Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (7 page)

Who can resist an SOS like that? Not this bro. So I throw on my unwashed blue jeans and a red Fall Ball t-shirt and drive down to the little French place on the river. I pull my hair into a clip and start the sandy trek from the parking area to the restaurant’s wraparound deck. Dave Matthews Band strums through the humid river air. Moss dangles from the oaks over my head. Between tree branches, I can see the placid river: wide and shallow here, reflecting moon glow. The night feels saccharine and strange, a perfect picture from the book of someone else’s life.

As I step over the tree roots that are famous for tripping drunk La Femme patrons, I promise myself I’ll get in and out of here. No lingering, even if I see someone I know. I’m in a weird mood, and besides, I have studying to do.

I’m berating myself for being too withdrawn post-Brennan, for not being as close to Lora as I once was, or as tight with Milasy and Steph as I was last year, while I cross the crowd-packed deck. A cute guy with an eyebrow piercing pushes the restaurant’s back door open for me, and I step into the atrium dining area—the one with glass walls and ceilings.

As soon as I’m fully inside the candle-lit, plant-filled atrium, I spot Neda at a two-seater table. Across from her is...
Brennan
?

Holy hell, that’s totally him. Brennan is tall and lean, with burnt copper hair he wears all shaggy, down around his ears. I’d know the back of his head and his bony shoulders anywhere, including at a candle-lit table across from Neda.

That bitch!

What do I care, I ask myself as I stride through the glass room. I don’t want Brennan. He’s a douchebag. I want more than Brennan. And if there’s nothing more than Brennan, I want no one.

I take three stairs up to the glossy, mahogany bar/band stand area of La Femme and text Steph to meet me in the bathroom. I’m leaning against the sinks when she bustles through the door, lipsticked, earringed, and wearing a black skirt-shirt set with stylish boots. I give her a low whistle. She throws her arms around me.

“Thank you, honey.”

I sniff her blonde curls. “Are you drunk, Steph?”

She pulls back and grins. “Am I?” Her eyes trail down my face. She licks her lips, still beaming like a fool.

I laugh. “Hell yes, you are—Miss Twelve Hours.” Steph is only taking twelve class hours this semester (so, four classes, all of which are easy) and I love teasing her about it.

She slaps my cheek lightly. “You’re bust—” She giggles. “You’re just bitter, Cleo. Bitter...” She waves the birth control packet. “But you got my lady stuff. I’m happy.”

I help Steph take one of the little pills with sink water, and then I point her in the direction where I think her date is waiting.

“Laters, baby,” I call out behind her.

She rolls her head around at me. She grins, wide and glassy-eyed, as she saunters off. Steph is a major
Fifty Shades of Grey
fan. She even got me a signed paperback to share the love.

I came in through the back entrance of the restaurant, but because of Neda and Brennan making googly eyes in the atrium, I decide I’ll leave via the front doors. I stifle a yawn with my palm over my mouth and make my way through the crowd swarming the bar. La Femme is a high-end restaurant, but we’re still in a college town—so the bar will never be anything but a college hangout. Especially on a Thursday night.

I make it past a thick plague of Kappa Alphas, sipping whiskey and chugging Bud Lite, and talking about the rodeo next weekend. Someone’s stray hand brushes my ass, but I’m too tired to care. Too wrapped up in analyzing how I feel about seeing Neda and Brennan on a date. I’m lost in thought, wondering if I never settle on another boyfriend, can I be a goldfish lady instead of a cat lady—when I pass the reservations podium.

And there he is: fucking Kellan. Perfect Kellan, with his stubble-shadowed jaw, his stunning eyes, his luscious lips. And that hair. I mean, Jesus, is it blond enough? Soft enough? What is he, a Ken doll? He’s wearing a navy blazer over a white dress shirt, with straight-front khakis, a leather belt, and expensive-looking low-top leather boots.

The blazer must have been tailored for his big shoulders, because it makes him look Red Carpet-ready. The khakis look designer, too—wrinkle-proof and perfectly fitted. My gaze lingers on his powerful-looking thighs before I jerk it back up to his face. He’s leaning over the podium now, looking at the schedule book, clearly overstepping his bounds. No waiter is manning the podium. Who crowned Kellan Walsh king?

The sight of him here, dressed like the deity of some minor kingdom, sniffing around the podium like he owns La Femme, sends my heartbeat kicking up into my sinuses.

Maybe he can hear it, because at that moment, he lifts his eyes to mine. They burn through me, damning, even as his lips pull into a tight smile. But it’s not a smile—at all. It’s an un-smile, every bit as condemning as his gemstone eyes.

And for a second, I feel shame.

As soon as it rises, it collapses. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, at least not anything he can peg me with. Irritation turns to anger, which, like always, makes me brave.

I smile back, a big, shit-eating grin. “Hi, Walsh,” I chirp as I brush past him.

“Whatley.”

Even his smooth, crisp, California voice is flawless, I think as I cut through the wait line and push out the doors. I stand on the porch for a moment, searching the parking lot for his Sexcalade. Almost immediately, I tell myself I don’t care how he got here.

I skirt the building, choosing a trek that takes me right past the dumpster, where I narrowly avoid stepping on a stray eggshell. I cut between two palm trees, find the worn grass path to the outer parking lot, and race through the grove of big oak trees along the river’s shore.

The image of the candlelight on Brennan’s face and the curve of Kellan Walsh’s lips must sear themselves into my synapses, because I see them both in my dreams after I go home, eat nearly an entire re-heated chicken pizza, and fall into a cheese coma.

I run through my stash Friday morning, due in no small part to Kellan Asshole Walsh. I call Kennard again, and in addition to telling me ‘no’, he now seems annoyed.

Out of desperation, I call someone Lora recommends. His name is Matt, and he’s a junior in finance. His magic power: He’s a dealer who occasionally sells large amounts to other dealers.

On the phone, Matt sounds nice. He has a New Orleans accent and the kind of relaxed bass voice that makes me think he’s going to be fat. We agree to meet midafternoon Friday in the parking lot of the local industrial park. I’m so nervous, I consider asking Milasy for one of her anxiety pills before leaving. Since I never take anything anymore, I probably couldn’t drive, though, so in the end, I hop into my car and drive the four miles to the industrial park blaring the free U2 album that popped up on my iPhone some months back.

I find Matt’s hunter green Four Runner where he said I would, in front of a biotech headquarters. I park beside him and unlock my doors. Then I watch with my breath held as a lanky, brown-haired guy in Wranglers, a ripped t-shirt, and work boots climbs into my passenger seat.

Matt is soft-spoken and relaxed, and he seems perfectly non-threatening. He’s happy to take the wad of cash I have on hand and give me two ounces, triple Ziplocked. The only problem is, he won’t sell me more until we meet up at one of his safe houses.

I snort. “Safe for who, you?”

He shrugs. “C’mon, Cleo. You know a guy’s gotta watch himself,” he drawls.

I sigh. “If you say so.”

After we shoot the shit for a few minutes—I find out that Matt is from Metairie, a little town outside New Orleans—he invites me to call him anytime. I just smile and tell him, “Thanks.”

Friday evening passes in a blur of frat parties, where I hand out pot to the few people I owe and try to avoid worrying about Kellan Walsh. If he was going to do something, he’d have already done it.

Once I’m back at the house, and safely in my room, I strip down and let my naked body enjoy the cool air. I take a seat at the desk inside my closet and dial Kennard.

“Hey, Kennard. I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I really need some more. Like... really bad. It’s an emergency for me. So Sunday... can I get a little more than my usual?”

“Psshhh.” I can see Kennard’s brown eyes roll. “I got nothing. I’m all out. My guy’s gone. I don’t know where he went.”

And just like that, my supply is gone. I’m up all night, feeling ill about my drought.

I toss around in bed, considering other high-dollar occupations. I could be a stripper—but I’m not phony enough. As Milasy has pointed out to me in more than one ‘sorority ambassador’ situation, I’m not very good at feigning interest—or anything, for that matter.

I never could convince Brennan that his ineffectual tongue-flicking felt good to me on the one or two occasions I forced him between my legs. There’s no way I could grin for a guy with body odor and wag my barely clad ass in his face.

Maybe I could sell a... what? Selling organs and other bodily fluids on the black market is illegal, so not that. I could sell my eggs... but that takes time. I don’t have time. A few weeks without my regular income could pull me under. Okay—not a few weeks; I do have some savings, but it would be gone in a month or two.

Shit.

I’m out of bed at 5:15 AM. I shower, brush and floss my teeth, work on cross-stitching a quote that, when I started cross-stitching it, I believed was attributed to Vonnegut. Since I started my project, I found it’s actually not Vonnegut, but some anon poetry-book person going by the name “pleasefindthis.”

“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.”

I arch my brows at the sentiment—which doesn’t exactly jibe with my mood right now—and put the piece aside after forming the “n” in pain. I debate going for a run, going for a swim, and working on a canvas before I finally give in and, a little after 8 AM, shoot my new friend Matt a text.

He calls me immediately and tells me we can meet up in the afternoon. He gives me an address in the middle of nowhere. I know it’s the middle of nowhere, because Google maps, which I’ve pulled up on my MacBook, has never heard of the address. I’ll have to go on Matt’s directions.

“Four-thirty okay with you?” he asks.

I bite my lip, staring at the spot on the Google map where I think his place is located. “So it’s down near the river, kinda south of town?”

“My friend’s place. Yeah, by the river.”

I tap my fingers on my chin. “Hmmm.”

“You good for it?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I don’t usually go to strangers’ houses without taking someone with me. Especially strangers like you.”

He laughs. “You gonna bring someone with you?”

“I’ve got another idea.”

A few minutes later, I receive a texted photo of Matt’s license. I shoot it to Lora, along with a text: ‘Hope I can trust your homeboy. Meeting up at 4:30 at a house on a dirt road off that county road with the big, red barn. Send a search party if u don’t hear from me by 7.’

I wriggle into my favorite black stretch jeans, pull a loose red blouse over my head, and slip into my silver Manolos. I drive through at my bank, at College Corner, and withdraw three thousand dollars. Then I point myself south, toward where the river weaves its way between the Alabama and Georgia lines.

The drive is shady and nice, with lots of pastures, big trees, and a few glimpses of the winding river. I have the top down on my Miata, and I’m feeling kind of excited. If I can start buying from Matt, it will be even better than Kennard. For one, no weekend trips to Albany. Assuming Matt’s not lying to me, or a freaking cop, he’s got a big supply. To top it off, on our first and only deal, he was cheaper than Kennard—and the shit was higher quality. Like... a lot higher.

I turn down the dirt road Matt mentioned, and my car starts bouncing. Some of the dust I’m kicking up ends up in my mouth, and I wish I’d left my car’s top up. I take it a little slower, shut my mouth, and squint, then look down at the directions I punched into my phone’s notepad.

The dirt road forks, and the dirt gets a little wetter—like it’s rained out this way recently. I’m going so slow, I can hear the river rushing through the trees somewhere nearby.

Matt seems nice, like a normal guy. A good ole boy. I hope he really is.

Finally, I see my signal: a large, brown mailbox tacked onto the side of a towering oak. The road forks yet again. I veer right, and the sound of the rushing river amplifies. A black bird flies overhead, sailing up into the fluffy, white clouds then dipping down, where he soars ahead of my car.

I drive between a few pecan trees, and there it is: an elegant brick mansion situated in the middle of a lush, green pasture. There’s a spacious porch, overflowing with plants and rocking chairs, plus four stately, round, white columns. Classic Southern plantation digs.

This is nice.

Like... really nice.

I strain to see how many cars are parked in front, but there are too many trees to get a count. I drive slowly, telling myself that if it seems sketchy, I can simply turn around and leave.

When I get to the end of the drive, I see two cars, plus a motorcycle. The porch is scattered with white rocking chairs, topped by ceiling fans, and framed by big azalea bushes. Maybe the safe house is owned by a little old lady.

I spot a humming bird feeder hanging from the limb of a mid-sized Maple tree, and that seals the deal for me. This place is fine. I’m going in. I park my car beside an SUV with our school’s sticker on the back and spend a moment finger-brushing my hair.

Then I grab my bag, step out onto the red dirt ground, and walk up to the porch. I’ve got a little .357 Taurus tucked into my jeans pocket. I’d hate to use it, but I’m a good shot, and I need to be able to protect myself if Matt’s friends turn out to be creepers.

I hold my breath and ring the doorbell.

Panic swells in my throat. What kind of people live so far out by the river? My eyes are searching through the glass panes framing the sleek wood door, looking into a wide, hardwood hallway for Matt’s round face and redneck clothes.