Breaking The Sinner (The Breaking Series Book 4)

by Ember Leigh

  He looked back at the couch with the cobalt blue sheet and the quilt that looked like somebody’s grandma had made it. “I think I’ve got everything.”

  “Don’t go outside,” she said again, pulling away from him.

  “Got it. Is it okay if I take a piss later or do I need a letter to do that?” He cracked a grin to show her he was joking, but fuck if it didn’t feel like that. He would have died growing up in this house. It was the exact opposite of his free-rein childhood with a mom who would have probably preferred that he wandered out at night and got lost in the city.

  “That’s allowed,” she said, then came back to him, pushing up onto her toes to give him a quick kiss. He snagged the kiss and then dug his fingers into the back of her neck, urging a second one. Then a third.

  She broke away from him, frazzled.

  “That’s enough,” she said. “It’s too weird doing that here.”

  “You afraid the Bibles are gonna set themselves on fire?”

  She snorted with a laugh and pushed at his chest. “Go to sleep. We’ll be eating tomorrow at noon.”

  “You know I’ll be insomniac-ing it up down here, Genny.” He winked as she tip-toed back toward the stairs. “’Night.”

  She crept up the stairs whisper quiet, leaving him to the consuming silence of the first floor. The lockdown irked him, but he kept reminding himself it was one night.

  His only distraction came in the form of music. Earbuds in, sprawled out on the couch, he cycled through the entire contents of his phone mouthing the words to hip-hop lyrics as he stared at the unyielding walls of this prison.

  How could Gen have grown up here? And why the fuck did her sisters want to stay?

  Late night turned into wee hours. He drifted off before dawn, but woke up the second he heard footsteps creaking down the stairs. The small amount of rest he’d snagged had been plagued by anxieties manifesting in shifty, shadowy dreams.

  He sat up, tugging the earbuds out of his ears from the music that had stopped hours ago. He rubbed at his eyes just as Mr. Gingham rounded the corner.

  “Rise and shine,” he grunted without a glance his way. “You take coffee?”

  “Uh…yes, sir.” When Gen’s dad disappeared into the kitchen, Cobra scrambled to change out of his pajama pants and T-shirt. He pulled on jeans and a black long-sleeve, his best attempt at dressing up for Thanksgiving. More footsteps sounded down the stairs. Then Mary came tumbling around the corner, eyes wild and searching.

  A bright smile erupted on her face when she saw Cobra. She waved so hard her body shook.

  “Morning, Mary.” Her eagerness made him smile. The rest of her sisters filed through the living room a moment later, those straight-backed Little Women on the Yosemite.

  And then Gen appeared. Dressed like the rest of them. Khaki skirt. Moss green blouse. Her long hair in a non-descript braid. The sight of her stole his breath…but for a different reason than normal. This time, seeing her felt like a punch in the gut.

  Reminded him of the truth.

  That she was a sheep in wolf’s clothing down in Los Angeles.

  “We’re going to start cooking, Cobra,” she said, sending him a smile backed by singing angels. Here, she was purer than ever. The unsoiled version of herself that rubbed salt in all the places where he was evil.

  This place reminded him of the time he’d stolen a car with Klay, just for fun, when they were seventeen. The time he’d broken into a rival dealer’s house with Tyler and stolen some of their cocaine. The countless times he’d swiped food from the local grocery store because he was broke and a teenager and hungry.

  This place reminded him of the hateful slurs hurled by his mother. Every worthless and loser and idiot that had left pockmarks in his veneer. The countless times she’d locked him out of their apartment, before she met Patrick, so she could spend hours fucking nameless guys in the living room while nine-year-old Brendan wandered the neighborhood feeling scooped out on the inside.

  Cobra’s hands were shaking. He turned, rummaging in his backpack. “I need to brush my teeth.” His voice came out pinched.

  “Father will brew you some coffee, too,” she assured him. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

  She walked on clouds. He envied it as much as he resented it. Her sisters would puke if they knew even a fraction of his childhood.

  Her father would kick him out without a second thought.

  Cobra scrubbed at his teeth, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, then splashed water so cold it might as well have come from a glacier onto his face. Some of the shadows cleared in his mind. Some.

  The kitchen was a surprising counterbalance to the tense quiet of the night before. Each sister had her hands in a different task, from cranberry sauce to casseroles, while their mother directed and their father brewed coffee.

  “One day per year I indulge in a little coffee,” the man said gruffly, pulling out two small white china mugs. They held barely more than a splash. About one-tenth of what Cobra normally drank for his first cup of the day.

  “Coffee fuels my life,” he joked, but the man’s mouth turned downward.

  “Christ the Lord and Savior fuels ours here.”

  Cobra accepted the mug, catching Gen’s grimace from over her father’s shoulder. Cobra tossed back the whiff of coffee and looked around. Guess that would have to do. “You ladies need any help?”

  “Thanksgiving is a woman’s holiday,” Mrs. Gingham said in a singsong voice.

  “It’s our duty to demonstrate our gratitude for our safety and our future,” one of the sisters said—the oldest one. She worked a rolling pin back and forth over some dough, frowning a little. “We are blessed beyond measure in this life. We have everything we could ever need here.”

  Yeah. Definitely the oldest one, Abigail. She had a nasty grudge against Gen, and Cobra wanted popcorn for when their purity brawl broke out.

  Gen’s pointed gaze found Cobra’s from over the shoulders of her sisters. She rolled her eyes a little. Enough to make him laugh.

  “Is something funny?” Mr. Gingham asked, swiveling to face Cobra.

  “No, sir, I…” he trailed off. “I respect what she said. To each his own, you know?”

  The sentiment landed with a dull thud in the center of the kitchen. Confused glances skated between the sisters.

  “There is one path,” Mr. Gingham said quietly. He clasped his hands behind his back, walking around the edge of the kitchen, toward the windows overlooking the backyard. Trees sprawled across the property, thick green leaves obscuring any view of neighbors. They were alone out here. Completely cut off. Imprisoned.

  “Son, at what age did you receive Christ into your life?”

  Her father’s voice struck like a hammer. Anxiety snaked cold and sinuous through his veins. “Uh, I…” He wet his bottom lip, wishing for even one more sip of coffee. Anything to take the edge off this morning. Five sets of inquisitive gazes landed on him. Only Gen had her head down, fingertips pressed to her temples. “I haven’t.”

  Charity gasped. Hope made the sign of the cross. Abigail slammed her rolling pin down and left the kitchen.

  Mary hopped from foot to foot, her bright eyes skating from Gen to Cobra to her mother. “But why wouldn’t he receive Christ into his life?”

  “Children,” Mrs. Gingham warned.

  “Have you ever been exposed to the truth?” Mr. Gingham went on.

  Cobra snorted. “Well…a version of it, I suppose.”

  “Mother, what does he mean by a version?” Mary asked in a low voice.

  “Mary,” Mrs. Gingham said.

  “There is no version,” Mr. Gingham said. “There is one truth.” He stopped in his slow stroll along the far wall, turning to Cobra with a curious smile. “Would you be interested in a Bible lesson, son?”

  “You can learn about the truth in there,” Mary offered.

  “Mary,” Mrs. Gingham hissed. “Girls don’t speak unless spoken to.”

  Cobra swallowed
down a strange feeling. “I appreciate the offer”—he didn’t—“but uh…I think I’m cool for now.”

  “Mother what does ‘cool’ mean?” Mary stage whispered. “Why does he use different words?”

  “It means ‘fine,’” Cobra offered, his heart hammering. He needed the spotlight off him. And fast. “Like if I asked you, ‘Hey, Mary, how you feeling today?’ you might tell me, ‘Aw, I’m cool.’”

  “I’m cool,” Mary repeated, beaming at Cobra.

  “You are,” Cobra confirmed.

  “Mother, how are you feeling today?” Mary asked, fidgeting at her mother’s side.

  “Quite full with the Lord’s grace,” Mrs. Gingham said in a clipped tone. “Mary, sweet daughter, pass me the salt. Hurry now.”

  Chapter 37

  Cobra had never felt so useless in the kitchen, even worse than before he knew how to cook. He offered a few more times to assist. The only thing they’d let him do was head into the backyard and gather firewood. The crisp fall air shot through him like the rest of the coffee he wanted to drink. Communion with nature. At least one highlight of his time here.

  Even so, time slogged on toward lunchtime. At this point, he counted the seconds until he and Gen could break free. He hadn’t figured out if they were spending a second night. He’d convert to Christianity if it meant leaving sooner rather than later. He’d even wear the khaki skirt. Just get me the hell out of here.

  Hope set the table, moving between place settings with a sepulchral air, like adorning a corpse for a funeral. Abigail finally showed up in time to whisk the cream into a froth for the pies. Gen tried to make small talk where she could, but nobody except Mary really responded.

  The whole situation was a volcano, damn close to erupting. And Cobra could see it coming from a mile away.

  Once the turkey had cooled and all the casserole dishes were out of the stacked ovens, Mrs. Gingham started setting the dishes out one by one. The sisters took their aprons off. Mr. Gingham stopped poking the fire. Cobra watched like he’d shown up to the wrong movie.

  “Let us be seated,” Mrs. Gingham announced ceremoniously. The family migrated to seats that had probably been assigned and utilized for time eternal.

  “Son, you sit here.” Mr. Gingham pointed to the seat diagonal from his, at the front of the table. Farthest away from Gen, which made him feel like he’d been pushed out to sea. “Prudence, would you like to lead grace? If you still remember, that is.”

  Gen nodded, the barb apparently flying over her head, and everyone at the table clasped their hands. Cobra followed suit, but instead of bowing his head and closing his eyes, he watched the others.

  “Give us grateful hearts, O Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

  Everyone’s heads snapped up at the same time.

  “Thank you for grace,” murmured Mrs. Gingham. “Prudence, dear, have you continued showcasing your talents for spreading the good word where you are now?”

  “Clearly not,” Abigail said softly.

  A polite smile flashed on Gen’s face. “Abigail, what might you be referring to? Without any knowledge of how I spend my time in LA?”

  “You’ve brought back a nonbeliever. Doesn’t sound like someone spreading the good word very well at all.” Abigail’s indictment stormed through him. A nonbeliever. An innocent insult that struck a hard blow. Honestly, he kind of liked it. Might start calling Klay and Tyler nonbelievers.

  Gen’s lips thinned. “Cobra’s his own man. He can figure out what he believes. I don’t need to change him.”

  A bloated silence settled over the table. Cobra reached for a slice of bread, holding his breath, waiting for someone to break the tension.

  “Son, your mother…” Mr. Gingham paused while forking a slice of turkey onto his plate. “That’s the name she gave you to honor our Lord and God, Jesus Christ?”

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. There had to be a way to answer these questions with the least amount of backlash. But hell if he could figure out the best way forward. “No. She named me something else. I don’t use that name anymore.” He glanced over at Gen, who sent him a private smile.

  “What was that name?”

  Cobra balked. “I said I don’t use it anymore.”

  Forks clinked as dishes were loaded up with green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole, turkey with gravy, piles of macaroni and cheese. Cobra ground his jaw, seeing the food in front of him without really seeing it.

  “And you thought ‘Cobra’ was the most professional choice?”

  The sarcasm leaked from his words. Cobra grimaced. All eyes were on him.

  “Professionalism wasn’t really the issue.”

  “Your identity was,” Mr. Gingham said, in a tone that sounded a lot like he’d cracked some tough case. To his daughters, he said, “‘He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver; nor he that loveth abundance with increase: this is also vanity.’ Ecclesiastes.”

  Cobra scooped some mac and cheese onto his plate, his heart racing. Every inch of his skin crawled.

  “Vanity makes that mankind is never satisfied. Prudence wasn’t satisfied,” Mr. Gingham went on, frowning as he cut into his turkey. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, surveying each and every one in turn. “She went to the City of Demons. In search of selfish ambition.”

  Gen’s mouth turned downward.

  “Mankind is never satisfied,” Mr. Gingham said again, softer this time.

  Cobra cleared his throat, staring at Gen. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even try to defend herself.

  “It’s not that bad,” he cracked, offering up a smile to the table. “You called it a city of demons. There’s homeless people and a lot of traffic. It takes like an hour to get to the store sometimes. But it’s not full of demons.” He paused, waiting for any response at all. “Some crackheads here and there, I guess.”

  Abigail pressed a finger to the spot between her eyebrows. Mrs. Gingham pursed her lips, shaking her head.

  “Son, do not use that foul language at my Thanksgiving table.”

  “Shit. I mean—” Cobra stopped himself before he said fuck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “What’s a crackhead?” Mary asked quietly, tapping her mother’s arm.

  “Can we talk about something that isn’t Los Angeles or my decision to move there?” Gen asked suddenly, cutting her turkey into interminably tiny pieces. Her knife scraped the plate. “Abigail, have you met your soul mate yet? Isn’t it about time? You’re twenty-six. Where are the children?”

  Cobra fought a smile. Time for the good shit.

  “God is going to grant me the perfect husband,” Abigail said, her nostrils flaring. “I have complete faith. I always have. More than some of us at this table can say.”

  “My faith led me away,” Gen shot back.

  “If you truly believed, you would have known that your sins could only be forgiven through atonement within your community,” Abigail said through gritted teeth. Cobra scooped up some mac and cheese.

  “It’s not too late, Prudence,” Mr. Gingham spoke up. He looked gleeful, somehow. Sickly satisfied with the turn of the conversation. “We will welcome you back with open arms. We’ll begin the process of cleansing, to wash away your transgressions. We can begin the search for your very own sacred spouse. We can—”

  “I don’t need a sacred spouse,” Gen spat, “when Cobra is my boyfriend.”

  Cobra’s eyes widened. Damn near half the table dropped their forks.

  “Your boyfriend,” Mr. Gingham hissed.

  Cobra had questions about the use of that term too. But now wasn’t the time. As far as Gen’s family was concerned, Cobra and Gen had eloped. They’d sure been living like it recently. The air around the table grew taut. Practically stretched to breaking.

  “Prudence Jane,” Mrs. Gingham whispered, holding her hand to her cheek. “Please tell me this is a cruel joke.”


  “Cobra is my boyfriend,” Gen repeated, stronger this time. Cobra gripped his fork and knife so hard his knuckles bulged.

  Mr. Gingham looked like he was ready to get the shotgun. “This is unacceptable. To what lengths will you not go to shame our family?”

  “This isn’t about shaming you—” Gen started.

  “First your sins bring about the demise of Bethany,” Mr. Gingham said. He remembered Bethany—Gen’s cousin. The one she thought she killed.

  “Her sins didn’t kill anybody,” Cobra spoke up, unable to keep it inside. “You shouldn’t act like they did. That drunk driver did.”

  Mr. Gingham worked his jaw back and forth. “Excuse me, son? Did I just hear you weigh in on something that doesn’t involve you? ‘In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin: but he that refraineth his lips is wise.’ Proverbs, 10:19.” His rebuke was swift. Deadly, almost, in its pointedness. Cobra shut his mouth but stared the old man down. The attacks on Gen were getting to be too much.

  “You don’t have to defend me to them,” Gen said quietly, picking at her green beans. “They won’t hear you. They won’t understand.”

  “Our understanding is irrelevant. It’s God’s understanding that decides all,” Mr. Gingham declared. “After what happened with Bethany, you strayed off course. Moving to the sin-filled city was evidence enough. But now you’ve brought filth back with you. Stains. Pure muck that you are utilizing to test our devotion and our purity.”

  Cobra blinked, the jab not even registering until Gen leaned forward, slamming the butt of her knife against the table with a thud.

  “Cobra is not filth. He is purer than any one of you sitting here at this table. If you could see past the blinders you’re wearing, past the things that you think are sinful but really mean nothing, you could see that this man more than any is worthy of my love.”

  Hope covered her face with her hands, crying softly. Mary watched with a slack jaw, her gaze bouncing between Gen and Cobra and her father. This was worse than a tornado. This was a fucking hurricane. And everything was getting uprooted and drenched.