My Sinful Longing (Sinful Men Book 3) Read online

  The woman had amazing energy.

  Barely fifty, she poured her heart and soul into her two grown daughters, her grandkids, her job as a nurse, and even her new boyfriend. She’d put herself through nursing school when my younger sister and I were toddlers, struggling to make ends meet as a young single mom. She’d wanted different things for her daughters, and she’d achieved that with Camille, who’d wisely waited till she was out of college and married before she and wife decided to have kids.

  Not me.

  The bun unknowingly went in the oven on the night of high school graduation, when the condom broke with Sam, the guy who became my on-again, off-again boyfriend, then eventually my husband, then nearly my ex-husband, since I’d been separated from him the last year of his life while he was on-again and off-again in all sorts of ways. On drugs. Off drugs. In rehab. Out of rehab. Like a merry-go-round that gave me whiplash and nothing else but heartache.

  “I am so proud of you, baby,” my mom said, walking around the counter and clasping me in a big hug. “You worked so hard for this, and those kids need you. You have done so much for them.”

  My throat hitched. “I’m lucky to work with them.”

  The kids. The teens. That was another reminder. My focus was on the next generation. Not on me. Not on my needs. I had to keep my blinders on and concentrate on helping the kids who needed me, not sowing any wild oats.

  My mom hummed, staring at me quizzically. “You seem different. Are you okay? Did you meet a nice man tonight?”

  She was a bloodhound. She could sense anything.

  Probably the shift in my mood. Or maybe she was reading my mind.

  I laughed her off, hoping to throw her off the scent. “Yes, Mom. I put the moves on all sorts of men tonight at the fundraiser. I was like Tinder, swiping back and forth. Now, get to work.” I shooed her to the door. “You’re going to be late for your shift. You have fifteen minutes to get to the hospital.”

  My mom fixed me with a stare. “I want details of your Tinder quest.”

  I scoffed. “Mom. There are no details. I was joking.”

  Mostly.

  Her gaze said This conversation isn’t over, missy, and I rolled my eyes. “I love you, but you need to skedaddle. Thank you again.”

  “Anytime,” she said, and walked out. But in two seconds, she propped the door back open and held up a finger. “And ‘anytime’ means if you want a booty call with these guys, you know where to find me. Because I’ve got some flesh-eaters to destroy with my grandson.”

  “I’m not having any booty calls, but thank you for the generous offer,” I said, then shut and locked the door and walked down the hall to check on my son.

  Alex was sound asleep, curled up under the covers, air conditioning rattling loudly in his pigsty bedroom. His dark hair was a wild mess and would be sticking up in all directions in the morning. I bent down and dropped a quick kiss on his forehead.

  “Night, sleepy boy,” I said, then left his room and returned to the living room, where I sank down on the couch.

  And wished.

  Wished my life were different.

  Wished I’d made smarter choices once upon a time.

  Wished I hadn’t stayed so long with a man who’d been a mistake.

  My throat hitched.

  And another stupid lump lodged.

  I was such a fool.

  I’d been so caught up.

  I had to be better now. Smarter now. I had to protect myself and my son.

  My past gnawed at me and vexed me. Nagged and twisted away at my heart. But my mind tripped back in time again to that almost kiss.

  I played it again.

  And again.

  And, holy hell, once more.

  This was a problem.

  Maybe a distraction would stop the memories of tonight from sneaking up on me. Leaning forward, I grabbed the game controller from the coffee table and turned on the TV. Lowering the volume so as not to wake my son, I proceeded to blast through a town of the infected, quickly clearing several blocks of zombies as night fell in video-game land. When a flesh-eater appeared out of nowhere, I panicked.

  “You need to run away.”

  Pausing the game, I leaned my head back and looked up at Alex, my heart expanding in my chest, growing two sizes bigger. My boy. “I do?”

  With his rumpled hair, basketball shorts, and gray T-shirt, he walked around the couch and parked himself next to me. “Yeah, you don’t have to fight the super zombies every time. If you successfully run away from them, you can level up your agility skills.”

  “My agility skills suck,” I admitted with a smile, loving every second of our chats, then added, “Why are you up?”

  “Had to pee. Is that a crime?”

  I deadpanned an answer. “Not that I’m aware of. I’ll let you know if that changes though.”

  Alex laughed and grabbed the controller. “I’ll show you how to run away from the zombies,” he said, turning the game back on and demonstrating his speed and skill in evading the enemy. “Now, we just need to get back to the safe house.”

  “So does this count if you’re playing for me?”

  He nodded. “Of course. I’m like your pinch hitter.”

  “When we enter the Xbox tournament, can you just fill in for me when I get in a pickle?”

  “If there’s a tournament and you’re holding out on letting me play in it, you’re in big trouble,” he said as he attacked bad guys on the screen, then yawned ferociously.

  “And that means it’s back to bed for you, young man.”

  He huffed, but a yawn broke through again. “Okay, you might be right.” He thrust the controller into my hand. “Try not to get killed before you get back to the safe house.”

  “I’ll do my best. See you in the morning, sleepyhead,” I said, and I could barely contain a grin. A simple conversation. It was everything.

  “See you in the morning,” he echoed, and returned to his room.

  A few minutes later, I flicked off the game. Late-night encounters like that—random, casual, exceedingly normal—had a way of settling my nerves and calming my heart. Things were back to business as usual with Alex, and I was so damn grateful for that.

  I headed to my bathroom and scrubbed off all my makeup, staring at the calligraphy T tattooed on my wrist. T for my roller derby name. Titanium. Strength. Unbreakable strength. I dried my face and brushed out my hair, but I didn’t feel as strong as metal.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Colin.

  The last time I’d been caught up in a man like this, I’d nearly made myself sick. I’d barely slept. Plagued by insomnia, haunted by memories, by broken vows and fights. By this time will be different pleas.

  But Colin wasn’t like my ex, I tried to remind myself.

  Colin Sloan—tall, tatted, tempting, witty, and forthright. The more I got to know him, the more I liked him, and when he touched me tonight . . . it had been a pure rush.

  He was different from my ex. He wasn’t an asshole. And as a social worker, I knew people could change. Colin had done everything my ex hadn’t. He’d kicked his habit and was living a new life. I left the bathroom, and as I flopped down on my bed, shoving a hand through my hair, I wondered if I could have a little something.

  I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I’d taken ten thousand chances with the father of my child, and we’d nearly destroyed our son. All those chances had ripped my life to shreds, and I’d finally put the pieces back together in the last year.

  But what if Colin and I were ready to spend more time together?

  Away from the center.

  As friends.

  That wouldn’t be a broken promise, would it?

  Surely there was nothing wrong with that—with a normal friendship.

  I’d maintain my boundaries. Only friendship. Nothing more. That wouldn’t destroy life as I knew it.

  I picked up my phone and texted Colin.

  8

  Colin

  No
thing like a late-night workout to get your mind off a woman. I powered through a five-mile run on the treadmill as the clock ticked well past midnight. Pushing myself harder because I was training for the Badass Triathlon in a month, and I was determined to conquer that beast of an event after two failed attempts.

  Just another mile.

  I zeroed in on my goal, pushing, running, reaching.

  When I finished, I slapped the off button, my breath coming fast as I hopped off the treadmill, grateful for always-open gyms.

  And for phones. Because mine had a blinking message from Elle.

  Don’t get excited.

  Don’t read into it.

  It’s probably something about the center.

  I ignored it as I hit the weights.

  I lifted, then as I took a drink of water, I finally opened the text.

  Elle: Hi. So, this might sound crazy. But what if we really did hang out? Would that be a terrible idea? Just hang out. Because I really like spending time with you.

  Colin: I like spending time with you too.

  Elle: You do?

  Colin: Yes, in case that wasn’t readily apparent.

  Elle: I just like to hear it.

  Colin: Then I’ll say it again. I like spending time with you. And if you’re not ready, you’re not ready. No pressure.

  Elle: Thank you. I appreciate that so much as a friend. And I appreciate you as a friend.

  Colin: Think you’d appreciate zip-lining?

  Elle: Whoa. Hold my feet to the fire.

  Colin: Well, you do roller-skate.

  Elle: Yes, but skating is not one hundred feet above the ground.

  Colin: Then, friend, we are zip-lining.

  It wasn’t exactly how I’d seen the night going, but maybe this was the true opening.

  After we made plans for Tuesday night, I ended the chat and headed home, munching on carrots when I entered my kitchen.

  Carrots and club soda.

  Chuckling to myself, I shook my head. Man, my life had changed.

  Years ago, I would have been devouring a beautiful bottle of Patrón, like I’d done after my dad died when I was thirteen. Then at age twenty-three, I partied too hard one night, decided to still compete hungover in a triathlon the next day, and wound up collapsing, breaking my tibia, and nearly losing my job.

  Wake-up call indeed.

  My rock bottom, and I quit after that.

  Wasn’t easy.

  There had been moments in those early days of sobriety when I’d have given my left arm for another glass and my right for a handful of pills. Now, with eight years clean—no slips, no relapses, no just one drinks—I felt steady and calm. I’d made it through the hell of withdrawal, I’d had the support of friends and family in getting sober, and I relied on a solid network of like-minded men in my recovery support group. Every day, I aimed to live according to a new way of thinking—a sober way—and I honestly wasn’t tempted anymore when I walked past tequila on the shelf or saw a drink being served at a bar.

  Nearly every night, I talked to my dad before bed, asking him to watch over me, to keep me on the wagon, to make sure I didn’t fall into the wrong crowd again.

  I liked to think he played a part.

  But then I liked to think he’d played a part in anything good in my life.

  And I needed to atone for the wrong choices I’d made. I was doing that by living clean.

  Here I was eighteen years later, still hoping I could do right by him.

  And by myself too. I intended to do that by competing in the triathlon at the end of the summer. I hadn’t attempted it since my epic fail eight years ago. But it was my personal quest to finish it this time. Whether I came in first or last didn’t matter. Finishing sober was all I wanted.

  A tribute to my dad.

  And to myself.

  And if I could finish it, maybe I could somehow see this thing through with Elle.

  Figure out how to be friends, only friends, with the woman I longed for.

  9

  Elle

  Billie Holiday sang of standing alone, without a dream in her heart.

  My ringtone. Her version of “Blue Moon.”

  One of my comfort songs.

  Bleary-eyed and still groggy, I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand.

  Squinting, I spied the edge of the red number on my clock radio—eight thirty in the morning.

  On a Sunday.

  It was too early for anyone to be calling with good news.

  An all too familiar burst of panic blasted through me when I saw “unknown number” on the screen. When Sam had called from his many stints in rehab, the number had always shown up as unknown. The times he’d rung me up while out partying, plastered and begging me to take him back, he would block his number.

  Logically, I knew that Sam wasn’t calling me from the grave. But a rabid fear pulsed through me nonetheless. I swiped my finger across the screen, sitting up in bed and doing my best to clear the sound of sleep from my voice in case it was a client or one of the kids I counseled at the center. They all had my number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s Marcus.” His tone was nervous.

  I sat up straight. If he was calling me this early, it had to be serious. I flashed back on our conversation from the other day. Did he want to talk more about his mom and the family he didn’t know?

  But then, he might also be trying to get into the center to play hoops.

  “Hey there. Are you trying to get into the center? We don’t open until ten on Sundays. One of the volunteers should be there then,” I offered.

  “No, actually. I’m not,” he said, speaking tentatively, the vocal equivalent of shuffling his feet. “I’m sorry to bug you so early. I’ve been thinking about what we’ve been talking about, and I’m finally ready to do something.”

  This was serious. I wanted to give him my full attention. “Okay. Tell me more. You mentioned wanting to know your other siblings.”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said, and I had a feeling he was going to say a whole lot more today than he had when he’d come to my office earlier in the week.

  I was ready, and I wanted to help.

  10

  Marcus

  I paced in the park.

  I didn’t like to make calls at my apartment.

  Maybe that came from never wanting to make calls in front of my dad, back when I’d lived at home.

  It was my habit, and it was a hard one to break.

  So I scanned the grounds, making sure I had privacy.

  I cleared my throat, drawing up the courage to tell her more. To say what I hadn’t said the other day. Because there were things I hadn’t told her. Hadn’t told anyone. And they were weighing on me, heavier every day, for so many reasons. Here goes nothing. “I just feel like I spent my whole life not knowing anything about my family and where I came from, and now I do,” I said, biting off the truth. “And my dad didn’t want me to find them, but they’re here in Vegas, and I’m not living at home anymore. So this is my choice. I need to do this.”

  I stopped in place, digging my heels into the ground.

  Metaphorically.

  But it felt necessary.

  Elle answered immediately. “Then you should do it. Something is compelling you to connect with them, and you need to listen. Family is a powerful pull and a potent bond, and you’ve never had a chance to get to know them.”

  Yes. That. Exactly. Who were they? What were they like? Were they like me? Sometimes I didn’t feel connected to my father at all, or my half-sisters a lot of the time. But they were so much younger than I was. Would I connect more with the Sloans? But there was another issue. A scarier one.

  Just get it out. Just say it.

  “But what if they don’t want to meet me?” I asked in a flurry. I could hear the tumultuousness in my voice. One moment I felt courageous, the next I was hampered by fear.

  This sucked.

  “Look, Marcus. I’m not going to sugarcoat
this for you. They might have zero interest in getting to know you. They might not care. They might be so busy with their lives that they can’t be bothered. But this is something you want. You are trying to take a big step, wanting to connect with siblings you’ve never known, and that is brave.”

  Brave.

  Did I feel brave?

  I wasn’t sure.

  Somedays I felt like my life should have been on daytime TV.

  Supposedly, my mom liked those things.

  I was the long-lost half-brother . . . appearing out of nowhere . . . showing up on the doorstep of my older brothers.

  “My life is a soap opera,” I muttered.

  Elle’s response was swift, confident, and everything I needed to hear. “No. It’s not a soap. It’s your life. And real life is full of more drama and danger in the world than we often are willing to admit. And we have to make our way through,” she said, and her tone calmed my nerves. “Let’s talk next steps. What are you going to do?”

  Details. Plans. I could focus on that. I paced again, sharing my idea about Ryan, about how I’d start with him. He was the one who’d visited my mom a lot in prison. “My dad once mentioned that one of them was closest to my mom, so I think I’ll start with him. Plus, he has a dog, so he’s out and about a lot in his neighborhood.”

  “Marcus,” she said, sounding like a teacher who’d caught a student with a cheat sheet. “How do you know that?”

  Shit.

  “Marcus, have you been following them around?” she asked, now a judge, and I deserved that tone.

  “Maybe,” I said, under my breath. “But only because I was curious. Because I wanted to know what they’re doing. I wanted to know how to approach them.”