Sin "You did what?" Saint looks up from pouring the hundred— or was it two-hundred-year-old?—whiskey from the bottle. Some of the amber liquid splashes onto his tie. It’s a red color today. For fuck’s sake, you’d think the man was all dressed up for his wedding. Oh, wait, that’s what we were discussing. Only it isn’t his nuptials, it’s mine. "Yeah." I drag my fingers through my hair. The strands are long enough to brush my collar, the longest I’ve worn them. I need to cut it, but when she’d run her fingers through it, the sensations had been pleasant—okay, more than pleasant. I’d loved that she’d dug her fingers in and held on as I’d brought her to orgasm... Wait. What? Now I am changing my look, and because it reminds me of how she came all over my fingers, as the sugary scent of her arousal teased my nostrils and I plunged my tongue between her lips and tasted of her, from her, drawn on that honeyed essence of hers—fuck. My dick is instantly erect. Clearly, it didn’t get the memo this is all a pretense. I march to the phone on my desk, scoop it up. "Meredith? Can you fix an appointment with my barber? Yeah, tonight after work is good." I pause. "No wait, have him come to my residence." One of the perks of being a gazillionaire? You can get the service to come to you, whenever you want. What? It’s true. "Your mind is wandering, asshole." Saint places the bottle on the counter with a thump. "Your aim is off the mark, you knobhead." "Huh?" I jerk my chin at his tie. He glances down, shrugs. Then pulls off the tie, and drops it into the wast epaper basket. "Why do you bother with those things?" "It has its uses." He picks up the glass. "And that particular brand, withstands a lot of wear and tear." "Spare me the details of your kinky tastes." Not that I am not aware of them. My PI ke eps me informed about the proclivities of the others in our little ‘happy family.’ Which is how I am aware of the particular club that he likes to frequent. So do I, on occasion, exc ept I ensure never to cross paths with him. Some things need to be k ept hidden, capisce? "Your personal life is none of my concern." "But you went and made yours of interest to all of us." I glare at him. He’s right though; dipshit states the obvious every fucking time. "Marriage?" He brings the glass to his lips and drinks from it. "Really? What were you thinking?" With my dick, obviously. He takes another healthy swig, then gestures at me, "You are attracted to her, I get it. She’s hot... in a certain fashion." He lowers his chin, "So shag her, you twat, get it out of your system, but, marriage?" Anger curls in my guts.
"Don’t talk about her that way." "Oh?" His shoulders go solid. "Do I detect a trace of sentimentally in your rather boring facade?" "Bugger off." "Very original." He raises the glass at me, then knocks it back. "So, tell me then, what were you thinking?" Yeah, I will, as soon as I sort things out in my head. I clench my fists at my side, then stalk to the window and stare at the square outside. A couple kissing in one corner of the space. A little girl runs after a dog, her mother calling out to her. That’s the thing about London. Every damn building faces a green space, a park, a patch of woods. Enough for families to thrive and prosper. Well boo-fucking-hoo. That was never part of my plan. No family... or any of that emo shit for me. So then... Why did I do it? I had reacted on instinct when I had made that statement, had been thinking on my feet. Although, if I’m being honest—Ha! Why start now?—I’d known I might need to escalate things to ensure the bastard takes the bait. Plus, I kind of like the idea... The fuck am I thinking? "Sle eping with her wouldn’t have been enough." Not that I hadn’t come close to that. And for the life of me, I don’t know why I didn’t just do it. I could have taken advantage of her that day in the conference room, when she had been spread out, legs wide apart for me. My mouth waters. My groin hardens. A pulse flares to life in my balls. Of course, my body is right on track to win the Olympic gold medal for being ever-ready to find a way to get aroused at the merest hint of thoughts of her. "You saying what I think you are, old chap?" Saint drawls. "Which is?" "That you are attracted to her? Maybe you’ve developed a soft spot where the poor, defenseless, little bird is concerned." I stiffen. How does he know that I call her Bird? "Yeah, you’re not the only one to have eyes on the ground, old chap." My vision narrows; anger thuds at my temples. "You had me followed." He clicks his tongue. "Tit for tat... Although the tit I prefer to be thinking about comes fixed to the female anatomy." "This isn’t about sex." He raises his eyes skyward, "And that is exactly what I’ve been trying to get through your thick skull, you chutiya." "What?" "Fuck her—" I glare at him. "Sayin’ it as I see it." He raises his hands. "Since when have you started pussyfooting around the four-letter word, by the way?" "Not pussyfooting." "Just pussywhipped."
"Ah, fuck you, dickhead." "Real creative with your insults too." He shakes his head. "I fear you are crossing over to the dark side, my man. Better get your dick in hand and point it in the right direction." I flex my jaw so hard, pain slices up my face. "Told you, don’t talk shit about her, not when I am around, and especially when I am not in the room, you feel me?" His jaw drops open. He scans the space, then walks to the table, grabs an antique letter opener, and slices it across his other palm. Blood gushes out. "The fuck you doing?" "Relax, I don’t have a death wish. Besides, if I wanted to off myself, there are other ways which would ensure I go down in a blaze of glory." "You really should stop listening to classic rock." "A much-overrated Bon Jovi song, by the way, but if the shoe fits." He pulls out a handkerchief, wraps it around his hand. "The point of this entire exercise being—?" "To prove to myself that I wasn’t dreaming. "Man, and I thought I was the cold-blooded of the lot?" "You?" He tilts his head, "You, Sinner, have a conscience. Me, on the other hand, I never hesitate." As I have witnessed first-hand. I drum my fingers on my chest, "You saved my life that day in the basement." "My hand was just as steady, when I buried the bastard's pen in his neck. His blood sprayed across my face." He holds up his fist, now clenched around the ruined handkerchief. "And I'll never forget that." It’s why I tolerate his general fuckedupedness, not that I trust him or anything. I crack my neck, "Don't underestimate me or the rest of the Seven." "I can assure you that I don’t spend any time thinking of the rest of you. Speaking of, to complete the point of this tedious exercise, all I can say is, do whatever the fuck you must to get her out of your system. Don’t get entangled with her." Too late. "You feel me, Sin?" Fucker's right. Again. That’s what I should have done. That’s what I had been planning to do. That’s where it had been headed. Me taking advantage of her, bending her to my will, forcing her to particpate in my plan to bring her old man out of hiding, and making him pay for everything. No, we are not going to leave it up to the law. The thing about money? When you have enough of it, you can use it to mask all of your sins. Exc ept me, of course. I use my wealth to amplify my reach, to ensure I am never forgotten. To imprint my mark on the revenge that we have been
planning all of these years. And then I had to go and mess it all up. Okay, so maybe that’s not entirely true. Maybe I’m not giving myself enough credit for my strategy, or my instincts, for that matter. "Don’t get your knickers in a twist, ol’ chap," I spread my arms, "This is all part of a plan." "It is?" I nod, "I needed to find a way to tie her to me in a way that would convince Adam it’s serious." He rubs his jaw. "Hmm." "What?" "Don’t believe you." "What-fucking-ever." "You should never have embarked on this slippery slope. You could have just had her move in with you, pretend to be in a relationship." "Like you know so much about relationships, huh?" "Hey, I know how to avoid them, and have been far more successful at it than you, or the rest of the Seven, for that matter." He’s right, of course. All of us—with the exc eption of Edward—have played the field, and well, you don’t dip your dick in pussy without occasionally something sticking to it, if you get my drift. What? So, I am an uncouth bugger. I may wear £10,000 suits, get chauffeured around in an Aston Martin, and never fly commercial, doesn’t mean I can’t tell it like it is, huh? "I wouldn’t count preferring to pay for liaisons as experience." He stares at me, then chuckles. His shoulders shake so hard that he has to hold onto the edge of the bar counter. I frown. "What’s so funny?" "You, douchebag. You, who’s gonna pay for the biggest fuckin’ mistake of your life." "You’re getting on my nerves." I stalk toward the phone on the conference table, reach for it, and d epress the speaker phone. "Sin?" Meredith comes on the line. "Call Security," I growl. There’s a pause, then, "Is this about Saint?" "How did you guess?" "Because whenever you two speak, one or the other threatens to call Security on the other. Don’t waste my time, I have a lot to do." The dial tone rings out. "What the—?" I release the switch and the annoying buzz cuts out. "She hung up on me?" "She saved your life, and that of the rest us. She anchored us lost boys by giving us a home away from home to hang out in. It's thanks to her that we are here and didn't end up as crackheads or criminals—present company
excluded." "Of course." A headache begins to squeeze my temples. He straightens, "She's entitled to ignore you if she thinks that's the right thing to do." "You had to bring that up, huh?" "Someone needs to ke ep their feet on the ground, and stick to the plan." He ambles toward the exit, "Especially since you seem hellbent on screwing it up." My stomach churns. I’d hoped talking to Saint would help me come up with a solution. As if. The twat has a way of flagging my mistakes. He is the devil’s fucking advocate. The only one of the Seven who can stand up to me. Which means, I hate his guts and yeah, also rely on his particular brand of meanness to call me out at my own game. Which he had successfully done. And that leaves me where? Holding my fucking balls in my hand. "Stop." He reaches the door, ke eps going. "Fuck you, Saint. What do you want me to do? Beg?" "Words are overrated." He twists his shoulder, and throws me an amused glance, "We’ve always dealt in a different currency from the rest." I stiffen, fold my fingers into a fist. Of course, it has to come down to a bargain with this wanker. He is way too similar to me. A fact I loathe. And which is also why we are the ones who can go toe to toe with each other. Hell, I’d call him a worthy opponent if I was feeling charitable. Which I’m not now, not when a sinking feeling pervades my stomach. I square my shoulders. "Name your price."