Sin With Me

2

I whisper the Act of Contrition. The priest recites words of absolution. I rise unsteadily, open the door of the confessional booth, and walk slowly past the empty pews, my heart thumping hard under my breastbone.

When my cell rings, I fish it from my pocket and answer it without even looking to see who it is. “Yeah?”

“Brody! Where the f**k are you, brother? We’re all at the hospital. We thought you were following right behind us!”

I push through the heavy carved wooden doors at the front of the church and step out into a warm, brilliant Los Angeles afternoon. Even in February, it’s a perfect seventy-two degrees. I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun. “I’m on my way, Nico. Just had to make a quick stop.”

“Well, hurry the f**k up! Chloe’s about to fuckin’ pop! You gotta be here when the baby’s born!”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. And Nico?”

“What?”

I open my eyes and look directly into the sun, letting it blind me. “Tell Grace . . .”

Would your admission benefit her in any real, concrete way?

“Tell Grace what, brother?” Nico says with a knowing chuckle. “That you like the way her brains fill out her sweater?”

“Just tell her I’m coming,” I reply softly. “And that . . . she should call me if there’s anything she needs me to pick up on the way.”

I disconnect the call before Nico’s stunned silence can turn into questions. Then I jog over to my car, parked in the church lot in the shade of an early-flowering magnolia tree. I feel the cold, familiar presence of my demon as he jogs along unseen behind me.

Do good. Do good. Do good. God help me to do good.

The demon’s growling laugh follows as I tear out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

God isn’t listening, Brody-boy. But you already knew that.

I press my foot hard against the gas pedal, on my way to seek the redemption that’s eluded me all these years.

GRACE

“Grace, if you don’t wipe that look off your face I’ll slap it off,” mutters Kat, standing next to me inside the luxurious private maternity suite that A.J. booked for Chloe’s labor. The suite has three rooms, two bathrooms, freshly cut orchids stuffed into vases all over the place, and a flat-screen TV almost as large as the one in my living room.

Like everything else A.J. does for Chloe, it’s completely over the top.

It melts my heart how that giant, surly caveman is such a teddy bear when it comes to his woman. They say music can tame a savage beast, but I have solid evidence that love is really the magic potion at work. Love can turn even the most terrifying beastie into a purring ball of fluff.

“What look?” I turn to my best friend with my brows arched.

She hisses under her breath. “The look like you’re trying to hold in a monster fart during church! I know you’re not big on babies, but this is Chloe’s special day!”

“Oh stop, Dramarama.” I wave a hand dismissively in her face. “For one thing, I wouldn’t set foot in a church if God Himself descended from the heavens on a golden chariot and ordered me to. Churches give me the creeps. All that hypocrisy, guilt, and repressed sexuality—ugh. And for another thing, even if I do hate everyone else’s spawn, I’m going to love Chloe and A.J.’s as if I produced it from my own vagina.”

“Then what’s with your face?” she presses. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

Instead of admitting I’m teary-eyed and emotional that this day has finally come and my normal resting b***h face is having problems maintaining its status quo, I say breezily, “I just can’t stand the smell of hospitals.”

That isn’t a lie. Hospitals have a distinct smell—antiseptic with undertones of agony and dead things—that’s burned into my memory.

In fact, it’s one of the very first memories I have.

I dig a bottle of Clive Christian perfume out of my handbag and spritz it into the air. “And this place could really use more flattering lighting. No one wants to push a new human through her cooch under the harsh glare of fluorescents. It’s uncivilized. I’ll get some candles from the gift shop downstairs.” Kat snorts. “Oh dear lord. Please don’t tell me you’re gonna check the thread count on the bedsheets next.”

I narrow my eyes at the hospital bed near the window. “Now that you mention it—”

“Here we are, ladies! All checked in! The nurse is bringing Chloe up in a moment!”

Grinning like mad, Chloe’s father, Thomas, bustles past us into the room. As usual, he’s impeccably dressed in a bespoke Brioni suit—this one a gorgeous navy blue—a crisp white dress shirt, and black Ferragamo loafers. He’s also wearing a tie, a silk pocket square, and a watch worth north of one hundred thousand dollars. He’s the only man I know who’d come to his first grandchild’s birth dressed like he’s having lunch in Cannes with the president of the European Union.

I expect it of Chloe’s mother, Elizabeth, however. She’s the daughter of a British countess and would literally rather die than be caught en déshabillé. She follows Thomas into the room, sailing by in pink Chanel, a cloud of Shalimar, and gleaming ropes of pearls.

“Grace.” She takes my hands and kisses me on both cheeks. “You look divine, as always.” Eyeing my necklace, she asks, “Is that the new Divas’ Dream collection from Bulgari?”

The woman can spot anything expensive or couture from a thousand paces. It’s no wonder we get along so well.