of a collision, then pulls her shoulders back, chin jutting forward aggressively. Her squinty eyes glare into mine as she spits, “Animal.”

  My gut tightens. I deserve the epithet…but not from her. Then I remember Caleb.

  “So, did the little weasel go crying to his mama? I hit him a lot less than I should have.”

  Her cheeks turn bright red, and she straightens her spine further, her mouth tight. I wait, wondering what she’ll say to defend her wannabe rapist son.

  “Murderer.”

  The word spears my heart, and I can’t draw in air for the searing pain. She smirks and strides off.

  I can’t move. It’s all I can do to stand there, shaking with shame, anger and grief. Mrs. Wentworth is one of the few people who know the real reason my parents sent me away.

  It was a mistake—an accident! I’m not a murderer!

  The protest sticks in my throat like it always does as my mind conjures up all the ways I could’ve prevented it. Guilt and shame over my failure keep me rooted to the spot, unmoving, until one of our gardeners walks by and says hello.

  I manage a thick-voiced greeting, then hurry inside, my eyes unseeing. The air-conditioned coolness gives me goosebumps.

  “Tony?”

  I blink, focus, and see Ivy peering at me. Her eyes are clear, no hint of yesterday’s drinking, and she looks as fresh as a hothouse rosebud. Her aquamarine dress is modest, but shows hints of the soft curves and swells underneath.

  “Ivy.”

  As I say her name, Father’s warning reverberates through my head. I can’t stay too close to her. Everything should be about making Mother happy. Giving her a reason to forgive me. Making what’s left of my family whole again.

  “Excuse me,” I say in a cold but civil tone, and go to my room, my strides long and rapid.

  “Tony!” Ivy calls out.

  I don’t look back. I can’t.

  The second I’m in my room, I dump the gym bag and go to the en suite bathroom to splash cold water on my face. My hands clench the edge of the vanity, and my shoulders tighten, making the muscles bunch around my neck. I stare at myself in the mirror, water dripping from my face.

 
You’re a hero. You saved me.

  Animal. Murderer.

  Are you here to take her away the way you did Katherine?

  Cold dread threads its way through my gut and into my heavy heart. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like I was worth something—a hero. But the only reason Ivy thinks that is because she doesn’t know.

  The damnedest thing is that I never want her to. I want her to stay unaware of the awful past so I’ll always have at least one person who thinks I’m okay.

  I can hear Schubert’s Fantasie. Only the primo, though. It’s way louder than it should be. Doesn’t Ivy know what “piano” and “pianissimo” mean?

  I run a towel over my face, waiting for Harry to join her.

  But he doesn’t. Maybe he feels embarrassed after yesterday. If so, it’s a damn inconvenient time for my brash brother to finally learn some humility.

  Ivy finishes the entire first movement. I let out a breath. My teeth grind together when she starts in again.

  I know what she’s up to. This is her revenge because I ignored her downstairs. It certainly isn’t practice. She’s playing the part perfectly, albeit too loudly. She’s doing this to get me to come down to play the secondo because the piece isn’t complete without it, and it grates like karaoke with no singer. Even now, despite my best intentions, my fingers are twitching, mimicking playing the secondo.

  She’s been at Curtis for three years. She can play Schubert all afternoon long, no problem. It isn’t uncommon for students at famous conservatories to practice for hours a day.

  Fine. I’ll go and play the damned secondo. But only because I hate the incompleteness of the piece, not because I want to sit next to her on the bench and have our limbs brushing and fingers touching.

  By the time I reach the piano room, she’s almost done with her first repeat. I open the door and admire her for a moment, my heart beating faster. The light pouring in from outside creates a strawberry-blond halo out of her unbound hair, and she shines like the sun—her skin glowing, eyes shimmering and rosy lips in a soft line.

  Patient. Confident. Alluring. She’s a force of nature, drawing me as irresistibly as a planet’s gravity. And I can’t lie about how I feel. I want her. Like she’s a last sip of water before I’m banished into a desert. Even though I know how impossible it will be to have her. The situation we’re in—that she’s related to my family, however distantly, that we didn’t meet under different circumstances (in Europe, perhaps) where nobody would care if I wanted her, where she could stay ignorant of my past forever—slides into my gut like a shiv.

  Inhaling deeply to calm my roiling emotions, I take the empty space on the bench next to her and start the secondo without asking her to start over. Ivy doesn’t look at me, but I can sense her smile. And she finally starts hitting her notes without trying to deafen everyone in the house.

  “I knew you’d help me practice,” she says.

  “I don’t care for the incompleteness. Or the entire piece played in fortissimo.”

  “I know.” Her voice is quiet over a pianissimo passage. “Thanks for the aspirin.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I ended up telling Aunt Margot what you did yesterday.”

  Tension grips my neck and shoulders, and I almost mess up a chord. “I thought you wanted to keep the whole thing quiet.”

  “I did, but Mrs. Wentworth showed up. I couldn’t help myself.”

  I think two things simultaneously: So that explains it and Shit. “What did Mother say?”

  “She asked Mrs. Wentworth to leave. I let Aunt Margot know you saved me. And what you saved me from. I didn’t want her to think you got into a fight with Caleb over nothing.”

  “Ivy, no.” Mother isn’t angry with me for not saving girls. She’s angry because I didn’t save one particular girl. “It doesn’t matter what Mrs. Wentworth said or made Mother think. You weren’t going to tell Mother, so you shouldn’t have done it, not for me.”

  “Why not? Don’t you want your mom to know you’re not a troublemaker?”

  I almost laugh at the word. If I were only a troublemaker, Mother would’ve forgiven me years ago. “How do you know I’m not a troublemaker? Or an asshole?”

  “Because, um, you aren’t? I mean, the way you treated me…” She clears her throat. “You can be abrupt, even rude, but you saved me and took care of me. So, I think you’re a good guy, even though you obviously hate being seen that way. It’s like you’re clinging to a bad-boy rep or something.”

  This time, I laugh. What gave her this crazy idea? “Bad-boy rep?”

  She nods. “But you’re not. It’s like, you could be kissing me, but if I asked you to stop, you would. Because you’re that kind of guy.”

  She’s so earnest, so convinced. I stare at her face—the gentle profile and the clear eyes that seem to be deeper and more beautiful than an alpine lake in winter. And she’s making me want things I shouldn’t…making me want to believe I’m worthy.

  I have to put a stop to this before I get stupid. I have to show her she’s being a fool.

  Putting on a cocky smirk, I tilt my head. “Want to put that to the test?” Most people say things easily enough, but back off when they have to put their money where their mouth is. I’m betting Ivy will do the same. She’s a smart girl.

  “Okay.” She blinks once, slowly. “Go for it.” The angle of her chin is a dare.

  Damn. Now the ball’s in my court, and I can’t avoid or ignore it. I stare at her siren’s mouth. A rough, punishing kiss would be fitting, make her regret challenging me. Except I can’t bring myself to do it. I want her to like the feel of my lips on hers. I want her to enjoy the kiss, find such pleasure in it that it’ll kill her to ask me to stop. And whatever she asks, I’m going to do the exact opposite, just to make my point.

  That’s the price she should pay for saying I’m a good guy.

  Wrapping a hand around her long, silken hair, I brush my lips against hers.

  She goes still as a statue, her breath tickling my face. My tongue flicks across her mouth. I tug gently at her lower lip, seeking entry.

  A small shudder runs through her. She parts her mouth, and the flavor and feel of her flood my senses—so sweet, lush and soft. I swear she tastes like cherries and caramel. No, better. More addictive and sweeter, disarming me, making me forget what the hell I was trying to do with the kiss in the first place.

  Her delicate response reins me in. My lips, tongue and teeth move over hers with a tenderness I’ve never shown anybody, but I’m helpless to do anything else.

  She tilts her head so we can fit better. Her tongue strokes across my mouth teasingly, stoking my desire until my whole body feels tight and hard. I deepen our kiss, devouring her. She’s everything I want. Moaning softly in her throat, she arches until her breasts press against my chest.

  “Tony…”

  I know exactly what she wants. Our mouths still fused, I move my hand to cup her breast.

  She murmurs, “Don’t stop…” against my lips. The two words penetrate my lusty haze, hit me like a bucket of ice-water, and everything inside me stills.

  This isn’t what I was expecting. She was supposed to tell me to stop, then call me a bastard when I didn’t. She was supposed to stay away from me afterward, and never say anything in my defense.

  I tear away, since I promised myself I would do the exact opposite of what she asked. But even without the promise, I would’ve done it. My reaction stuns me. I’ve never given myself so completely over to a kiss. Ever.

  Her cherry and caramel taste lingers on my lips, making me want more. I’m already swaying toward her, craving her with an intensity that leaves me breathless.

  Hell.

  I run the back of my hand over my mouth to erase her taste. If I don’t, I’m going to do something I’ll really regret. Like continuing the way she asked me to.

  Her gray eyes wide pools, she watches me wipe my mouth. Her chin begins to tremble.

  I wo
n’t be able to stand it if she cries. So I exhale and say, “Did that prove your point?” in a tone designed to annoy her.

  She doesn’t answer, but thankfully, the trembling stops and her eyes flash with a hint of temper.

  I stand up, my motions measured, then walk away, my skin hot and prickling. I need to get away from her. Now.

  Restless lust churns inside me. I move toward the front entrance. I need to go see if Dalton still owns his boxing gym so I can work off some energy.

  Jonas is standing in front of the entrance and—amazingly—doesn’t move when I approach.

  “What is it?” I ask, my tone curt. Normally, I would never talk to him that way, but I need to get the hell out of here.

  “Dinner will be served at six sharp,” he says. “Formal attire.”

  A formal dinner means a six-course meal. “Any guests?”

  “Just family. In honor of your return.”

  My mouth dries. This is a big fucking deal. Maybe the break I’ve been looking for. I glance at my watch. It’s a quarter to four. “Got it.”

  “Your mother… She’s grown very fond of white orchids,” Jonas adds quietly.

  “Thanks.”

  Without his advice, I would’ve gotten her magenta carnations, which she loved when I was a little boy. Guess a lot of things have changed in the last nine years, not that I would know. I sent her so many letters. All of them were returned, unread.

  The heaviness in my heart eases a bit. Perhaps Mother’s finally decided to absolve me, if she’s willing to host a formal dinner. I need to know if I’m forgiven for what I’ve done.

  Without her forgiveness, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.

  Chapter Eight

  Ivy

  I return to my bedroom, my concentration shot. The only thing I can think of is that kiss.

  He devoured my mouth like it was the most delicious morsel, his tongue stroking mine. I get why he pushed me back when I asked him not to stop. He’s trying to make a point because, for some bizarre reason, he has this warped idea he’s a bad guy.

  But then he wiped his mouth, like I was something gross. The whole time, his gaze never wavered. It’s like he wants me to feel undesirable and unwanted.