Sin for Me

by Lisa Marie Perry

  He nodded as Joshua said, “Dante, meet Terri Shoal. She manages reception in this wing and will hook you up with whatever you need during studio time.”

  In lieu of shaking his hand, Terri unloaded the technology she carried. “The phone’s preloaded with company contacts, and I’ve inputted my hours and personal line should there be an urgent issue. I’m happy to do whatever I can do to make your visit with us productive.”

  “Thanks, Terri.”

  The woman was already striding toward Studio II, where she inserted a key card, hauled open the door, and vanished inside. Music and hard voices tumbled into the hall.

  “I haven’t signed on yet—isn’t this a little premature?” he said to Joshua.

  “Took the liberty of putting people in place to make this process go smoothly. Terri’s my best girl. She can make herself disappear when you need her to, knows when to keep her mouth shut. Former CIA.”

  “She left the CIA to work in entertainment?”

  “Not to work in entertainment. To work for me. I pay better.” Joshua shrugged. “As I already said, she’s my best girl. Terri’s one of my top allies. Indispensable. People like her, and if they don’t, they’re usually smart enough to not piss her off. Since I’m lending her out to you, you shouldn’t need Chelsea.”

  “Never said I needed her. I said I want her.”

  “An ex fuck in the back of a car didn’t get her out of your system? Tough, then. She’s COO. She’s got higher priorities than helping you bust a nut.”

  “Watch it,” Dante said quietly. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make an enemy out of me.”

  Noise burst from the studio, and Terri swept past them. “Men. Jesus fucking Christ, this is why vibrators will make the whole lot of you obsolete.”

  “Whoa, hold up, Terri.” Joshua jogged to catch up with her, and his voice carried through the hall. “What’s the problem?”

  “Besides the fact that I need to cancel a four-hundred-dollar food order because Counterfeit’s ingénue of the week just decided she wants a cabana at Havana and he’ll go along with whatever whim hits her just because she just got done sucking him off, you mean?”

  “Yeah, besides that.”

  His “best girl” responded by flipping him off and jetting around the corner.

  Dante figured he kind of liked her. The door opened and people began to file out, bringing a cloud of weed smoke with them.

  “My man, Drake!” A wide man in a Burberry hat, with chains gleaming against his striped polo shirt, crossed to them and clapped Joshua’s back. “Whaddup, bruh?”

  “Thinking of what to say to stop Terri from kicking your ass.”

  “Naw, she just playin’.” Counterfeit turned a pair of narrow black eyes on Dante. “Drake, this mofo cool?”

  “Your judge of character’s on point when you’re twisted high—you decide.” Joshua stood off to the side. “He’s Dante Bishop.”

  “Bishop…Oh. Ohhh. You wrote for Redd a ways back, right? Man, that shit’s still fuckin’ hot.” Counterfeit pointed to the pictures above Studio I. “That’s yours up there, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man grinned, not seeming to notice the shy-looking woman who cuddled up to him. She might’ve been college-aged, assuming the rapper watched his back carefully enough to make sure she was legal before he unzipped. “No disrespect, but your family’s crazy fucked up. We got a little something left over for some after-partying, but we can cut you in.”

  “Appreciate it, but I’m good.”

  “For the record, though,” Joshua said, “Dante’s not here. So what y’all see out here, you didn’t see.”

  “Cool, bruh. I got you. And Karrin here—she’s not here, either. Know what I’m sayin’?” He nudged her from his side, and with a swat sent her scurrying off to join the others. “She’s sexy, but she ain’t my woman or my side piece. No need to get my wife all pissed off for nothing. Know how that is?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Dante frowned, and the frown stayed rooted on his face while Joshua and Counterfeit spoke briefly about the track the rapper had just recorded for mixing. After a staff member had escorted the musician and his crew out the private exit, Dante said point-blank to Joshua, “You been fucking around on Emma?”

  Joshua bought himself time by throwing open the door to the studio that Counterfeit had vacated and putting in a call on his cell for maintenance.

  “Going to answer my question?” Dante said.

  “Is what my wife and I do your business?”

  “No, but I’ve got a problem with you making a fool of a woman who pours you champagne and rubs your shoulders.”

  “What—you looking at her for yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, yeah, because your cock’s pointing to Chelsea, right? Have to say I don’t know why you stopped tapping that. But a few dozen guys must be thanking the Lord that you did.”

  “I told you before to watch it, motherfucker.”

  “Sounds like jealousy.” Anger incited, thirst to fight triggered, Joshua continued to taunt. “Worried I got a piece of Chelsea for myself? Maybe I did. Maybe I had her, Emma, and your sister on my dick.”

  Dante didn’t think. He lost the ability. It simply clicked off and his body launched into an attack. The boxed tablet and the phone hit the floor. He threw his fist, connecting with the man’s jaw. A dull crunch seemed to radiate from his hand, but he didn’t stop to investigate the damage. He grabbed the man by the collar of his pressed shirt and flung him into the studio lounge, where smoke clung to the air and shot glasses left on the floor crunched under their shoes.

  Joshua retaliated with punches to his stomach, then Dante caught him with an uppercut that sent him flying back against the glass door that led to the control room.

  Glass rained down, and from behind him came a pair of shrieks that rattled his bones.

  “What the hell did you do to him?” Emma came running into the lounge and dropped down beside her husband. “God, he’s bleeding! Joshua, are you okay?”

  “An explanation would be awesome now,” Chelsea demanded. “I’m holding papers for you to sign, Dante. Now I’m tempted to have security cart you both to the PD.”

  “I didn’t mean to put him through the door.”

  “That’s the best you’ve got?”

  Terri and a few black-suited security men crowded the lounge. None seemed alarmed at the thick haze of marijuana, and that spoke volumes.

  Devil’s Music hadn’t changed in some ways. Cutthroat Bishop and his guests had introduced this place and the family home to masses of hookers and drugs. Nothing that Dante had seen tonight had shocked him, and maybe it was screwed up that he was desensitized to a reality that ran on money and ego. Or maybe the past and reality were what they were and there was no real point to giving too many fucks.

  “I added glass replacement to the maintenance repair order you called in a little bit ago,” Terri said matter-of-factly to Joshua.

  “You heard him call maintenance?” Dante asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I did.” Which meant she’d listened to their conversation and had let a couple of raging tempers run their course. “I would’ve punched you, too, Joshua.”

  “Fucking traitor,” he grumbled.

  “Shut up and let us check you for life-threatening punctures.” She glanced from him to Dante. “Like I said—men.”

  “Yeah, I heard you before. Vibrators should replace us.”

  Emma snuggled up to Joshua after security checked him for shards that might be embedded in his flesh.

  Chelsea stood in front of Dante as if she could block him should he attempt another swing at Joshua. But he didn’t want to put her in the middle of a brawl, so maybe she had it right. Maybe, standing here, she knew he’d rather keep the peace than put her in danger.

  As Joshua was being led through the lounge on Emma’s insistence that she drive him to the hospital to be reche
cked, Chelsea said, “Joshua. Dante. Shake hands. Do it right now or I’ll rip up this contract.” She turned to look him in the eye. “That’d really suck, since I told Emma that I’d agree to all your terms.”

  I want Chelsea.

  She’d agreed?

  “Chelsea—”

  “Shake his hand first. Matter of fact, don’t speak to me again until you do.”

  Emma nudged her husband. “Do it. We need this to happen. You know what’s at stake.”

  Chelsea stepped out of the way, and when Joshua reluctantly put out his hand Dante shook it—not because he wasn’t still submerged in rage, but because of Chelsea.

  What about him didn’t involve her? She took up too much of his past, occupied too much of his mind, and even across the room she was standing too close.

  When the hall was cleared of everyone but Chelsea and him, and maintenance had been set loose on Studio II, she held up the folder and said, “Can your attorneys review this contract by tomorrow morning?”

  He crouched to gather the phone and tablet he’d dropped before slamming a fist to Joshua Drake’s face. “They’ll get on it as soon as I send it through. Get me a digital copy. Can you do that?”

  “Not a problem. Let’s go up to my office. I have access to the legal portal and we can send an e-doc from the computer there. Since you put your previous tour guide through glass, I’ll take you.”

  “Don’t you have someplace to be? It’s late.”

  “My apartment. It’ll still be quiet and empty whenever I do get back. So, come on and get this contract going.”

  She started walking, her chin raised and her hips swaying. His adrenaline was still coursing strong, and he’d’ve enjoyed nothing more than pouring it all into making her moan for him. “I like that you’re in a hurry to work with me.”

  “Go ahead and flatter yourself, but here’s the practical truth.” She paused to smile at him over a shoulder. “The sooner we start this, the sooner it’ll be over.”

  Clean shot, except…He closed the distance and looped his free arm around her waist. Automatically her head tipped to the side. Taking the invitation, he kissed her from shoulder to neck as he pushed against her ass. “I can make it last, Chelsea. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Chapter 7

  So this really was what he’d meant by wanting her—for amusement and sex, and nothing more substantial than that.

  It stung, yet only by a small margin was this arrangement different from the one she applied to the men she’d entertained since ending things with him years ago.

  “Dante.” She jerked forward, severing contact. Her entire backside felt an immediate chill now that she’d abruptly lost his body heat. It was deep summer in Georgia. She had no reason to feel so cold. Gritting her teeth in annoyance at herself, she said, “In your head, when you think of me, do you call me by my name? Or do you call me something like Music Executive…or something else?” Something more personal than her occupation, but hurtful. Scheming Slut, maybe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I still just Chelsea to you, even when you’re not talking to me or anybody else?”

  “Christ, you’re confusing me.”

  A bit of context might help. “A couple of weeks ago I spent the night with a man. He told me his name, but I replaced it with his position. I refer to him as Club Promoter. Not to his face, but in my mind.” The explanation sounded so sterile and distant. But that was the only way to describe her time with Miguel Ortega. There was no depth between them beyond attraction. “That’s how I catalog the men I sleep with. It’s efficient.”

  “It’s a defense mechanism,” he countered, casually inspecting her arms as though she wouldn’t automatically know he was searching for markings of rubber bands or hairpins. “I remember you had a few of those in your repertoire.”

  “Leave my repertoire out of this conversation and just tell me, Dante. Who am I to you?”

  “You’re Chelsea.”

  She didn’t miss the hard edge his voice had taken on. “I’m not altogether sure that’s a good thing, considering you said it the way my mom says ‘fucker’ when she’s mad at someone.”

  “If I wanted to call you a fucker, I’d do it. I’ve got no reason to protect your pride, Chelsea.”

  “You did it again,” she accused. “Stop saying it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  He started walking, and she prayed her shoes would let her keep up as she tailed him through this friggin’ mile-long hallway.

  “You’re saying my name as if you associate it with something terrible. As if you’d never get with another woman named Chelsea because you’d look at her and think of me and go flaccid.”

  The word flaccid drew a few people to doorways. There were too many employees milling around after hours. Production staff preferred to linger until midnight or later. Still, most of these offices should be dark. Chelsea whipped around. “Go earn the salaries I’m paying you or take your asses home already.”

  Laughter answered her, but a few doors clicked softly closed.

  “I’m too lenient with them, really,” she said, quickening her pace until she was almost jogging to catch up.

  Ignoring the elevator, he pursued the set of stairs that would lead to the main floor. From there they would still need to take the main staircase to the executive offices on the third floor. On the bottom step he paused and stilled her with a hand to the back of her neck. “A couple of things to hash out. First off, thinking of you doesn’t make me flaccid.”

  “Convince me. Let me touch you and find that out for myself.” Show me you don’t hate me. “We’re in a blind spot. It’s just us.”

  “I don’t know how sincere you are.”

  “Very,” she admitted.

  “If I told you to get down and start bobbing on my dick, you’d do it?”

  “Is that what you want?” Hard to believe it was. Or perhaps she’d relapsed into applying the mannerisms of the man she’d loved to the man in front of her. They were two different individuals, but so alike that it was easy to forget.

  “No,” he said. “To everything you said. The answer’s no.”

  Cruel word, no. “Why not? Is it for the same reason that you can’t stop saying my name as if it’s a swear word?”

  Dante dropped his hand and his long stride ate up the stairs. Great view of his denim-wrapped ass aside, she didn’t like him leading her. For that matter, she was weary from apologizing and clinging to webs of hope that he’d forgive the past.

  She had conviction that what she’d done was right. She had guilt because the means she’d chosen had been wrong. That was the only personal battle she could manage when she was facing an industry war.

  Taking off her shoes to clutch them in one hand and the contract in the other, she sprinted ahead and maintained a comfortable distance until they’d at last reached the executive level. A tidy and silent mahogany-and-stone reception booth greeted them. The weekday floor hostess who clocked in at a perky eight A.M. and fled her station at six P.M. on the dot had left hours ago.

  How differently this night might have unfolded had the people at the top of the company food chain followed her example. Chelsea would be working from the solitude of her condo eating Thai takeout straight from the carton, and Joshua and Emma would be indulging in married-people eye-contact sex in their house instead of plucking glass fragments from his skin.

  Avoiding the CEO and CFO suites in case Emma and Joshua hadn’t gone home—or to the ER, if Emma had her way—Chelsea practically loped to hers.

  Her assistant, Teagan, wasn’t around, but the lights glowed in her open office and mellow hip-hop spilled from the portable speaker on her desk.

  Chelsea was out of breath when she opened her door and let Dante inside. The air was cool—summer heat made her irritable and did not-nice things to her hair—but it was a warm place. It was an intentional design mission, to bring warmth to a place where she spent so much of her time.


  The luscious peach color on the walls and frosting-white moldings made her think of decadent dessert. There was an element of comfort in every piece of furniture and high-end accent that filled these six hundred square feet.

  “I decided something on the walk here,” she said, wearing composure as modestly as the spritz of Joy perfume on her wrists. She closed the door and brought her computer out of sleep, getting immediately to the task she’d come here to complete. No more sexual detours. “I can’t care that I’m not one of your favorite people anymore—if I ever was to begin with.”

  “My goddamn heart beat for you back then,” he said, answering her composure with gravelly intensity. He set the devices he carried onto a table and approached her desk as if gearing up for a fresh fight. “I got so tripped up loving you and looking out for you that I left myself open for you to screw me over.”

  “Sounds like a lapse in your judgment. I can’t care that you want to blame me for that.” She dropped into her plush chair and typed her credentials into the company’s legal portal to access his contract. “I decided to work my ass off for this company, and you decided to run away because you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Either way, doesn’t matter.”

  “Want to get into that? Want to talk about choices?”

  “No, as a matter of fact.” She glanced from the computer to him. It was a rare type of man who could be that sexy while thoroughly—possibly violently—pissed off. “You seem offended. Refrain from shattering more glass until after you leave my suite. I happen to really like every breakable in here.”

  “I’m not planning to break anything you’ve got.”

  “Anything else, you mean.” Her heart was how he’d left it the last night they’d spent together: smashed. Reinforcing her resolve to overpower her guilt and his spite, she slid her stare to the computer again. “What’s your email addy? I’m sending you the contract to forward to your lawyers. Then you’re free to settle in at the guesthouse. I’ll call down for an escort to help you out.”