Scandalous (Sinners of Saint Book 3)
Scandalous: Chapter 11

CARDIO. I NEEDED TO WORK on it.

At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself when I found my pathetic ass in running shorts, a dri-fit gray shirt, and my Prada sneakers. I’d been doing too much weightlifting recently. It was time to do some aerobics.

I almost believed myself but for the fact I was standing on a sandy beach at six a.m. staring at the young surfers paddling their boards into the ocean, looking for a blonde mane.

You’re fucking mental, and you’re taking this way too far.

I started jogging, throwing a look over my shoulder to the troubled waters every once in a while. She wasn’t there. I replayed last night in my head, trying to see it from her eyes. Sonya had come over with sign language brochures. She’d praised me for making the effort to try to communicate with Luna and went through all the classes near us and what they had to offer. We were strictly in business mode. In fact, I hadn’t fucked her in quite a while. Preoccupied with work and shit. Then Sonya had said that she was thirsty, and Rina was no longer at the office, so I’d gone to make us some coffee. In the hallway, I’d spotted Edie. She was leaning against a wall, her back to me, talking on the phone. I’d slowed down, not stopping—I wasn’t a fucking creep, no matter how much I felt like one around her—and her conversation had leaked to my ears.

“No, Bane. I can’t. I know you mean well, but…no.”

I’d hoped he was offering her his dick. I’d hoped she turned him down. I’d hoped that was the end of them as a couple.

“You know how much I want to see you, but not on Saturday. I wish you’d let me come see you at your house. Your mom can’t be that bad, and I miss…us.”

She missed him.

She fucking missed them.

I’d turned around in the other direction, not bothering to hear the rest.

The coffee I’d given Sonya was horrible.

“Are you sure you put two spoonfuls of sugar?” She’d twisted her lips in disapproval, her eyes still on the brochures she’d been sorting through.

I hadn’t answered her. I’d simply raised one leg under the desk and pressed the tip of my shoe between her thighs, separating them. She’d looked up for a second, her frown turning into a grin. My office was the only one without glass walls—I had one floor-to-ceiling window and it was dark outside and the blinds were shut. I was the only one out of my friends to not like an audience. Ironic, seeing as I was the guy to draw most of the attention.

“Bend over my desk,” I’d said, my eyes and tone taciturn.

“We still haven’t agreed on a sign language course.” She’d pointed at the brochures littering my desk on an excited smile. “By the way, I am so happy you’ve decided to initiate something like this. It’s absolutely…”

I’d tuned her out. I hadn’t initiated shit. It was Edie’s idea, and it was a good one, so I’d taken it. Now she’d given me a bad idea—fucking someone else to make her disappear from my mind—and I was going to do that, too.

“I choose this one.” I’d picked a random brochure and boomeranged it to Sonya’s hands, sitting back and dragging my foot to her groin, rubbing at her center. Her navy dress had flipped up, accommodating my derby shoe. “Now bend over.”

She’d tucked the brochure into her shoulder bag on the floor and got up, sauntering over to me. She’d parked her ass on my knee and knotted her arms around my neck, leaning down for a kiss. But kissing was defeating the purpose. Besides, I’d never been too big on kissing. I fucked. Dirty, hard, raw—always. Painful—sometimes. Kissing was giving away something personal. And that was a courtesy I couldn’t afford.

“Nah-ah, no one ever said anything about first base. You come to me, you know what’s on the menu. What are you in the mood for today?” Sonya liked my filthy mouth, though she often pleaded with me to stop using it when my daughter was around. I knew I wasn’t hurting her feelings. We were in the same place in life. The place where we didn’t have time nor anything to offer to a partner. We just wanted to concentrate on our careers, kids, and surviving this shit storm called life. I’d never asked her anything about her son or Roman’s father. I didn’t care.

“I’ll take the dirty fuck, please.” She’d smiled, rising to her feet. I’d stood up after her. Flipped her skirt.

Scratch that itch.

Scratch it with fingernails.

Until it bleeds.

I’d slammed into her, and she was soaked, and ready, and wrong. The condom slid in and out effortlessly. My mind had drifted. I’d squeezed the back of her neck and watched her ruby red hair on her shoulders.

Not the right hair.

Not the right woman.

Not the right anything.

Then Edie had walked in, looking torn and guilty. Looking like she was going to try to fuck me over again. If I’d had any doubt in my mind what she’d been there for, it evaporated as soon as her eyes locked with mine when Sonya’s ass was in the air, with me spanking it, making her slam harder into my desk.

I grunted, squeezing my eyes shut. When I opened them, I was at the beach again. I ran the five miles from Tobago Beach to the Morello reef. I didn’t even pant.

I made a U-turn and jogged all the way back to my apartment building, not skipping a heartbeat.

Turned out I didn’t need cardio.

I needed to scratch that itch until I bled to fucking death.

For the most part, I liked my friends’ wives. They were nice, classy ladies. Vicious’ Millie was the one I liked best, because she never shoved her nose too deep into my shit. Rosie, her sister and Dean’s wife, was pretty great, too. She did shove her nose into my shit—she was just this type of extrovert who always needed to know and talk about everything and everyone—but she always respected my decisions. Jaime’s Mel was another story.

Because Mel had ideas.

Her most recent one, ever since we’d all moved back to Todos Santos, was replaceing me a wife. Fuck knows where she got the notion I needed one. As I said before, at thirty-three, I’d never even had a girlfriend. Not even a month-long fling. I’d grown up in a poor home with parents who had a rich love. The kind of love that flipped the fingers on prejudice and social expectations. I’d never met a woman who made me as fucking crazy as Trish Schmidt made Darius Rexroth. I’d never wanted to work three jobs just so I could buy someone an engagement ring. Never wanted to ask someone to marry me on a boat trip even though I had seasickness tendencies because that was her dream.

People think that children who are the product of a divorce have fucked-up relationships. They’re wrong. People who are the product of broken homes try really fucking hard not to repeat their parents’ mistakes, because they know the misery of a loveless house.

People like me, people who saw their parents sneaking kisses in the park, and laughing under the sun when they didn’t even know how to pay for their next electricity bill or my textbooks for next year, were the bastards. I had high expectations, and so far, I hadn’t met a woman who was a candidate to meet them.

Problem was, I didn’t need someone to meet them. At this point, with my baggage, I needed someone to smash them.

Which was why I knew Katie and I were going to fail on our date tonight.

I’d agreed to go out with Katie for selfish reasons. I thought by going and not speaking a word to her, and being a complete asshole, Mel would finally give up on trying to fix me up with her friends. Katie was the first date I’d agreed to and, if things went according to my plan, she was also going to be my last.

Camila had Friday nights off. It was non-negotiable. Those were her nights with her grandson. So, I needed a babysitter.

Which was the only reason why I stopped at her desk first thing in the morning.

Edie’s head was bent, and she was typing something on her laptop, frowning. Her teeth rolled a pencil back and forth in her mouth, and I tried not to pay attention. I set my Starbucks down on her desk and snapped my fingers in front of her face. She looked up slowly, arching a questioning eyebrow.

“Hey,” I said. Hey. I never greeted anyone like this. Not a co-worker, anyway. I usually dove straight to the point. She didn’t answer, but at least she looked calm. I wasn’t sure why I was expecting her not to be. So what if she wanted to fuck me? She was a teenage girl. She’d want to fuck any tall, dark, handsome type who didn’t smell like puke. And let’s not forget she was not exactly in a position to give me shit. I knew why she’d come into my office. My flash drive held all the files and spreadsheets to my connections and companies. I had big plans for my career, and her father wasn’t part of them. How he’d gotten her to help him, I wasn’t sure, but what I knew was that Edie Van Der Zee was not Team Rexroth, and therefore should be regarded with suspicion.

“Are you going to say what you came here for, or just wait until your friends fetch you up from this spot for lunch?” she inquired, folding her arms over her chest.

“I need a babysitter for tonight.” I ignored her snark. It was beneath me.

“What for?”

“I’m going out.”

“Who with?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Au contraire, Mr. Rexroth. If you feel comfortable enough telling me who I should and shouldn’t sleep with, I think you at least owe me this.”

I slammed my hand on her desk and leaned down, baring my teeth. “First of all, lower your voice before I really flip my shit. Spoiler alert: it ain’t gonna be pretty. Second of all, wrong again. I never told you who you shouldn’t sleep with. I told you you can’t sleep with anyone. Pay attention, sweetheart. That’s the second lesson you’re failing.”

She threw her head back and laughed, showing me her white, crooked-at-the-front teeth. They were beautiful. So was she, and there was no point denying it. I straightened my posture, ignoring my clenching jaw.

“I love your double standards. Especially after yesterday. Has anyone ever told you you’re funny?”

“No,” I grumbled.

“That’s because you aren’t. What you are is seriously annoying.”

This was getting out of control, and fast. I let loose a thin smile, smoothing my crisp white shirt. “In my office, Van Der Zee. You have ten seconds to follow me.”

She huffed, but I heard her shoes clicking behind me. We got into my office. I closed the door. The floor was busy, and I knew people were going to start asking questions soon. I was the only one out of the four original founders who’d spared her a minute of his day. And she was in my office. All the time.

“I expect you to be there at seven.” I fell into my seat behind my desk and jotted down my address on a Post-it note.

She stood by the door, letting the handle dig into her back, and stared at me with murder in her eyes. “I’m not coming until you tell me where you’re going.”

“I’m going on a date.”

“You don’t date,” she retorted, no emotion to her voice.

Finally, I looked up. “And why the fuck would you say that?”

She wasn’t wrong, but she was stating something I didn’t exactly advertise. She worried her lower lip, staring at the ceiling like she hated herself for volunteering this piece of information. That she knew this. That she cared enough to look into my love life—or rather, lack of—in the first place.

“I heard Vicious scolding Jaime the other day. He told him to get Mel off of your back when it comes to dating because you’re going to die alone and single. He said you hate people.”

“He said that?” I brushed a finger over my lip, contemplating this. It wasn’t necessarily untrue. Though I was more indifferent than hostile.

“You do. You hate me.”

I don’t hate you. Not even close. Not even if I try really fucking hard. And I have.

She sighed, looking behind my shoulder, over the L.A. skyline. “Don’t go on the date, Trent. I know what happened yesterday. This woman…she was your Bane. She was your pastime. But dating is different than sex.”

“Seven at my place,” I repeated, jerking my chin toward the note on my desk. “Don’t be late.”

“What makes you think I’ll do it?”

“I’ll pay you well.”

“How well?”

“How well do you need to get paid for you to stop sniffing around my fucking business for your dad?” I laced my fingers together, propping my elbows on my desk. If she was taken aback by my candor, she didn’t let it show. Her forehead was still smooth of a frown, her full, Cupid’s lips still smeared in a smirk.

“Twelve thousand dollars a month,” she said, unblinking. I hadn’t expected a specific number. I hadn’t even expected her to take my question seriously.

I laughed. “That’s a lot of babysitting hours.”

“Well, I have a feeling you’ll need a lot of dates before you replace someone who is willing to put up with your behavior,” she retorted nonchalantly.

I like you, you little diehard hustler.

I like how you act like you’re equal to me, even though you aren’t.

I like that you try to be a badass, when all you want to do is make my kid smile.

I like your bark, and your bite, and everything in-between when we fight.

“Seven,” I repeated for the third time, realizing that only Edie Van Der Zee managed to pull so many words out of my mouth—sometimes the exact same ones, and I made it a point to never repeat myself. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks an hour, which is far more than you’re getting paid for working here. I will add a generous bonus if you manage not to shove soda, or sugar, or fucking alcohol down Luna’s throat while I’m gone.”

“Don’t go,” she said again. I wanted to know why she was pushing it, but asking her was admitting I cared. And I shouldn’t have. I was in a fragile position at work with only twelve percent shares in the whole company. Jordan held forty-nine. My career, my life, my hard work could all go down in flames because of this, because of her, if I wasn’t careful.

“I’ll tell Luna she’ll see you tonight.” I ignored her.

She sighed.

I was a bastard, but I was saving both our asses.