Touching Sin (Vegas Sin Book 1)

by J. Saman

  Touching Sin

  J. Saman

  Copyright © 2018 by J. Saman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Playlist:

  After The Storm - Mumford and Sons

  Cold Desert - Kings of Leon

  Liar (it takes one to know one) - Taking Back Sunday

  I Wanna Be Yours - Arctic Monkeys

  High Hopes - Kodaline

  Angela - Lumineers

  We Don’t Know - Strumbellas

  How to Disappear Completely - Radiohead

  Panic Switch - Silversun Pickups

  Also by J. Saman

  Forward

  Start Again

  Start Over

  Start With Me

  Love Rewritten

  Beautiful Potential

  Reckless Love

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  End Of Book Note

  The Edge of Temptation

  Prologue

  You wanna know an ugly truth? People hurt people. It’s a part of human nature we rarely like to discuss or acknowledge. Mostly because we’ve grown to accept it as if it were the changing of the seasons. An inevitability. Sometimes the hurt is inflicted intentionally. Sometimes it isn’t. Regardless of the process behind it, our natural inclination is to make excuses for it. We rationalize what should never be rationalized because the truth hits harder than your loved one ever could. And so it goes…

  Until finally, something unforeseen occurs. We stop making excuses for the inexcusable. And when that happens, we gain power over that person. Over that hurt. It can start out as a slow burn. An aching sigh. A flicker of some long-forgotten hope you had previously thrown out like the useless, cluttered trash it was. Eventually that slow burn smolders, growing, absorbing oxygen and energy and blood and sweat and tears and pain, until it becomes a brush fire. Wild and uncontrollable. A real motherfucker to contain and put out.

  That’s the moment of freedom.

  When you declare that enough is enough and make it stop.

  That might be your defining moment. It was for me. At least, for a while. Because I ran. I got away. But it was all for naught, because in the end, he managed to find me anyway.

  * * *

  “Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.” ~ Bob Marley

  Chapter One

  The acrid smell of burning oil is suffocating. Even with all the windows down and the vents blowing in outside air, it’s unbearable. The smoke billowing from the hood of the car is even more alarming. I need to stop. Probably now. I know what this means. It means I’m stuck in the middle of…where the hell am I?

  Cold realization slaps across my face. I have no idea where I am.

  I can’t remember the last time I’d seen a town or anything other than flatland, desert and mountains.

  All around me is dark. Not just dark, pitch black. So black I can’t see anything other than the narrow, meager glow the ancient headlights struggle to let off. It’s like two flashlights shining out of the front of the car, only illuminating what they touch. Useless.

  I can’t even run away right. Can one person be this pathetic?

  The smoke is most definitely getting thicker now, blowing directly into my face through the vents and the open windows. I can’t breathe or see through it, and whenever I do, it burns my throat and eyes. It would be ironic to asphyxiate on the fumes from a stolen car when I could have taken my mother’s Mercedes. It’s just been sitting in the garage since she died. Niklas wouldn’t have noticed if it went missing. At least not for a while. But it has GPS tracking, as do all our cars, which is why I left it in favor of the gardener’s old clunker.

  The car makes a sputtering noise before it jerks and then jerks again, the steering wheel shimmying to the point where I can barely maintain my grip on it. Now I’m out of options. The internal lights flash on and off, on and off again, and suddenly, the engine dies and I’m forced to roll to a stop at the side of the road.

  The completely vacant road.

  Shit.

  Well, I certainly didn’t plan on this happening. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so tragic. At least it’s summer and warm out.

  I have no idea how far I am from the nearest town. I left Dallas yesterday and went west. I definitely went west because for a while I was following signs for Flagstaff and then Las Vegas. But somehow, I allowed myself to become distracted, and now I’m here.

  On the road to nowhere.

  The car is dead. It makes the worst grating noise when I try to turn the key. Like metal against metal. The smell is even worse than the noise, and I wonder if I can even stay in the car.

  What if it catches on fire?

  Do cars actually do that or does that only happen in movies? I have no idea. But nothing about this situation is reassuring. I need to think.

  I fumble for my purse on the soft fabric cushion of the passenger seat, and my hand closes around the strap. I can’t even see my hand in front of my face, that’s how dark it is in here. Digging through my purse, I find my new cell phone and press the button. It illuminates, showing me the home screen. I groan when I see I have no service. I wonder if that means I won’t have internet, either.

  I tap on the search engine, but the screen tells me I have no internet connection.

  What the hell am I going to do now? Tears prick the back of my eyes and it has nothing to do with the toxic smoke. How could I have let this happen? I should have paid closer attention to street signs instead of obsessing over all the ways my life has gone wrong. I refresh the internet page again with the same results.

  No cell or internet service. No working car. No idea where I am. No food or water, either. Not even a goddamn blanket. Not that I could stay in this car anyway. I’ll probably asphyxiate if I try.

  This. Sucks.

  My hands slam onto the plastic steering column as I belt out the shrillest shriek I can bellow past my smoke clogged lungs. It does nothing to ebb the rising panic and frustration. Peering around, searching everywhere I can out the open windows, I come up empty. No moon. Just useless stars that offer no warmth or light to see by.

  Right as I’m about to get out and walk, bright lights flood the glass of my rearview mirror, temporarily blinding me. I squint reflexively and jerk away before I realize it’s headlights. Oh, thank God. It’s too dark to visualize the car approaching, but at this point, I don’t care. Unless it’s the police. That wouldn’t be so good. Anyone else is fine.

  Until I notice it’s a big truck, high off the ground and so loud the world vibrates with its power.

  All I can see of it are those headlights as they
hone in on me like a spotlight.

  On the one hand, I’m relieved they stopped. On the other, I’m a young woman alone in the middle of nowhere, suddenly at this person’s mercy. They could rape and kill me and then dump my body in the brush. Right. There’s that scenario. Not a whole lot I can do about that now. Suppose I have to just see how this plays out and hope for the best.

  Why didn’t I bring a gun? I’m from freaking Texas. We had guns all over the goddamn house. Why didn’t I think to bring one? Then again, knowing me and my luck, I’d probably shoot myself instead of any potential assailant. Especially since I have zero idea how to actually shoot one.

  Perhaps they’d accept cash bribes in lieu of rape and murder?

  One can hope.

  The driver’s side door slams shut with a dull click and I watch through my side mirror as a tall, dark, hooded figure slowly strides up to my car. My heart is exploding out of my chest, my breathing erratic, my knuckles white from my grip on the steering wheel. I can’t move, nor can I tear my eyes away as the figure draws closer.

  He reaches my window, staring down at me through eyes I cannot see. His hood obscures his entire face in shadows. All I can discern is that he’s tall and broad and could probably snap me like a twig in seconds. At first, he just watches me as I cautiously peer up at him, completely immobilized by his presence. I’m the goddamn pathetic equivalent of a deer in headlights.

  “Are you okay in there?” he asks, and the way his smooth whiskey baritone rolls over me like it’s being poured from crystal on to ice has me releasing the breath I’ve been holding. “Do you need help?”

  The last thing I want to do is open the door to this guy, but I don’t think I have a choice. Especially since my voice still doesn’t seem to be working. He steps back when the lock on my door clicks, giving me a wide berth like he’s expecting me to get out. My hands are trembling violently and I don’t know if my legs will support my weight if I attempt to stand. So instead, I sit, pressing my weight into the thin, lumpy fabric of the seat, turning slightly in his direction with the door partially ajar.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “Are you hurt?” he continues at my silence.

  “No,” I reply as I stare down at his feet—dark stains on black hiking boots, and old, worn jeans covering his strong thighs—my voice soft, but loud enough to be heard over the vociferous engine of his truck that seems to be mocking my useless car.

  “From the smell of it, your car is burning a lot of oil. Can it turn on?”

  “No,” I say again, wrapping my arms protectively around my stomach as the meager contents inside swish and sway. I feel way too vulnerable and exposed right now. I’m ill at ease around men on the best of days and in the best of situations, and this is certainly neither of those.

  He mutters something indiscernible under his breath and then says, “Come on then.” His gruff directive gives me chills and I can’t decipher if they’re the bad kind or not. But if he was going to hurt me, wouldn’t he have done it already? I don’t know. I have no frame of reference on the methodology rapists and killers employ with their victims.

  “Where are we going?” I manage, my voice holding more weight than I would have believed myself capable of.

  I lean back in my seat, my gaze finally traveling up. His hands are clean and well kept, unlike his jeans or boots. His face is shrouded in darkness, for which he takes no action to fix even though my intent must be obvious. His reluctance for me to see his face raises my fear factor to an eight. He could be mangled and getting ready to do the same to me. He could be the psycho from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  “I’m going to drive you into town,” he explains like it should be obvious to any sane, rational person. But I am neither sane nor rational right now. I’ve been driving for two days, practically non-stop. The only sleep I’ve had was when I pulled into a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart and parked in the back to close my eyes for a few hours.

  Town. He’s going to take me into town. Which town is he refering to? Is Las Vegas considered a town or a city? But if he takes me into town, that probably means he won’t rape and kill me, right? Or he could be lying, the girl in the back of my head reminds me. God, this situation sucks. I have no choice but to trust him.

  I certainly can’t stay here.

  I’m in the middle of the fucking desert.

  “Okay. Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” He steps back further, like he’s just as wary of me as I am of him. I stand, the gravel and dried earth crunching beneath my riding boots. At least I’m wearing appropriate clothing. I look up at him, only able to catch a glimpse of his mouth and stubble-lined jaw. Angled lines and smooth, full lips to be precise, but the rest? “Can you, um…” I swallow hard, shifting my weight. “Would you mind removing your hood?”

  He rumbles out a chuckle. “Want to make sure I’m not Leatherface or something?”

  I laugh, too, but it’s awkward and comes out shaky, because he just echoed my exact thoughts. Right down to the creepy horror film.

  He draws back his hood and my breath catches for an entirely different reason. He’s beautiful, which seems comical given how manly and rugged this guy appears, but it’s the first word that pops into my head.

  “Satisfied?”

  I just stare at him. Beautiful doesn’t mean safe.

  A crooked smile quirks up the corners of his lip. His head shakes ever so slightly as his hands fly up in surrender. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise. But I can’t leave you here twenty miles from the nearest town.” Twenty? “You’re lucky, actually. I just so happened to be passing this way after going to the dam. I decided to drive around for a bit and took the very long way home. Good thing, too,” he emphasizes that last bit, running a hand across his jaw and eyeing me from head to toe. “You could have been out here all night without a car passing.”

  What dam? Like, the Hoover dam? Where the hell am I?

  “Lucky,” I parrot, tasting the sourness of the word on my tongue, because I don’t think I’ve ever uttered it in relation to myself before. It almost makes me want to laugh at the absurdity of it. “What’s your name?” I ask, staring up into his eyes. I think they might be brown. I can’t quite tell, but that’s what I’m betting on. His hair is slightly tousled, longer on the top and shorter on the sides. The color, barely decipherable in this light, appears as dark as his eyes. That strong, chiseled jaw is lined with a decent layer of lazy-man’s stubble.

  He’s a lumberjack, I muse. A sexy one at that.

  He smiles, and his teeth are perfect. White and straight. An interesting and welcome contradiction to his otherwise roughness. And that smile. Holy wow. It makes me relax for some odd reason. Like the quality of his dental hygiene and the fact that he has a gorgeous smile is an indication of character. When did I become this stupid girl?

  “Jake,” he says, looking me over slowly, languidly, his eyes sweeping over every inch of me, before they find my face again. His expression shifts, becoming skeptical and cautious as they bounce around each feature on my face. I wonder if he recognizes me. I hope not. I doubt it somehow. I can’t imagine I’m known in this part of the world. “What’s yours?”

  My name. And this is where I hesitate. Which name do I give him? Certainly not my real one. “Mia,” I blurt out, my eyes skirting his.

  “Okay, Mia. Why don’t you grab anything you have in there that you want to keep and follow me? I have a buddy who can tow your car into town.”

  I nod, but I don’t get a chance to respond before he stalks off, back to his truck, his impressive silhouette framed in a halo of light. I don’t waste any time to grab my purse from the passenger seat of the stolen car.

  I bite my lip. Is there anything else in here I need? Anything that could link me to this car?

  Other than where you got it from and your fingerprints?

  I growl out a slew of curses under my breath. The moment this car is made, I will be, too. But this guy says he knows someone who c
an tow it, and maybe I can offer them cash to dispose of it. No one will be the wiser.

  Walking around to the trunk, I open it and lift my suitcases out one by one, setting them onto dusty ground. Jake is already there, waiting on me, his headlights glowing across the back of my car, paving a path for me to see by. My license plate is also visible, and I inwardly cringe at that. The word TEXAS in bold caps along with the picture of the state. Too late now, I sigh. I can only hope he’s not the most observant of men.

  Jake wordlessly lifts one of my suitcases for me. I follow after him, dragging the other behind me, the wheels catching on the cracked earth. We weave in between his truck and my car and then he opens the passenger side for me. Grabbing my suitcase from my hands, he effortlessly picks it up and tosses it onto the small backseat behind the passenger side with my other suitcase.

  His impressively large hand reaches out to touch my arm, and instinctively, I jerk back like his fingers are made out of fire. “Don’t touch me,” I snap.

  His hands fly up, dark eyes wide. “I was just going to help you up.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, but I believe I can manage it, thank you,” I say, feeling a small pang of guilt for my outburst.

  I hoist myself up into the clean, cool cab and breathe in the enticing scent of woodsy cologne and new car. This truck is nice. Expensive, if I had to guess—given the soft leather of the seats, wood paneling and massive dashboard filled with buttons and dials and all sorts of technology.