The Sins That Bind Us

by Geneva Lee

  “Don’t do that,” he stops me. “Don’t assume that I don’t know exactly what I’m asking you for, Faith. I know and I understand what it means.”

  “I’m not-”

  “Ready,” he finishes for me. “I know that, too, but I need you to understand something. I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’m not going anywhere. And one day I will carry you into that bad and make love to you all night.”

  An uninvited tear slips down my cheek. “And in the morning?”

  “I’ll sneak out of bed and watch cartoons with Max while you recover.” A grin that’s far too boyish curves across his face.

  “When you put it like that.” I smile even as more tears escape. I can’t wait.

  “Someday,” he says softly.

  It’s more than I can hope for and more than I deserve, but as he finally releases me to my feet, I can’t help picturing it. Jude hands me my clothing and buttons my jeans, stealing kisses the whole time. He doesn’t say anything else when he kisses me goodnight and climbs into his Jeep, so I crawl into bed and stare into the night, dreaming of someday.

  Chapter 17

  The post office is uncommonly quiet for a weekday. Of all the perks of living in small town America, access to government services is not always a highlight. Usually I spend well over an hour waiting in line to grab stamps, pick up packages, and mail out the numerous checks that keep the World’s End running.

  Today, it takes less than ten minutes, which leaves me an hour for my lunch break. I pull out my phone and spend five minutes of that hour debating whether to send Jude a text.

  “You are not in high school,” I lecture aloud.

  The old lady bustling past me in the parking lot stares quizzically as though this is the first time she’s ever seen someone engage themselves in conversation.

  I congratulate myself when I find the courage to hit send. Jude rewards me with an immediate response.

  His house is only a few minutes away, but the drive is gorgeous today. The sun has broken free of spring’s gloomy prison, and as my car climbs the cliff, the wind whips against it, rattling my windows.

  The front door is open when I arrive, and I take a tentative step inside before I call out, “Jude.”

  “In here.” I follow his voice to the kitchen where he’s perched on a barstool. Before I can truly appreciate the faded pair of jeans he’s wearing, I spot the bottle sitting on the counter in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” I ask in a quiet voice.

  “Facing my enemy,” he says. “It always thinks it’s going to win.”

  I force myself to take a few steps closer. It sounds like his enemy’s already won, judging from the crazy talk. “Have you been drinking?” I blurt out. Tact is not my strong suit. I’ve spent too long living with Amie, who considers it a character flaw.

  “No, Sunshine.” He holds up a pencil, revealing a notebook and sheet music in front of him. “Estate Studios, in their infinite wisdom, wants to contract a new song for an upcoming country pop star.”

  “Country pop?” I gag dramatically. “Is that actually a thing?”

  “Yeah, it’s huge.” Judging from his tone, I’m better off not investigating.

  “So, why the enemy then?” I study the bottle but I don’t pick it up. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to the south’s finest—West’s Tennessee Whiskey. But I note a few things: the bottle is full, the amber liquid inside hasn’t been diluted by water, and the wax seal at the neck is intact.

  “What is your investigation finding?” he asks.

  “That you aren’t guilty,” I say, “of anything other than being reckless. Do you think it’s a good idea to have this here?”

  One of the first rules of staying clean is to keep away from temptation. Jude, however, seems to have his own take on the twelve steps.

  “I have owned this particular bottle of whiskey since the day I turned twenty-one.” He waves the pencil in the air like a wand. “Feel that? Somewhere, a connoisseur of bourbon just felt an inexplicable wave of sadness.”

  “So the bottle’s nearly ten years old?”

  “Nine,” he corrects me. “Don’t age me, Sunshine.”

  I take the barstool farthest away from it and glance over at what he’s working on only to discover the sheets are entirely blank. “So you’re sitting with an unopened bottle of booze and blank pieces of paper. Why?” “Estate’s new country pop star, Jensen Nichols, needs a song that will put him on the map, or so they say.” He pushes the bottle a few inches farther away from us, scraping its glass bottom across the granite. The vibrating screech hurts my ears.

  “About whiskey?”

  “They’d like an upbeat song about a boy setting his abusive, alcoholic dad’s house on fire.”

  My hand flies to my mouth. “Remind me not to listen to any country pop music.”

  “Exactly,” Jude says dryly. “But I told them I’d write it.”

  That I don’t understand. Reaching out, I entwine our hands. “Do you want to tell me why?”

  “Because I thought that maybe it was time to face my old enemy,” he murmurs, his eyes glued to the whiskey.

  “I didn’t know you were an alcoholic.” I’m not certain what to say to him, but I’m fairly certain that wasn’t it.

  “I’m not. My dad was.” He’s alluded to that fact before now, but I’d never wanted to pressure him to share more.

  “I thought, if anyone could talk about a boy being driven to murder his alcoholic dad, it would be me, but I’m having a little problem with the revenge part though.” Jude pushes his stool back and gets to his feet, grabbing the bottle. He walks over and places it in the cupboard over the fridge. “Not as inspiring as I thought it would be.”

  “I know I’m not in the music industry, so don’t consider this an expert opinion. But if I were you, I would tell them to go screw themselves.”

  Jude doubles over with laughter “I’m going to quote you on that, Sunshine. I bet you didn’t expect to come over here and talk me off of the ledge on your lunch break, but I’m so glad you did.”

  I shrug, preening a bit over the fact that he’s happy to see me. “What can I say? It’s all in a day’s work.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A sandwich.”

  I bite my lip and shake my head no.

  “Salad?”

  No again.

  “We could skip straight to dessert,” he offers, and I bob my head enthusiastically.

  Jude saunters over and grabs my hand, pulling me off the chair and toward the hallway. Our time is limited, so we stick to quick and hot, making out as we go.

  Jude kicks off his jeans and tugs off mine. I fall back on the bed, but he beckons me with his finger. “My housekeeper tells me I keep the place too clean,” he says, walking backwards toward the window. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to dirty it up.”

  “Oh yeah?” I raise an eyebrow.

  When I reach him, he leans in. “I’m hungry too, Sunshine.”

  He hooks an arm around my waist and spins me to face the window. With a gentle push, he presses me against the glass. My arms splay overhead as he drops to his knees behind me and urges my thighs apart.

  “See how spotless this glass is?” he murmurs, reaching up between my legs. I’m running his hand along my swollen, feverish sex. “You can see yourself in it. Open your eyes.”

  I take a deep breath and do as he asks. My face stares back at me. Although it’s not a reflection like a mirror, instead I’m as transparent as a ghost.

  “Put your palms against the glass,” he instructs, “and push yourself out. I want you to see how much I enjoy tasting you.”

  I swallow, abruptly self-conscious at the prospect, but I do as he says. Looking down, I see his face, framed by the creamy flesh of my thighs and heat floods through me.

  “That’s good, Sunshine,” he says, before he begins to lick and suck. His teeth
nip playfully at the engorged button that he knows just how to press. When his mouth clamps greedily over it, my forehead falls forward, smacking against the glass. A second later, that luscious suction is gone.

  “You have to keep watching,” he admonishes me. It takes every bit of self control I have to keep my eyes open as his tongue slips inside me. The window offers no leverage as I claw at the glass. Instead, I leave desperate streaks and oily fingerprints in my wake. When my legs begin to shake, his arms bracket around them, holding me steady as I ride out waves of bliss.

  I collapse against the window, smashing my breasts to the glass. Jude moves behind me, but as he knocks at my entrance, I muster up some energy to spin around and kneel before him.

  “Watch me,” I command him. I’m not about to let him have all the fun.

  I don’t need the glass to see as I take him in my mouth, trailing my lips along his length. My eyes flicker up above to find his strained face and heavy lidded gaze staring down at me.

  “That’s right,” he coaxes as I swirl my tongue around his tip. Encouraged by his lusty gaze. I lower myself further, ignoring my natural resistance until he hits against my throat. His hand finds my hair and grips it tightly, urging me to stroke and swallow him with the wet heat of my mouth.

  He doesn’t tell me I look beautiful; he shows me by not tearing his eyes from mine as he bucks gently into me. One by one, his muscles tense until he bites down on his lip. He doesn’t warn me that he’s about to come, because I’m not here by invitation. I’ve given myself to him and his pleasure, and it’s the most beautiful sight to see the agonized bliss on his face as he releases. I continue to suck as he pulses against my tongue until he draws away and lifts me to my feet.

  I should get back to work, but I don’t say anything. Instead, we crawl onto his bed together, tangling our arms and limbs until we’re a single mass. Jude brushes a kiss across my forehead, and then moves up, burying his face in my hair as he begins to hum softly. The melody is familiar, but it’s slow and sad. I nuzzle against his chest, breathing in his scent, as I try to place it.

  “Write me a song,” I whisper when I finally recognize it.

  “I am,” he says continuing to hum a mournful version of a song we both know by heart. He pulls back and looks me in the eyes. “You are my Sunshine.”

  He doesn’t sing the words. He promises them. I may be his Sunshine, but as I melt into his arms, I understand that he’s the reason I burn.

  Chapter 18

  Today's topic is caution.

  It's not something I need a lesson in, since every decision I make goes through my internal bureau of analysis.

  "Getting clean can be as intoxicating as what brought us to rehab, and we can become addicted to recovery,” Stephanie reads from the latest self-help book she's touting. The woman should work in publishing. No one finds more value in books than her. She closes the book and looks meaningfully around the room. "Does that speak to you?"

  A few of us glance uncomfortably at one another. Sondra finally sighs.

  “Yes," she offers. "When I started coming, I lost track of some friends." "Why do you think that happened?" Stephanie's soft eyes are full of concern as she asks.

  "Some of them weren't good for me.”

  Been there, I think.

  “And others didn't understand if I was better, why I had to keep coming. I lost a boyfriend to that one." Sondra clicks her acrylic nails together as she speaks.

  "How many of you have experienced that?" Stephanie waits for us to hold up grudging hands before she begins her sermon. Apparently this is her new tactic in her battle to save our souls.

  I've never had anyone not understand why I come to these meetings. I've never had to explain myself. Amie accepts it without question, but she also talks to the universe. She's a bit more in tune with her spiritual needs than most.

  “So what makes you keep coming, even in the face of adversity and misunderstanding?"

  A few people mumble answers.

  Habits.

  Parole officers.

  At least we're being honest.

  "Because there's no cure," I answer when everyone falls silent.

  Jude is a few seats away, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  Everyone waits for me to continue.

  Good job. I hate drawing attention to myself, but to my surprise, I keep going. "People want to believe in quick fixes- miracle diets, magic pills. Society loves to buy answers. We're here because we know that we can't. We need reminders of our mistakes. We have to actively choose to not screw up our lives."

  "So what do you say to the people who don't understand that?" Stephanie interjects, seeking the moral of her lesson.

  I glance at Jude and Sondra and Anne before I settle into my chair and shrug. "I don't waste my time on them."

  "Don't you think that's harsh?" Stephanie stumbles over my answer.

  I snort. Harsh would be letting them any closer to me. “No. I don't have extra self-preservation to share. I need mine."

  What she doesn't understand—and what the people she’s talking about don’t get—is that we're protecting them from ourselves and from when we inevitably fuck up again. If they can't see that, I can't help them.

  "Interesting." She flips open her book and begins to read a new section.

  Jude presses his lips together. I suspect he's trying not to laugh at how flustered she’s become.

  The rest of the meeting is just as insightful.

  Jude bumps his shoulder against mine as he meets me at the door when it's over. It's as close to a public display of affection as I'll allow. Outside, the sun peeks apprehensively from the clouds. Spring has decided to be shy this year, but it's beginning to finally warm up.

  "Not sharing your self-preservation, huh?" he teases.

  "Nope." We walk to our cars. I still insist on driving myself. I'm not sharing my self-reliance either.

  He's taken the doors off his Jeep and he swings into the driver's seat before he calls out, "Can I come over tonight?"

  I flush, remembering the night before. Biting my lip, I nod.

  Apparently it's self-control that I'm lacking.

  Jude stays past bedtime. I should ask him to go home, because the longer he stays the closer I am to breaking my own rules. Instead, I find myself wrapped around him on the couch. It's innocent for now but as the minutes tick by and the hour grows later his nearness begins to pull at me. Max is asleep. Amie is gone for the night and who am I kidding? After that little rendezvous in the garage I'm feeling a bit more daring.

  "Penny for your thoughts, Sunshine?" He asks me. I run my hand over his stomach, savoring the way my fingertips vibrate over his washboard abs.

  "I think I'd rather show you instead," I respond. He doesn't try to talk me out of it, which means he's game for breaking the rules, too. Instead, he lounges back, crossing his arms behind his head and shoots me a cocky grin. I creep forward and straddle him. Right now, I have enough self-control to keep my clothes on, but it won't last long. Lowering myself, I brush my lips across his. His huge hand lashes out and catches me around the back of my neck.

  "We don't have time to be coy," he breathes. We collide in a tangle of limbs and tongues. His hand slips up my shirt fondling my breasts over my bra. There's something deliciously adolescent about the whole thing. We're not supposed to be doing this, and still, we can't keep our hands off each other, but there are boundaries and we both know it. That doesn't mean we can't push them, though.

  His groin begins to grind against me, and I can't help circling my hips as our kisses deepen. I'm touching him through his clothes, wanting more and somehow, managing to hold myself back. All it does is drive me more crazy. His dick is hard. I feel it straining through his jeans, and I shamelessly rub myself against it through the cotton of my pants and the satin of my panties.

  "I want to see you come," he whispers. It makes me moan, and I bite down on my lip to keep quiet.

  "No one's here
, baby," he urges. "It's just you and me."

  Guilt flashes through me—the perpetual burden of being both a mother and a woman. Max has been in bed for hours, but it still feels wrong even though it feels oh, so very right. I bury my face in his neck to stifle the sounds I begin to make. His whiskers scratch my forehead and his hand is under my bra now, pinching and twisting my nipple as I writhe on top of him. His breath begins to speed up, matching mine when a tiny hand claps over my shoulder. We jump apart, trying to adjust the clothing that's slightly out of place. The guilt on Jude’s face betrays how I feel.

  "Why are you out of bed?" I exclaim, but Max's eyes are turned to the floor. He's shifting uncomfortably on his feet, and I have to reach out and tip up his chin. He looks tentatively at both of us and my heart sinks. This is exactly what I’ve wanted to avoid.

  Why are you out of bed? I sign. His lips quiver and he rubs his tummy.

  Jude jumps in. Not feeling good, little man?

  But I'm already on my feet guiding Max back towards his bedroom. I turn and call over my shoulder, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

  "I don't have to leave," Jude says meaningfully.

  Yes, you do, I think. Instead, I force myself to shrug. I want him to be here when I get back, but I need him to leave. I force a smile as I tuck Max back under his covers.

  You just need to rest, buddy. Mommy is in the next room. Come and get me if you need me. I kiss his forehead but he still looks troubled. What's wrong?

  Am I in trouble?

  I close my eyes and try to keep my composure as my hands swiftly respond. No, of course you aren't in trouble. I am always here for you. No matter what.

  I massage his back for a few minutes until his breathing grows shallow and his eyelids flutter with approaching dreams. Jude is still on the couch when I finally return.

  "You should really go." This time I'm committed to what I’m saying.

  "Faith, I ..."

  But I hold up a hand to stop him. "I made the rules for a reason and, obviously, I can't trust myself when you're around."