Make Me Sin (Dark Gods #1)

Chapter 2

Seth Malvagio. I let that name settle in. It doesn't sound right. It's like I'm having a premonition that we’re heading toward a whole new level of trouble. The mere pronunciation of his name does something to my brain, putting me back on high alert.

“He sounds like a mobster,” I scoff, retreating from Nick's embrace and taking a seat, already exhausted from the explanations I know he's going to come up with.

I instantly notice him calming down. The bastard thinks he can throw in a name and kaboom , he's out of the woods. He better think twice next time before pulling some shit like that on me.

Nick casually lights himself a cigarette. He's getting comfortable like he's going to start telling me a story—more likely, some nicely dressed lies.

He shrugs, “Seth isn’t a mobster.”

“Bullshit,” I mutter, ready to jump from my seat. I won't stay calm and hear out his lies for the seventh time this month.

He casually pulls the ashtray closer to him, leaving the cigarette there to search for something on his phone. “He's just rich. That's it. Owns a large chain of hotels and casinos—The Sphinx.” Nick turns his cracked screen phone to show me a picture of a luxury hotel more brightly lit than the Eiffel Tower.

I have to admit it's impressive. In fact, so impressive that it only strengthens my suspicions. “And you get to own a luxury chain of hotels and casinos from working at McDonald's? Whoever this Seth Malvagio is, he's in the mafia. Don't bullshit me on this.” There was no way that kind of money could come from some legit business. They never do and I lived through enough to have a taste of that on my own skin.

Nick's face suddenly transfigures with concern. It's like he struggles to come up with any kind of explanation to convince me, but knows better than to take me for a fool. He looks constipated, as he finally admits a sort of defeat in trying to persuade me otherwise. “Okay, maybe he's not the most legit person in town. But he's our way out of this shithole. I promise you. We can finally go back to California.”

I wish hearing about Cali didn’t have such an effect on me, but it feels like a dagger twisting in a bleeding wound. I need so desperately to go back there, maybe even crawl on my knees and get that job. The alternative of spending twenty years at the gas station just to make the equivalent of a year's salary at the vault company is not acceptable.

Still, I’m not that desperate. I needed to be alive to get that job and judging from the direction where Nick is taking things, there is a high chance that’s not going to happen.

I no longer have the patience to listen to him, but he insists anyway. “This man has a job for us. A high-paying one—”

“Us?” I cut in on whatever he has to say. I don't like the sound of us . Means there’s a vault involved and I don't do that any longer.

He doesn't even try to ease things up on me. Nick's always had this dumb excitement when it comes to money, so he doesn't waste a second in letting me in on the big plan. “ Us , since I don't know how to crack open a vault for shit.”

I want to cut in again, but he's too excited. “It's going to be a piece of cake, don't sweat it. I talked to the guy and he's going to give us the funds for a team and all the rest we need to break in. All you have to do is open the damn safe.”

“Oh, that's all I have to do, is it?” I huff with a dose of sarcasm that I hope he caught onto for his own good.

“It's going to be easy. I'll take care of all the rest. I promise. You just have to unlock the damn thing.” Nick seems set on convincing me. Like I would ever leave an entire plan only to him after the constant messes he's been dragging us into lately.

I don't need to explain myself to him. He already knows my reasons. I only conclude with a short, “No.”

“Babe—”

“What part of no don't you understand? I told you I'm not doing that ever again and especially not for some mobster who would probably cut our throats the second we get him what he wants.” My jaw clenches, trying to control my anger. I can't believe how stupid Nick can be at times.

“We're talking about one fucking million dollars,” he snaps, smashing his fist on the wooden table that barely holds its weight.

Okay, that's a lot of money, I admit, but it sounds like a masked death sentence to me.

My eyes go to Nick’s thick lips. They're slightly trembling, meaning he's trying to establish a balance between lashing out at me and acting civilized while working his way beneath my skin.

I know both sides of him a little too well and that makes me much more guilty of being stupid enough to put up with him.

I guess I can't control my heart when it comes to this man, or my brain from going blank on me at times.

My gaze doesn't leave his face as I study every feature, trying to remember why I put up with him. Maybe it's because of his ocean eyes that unwillingly seduced me from the first second we made eye contact. Or maybe it's because of those thick lips that used to ravage my body. He's quite charming, that's for sure—for someone who doesn't know him like I do.

Sometimes I feel like I’m in an old marriage where I know what's going to come out of his mouth even before he gets to say it. And it's all excuses. He's been blaming his personal failure on me for a while like it’s somehow my fault that he's a compulsive gambler and never knows when to call it quits.

His eyes remain pointed at me like I’ll give him a different answer if he stares long enough. He should know better since that’s never the case. I don't need his million dollars. Not when I know for sure there will be a hidden cost to it. But there is something I want from him—an explanation. “What did you do with my money, Nick?”

“You care about some lousy thousand when I'm talking about a million? Didn’t you hear me? The job’s worth two million—one for us and one for the team we’ll need,” his tone impatient, anger winning over diplomacy.

“I care when there's no food in the fridge and a stack of unpaid bills on the table. I don't want to have to move into a fucking trailer outside the city and eat snake soup for dinner.” I’m not letting him get away without an explanation, or at least an apology. I know the money is long gone by now.

Somehow the situation doesn’t develop the way I expect. His hands nervously clench into fists as he's about to take things over the edge. It wouldn't be the first time he had hit me. But I’d promised myself if he did it one more time, it would be the last—mobster or not on my trail.

Nick gets like that when he's mad, mostly when he feels backed into a corner. But no matter what, that shouldn't be an excuse for hitting me. It was never something serious. Still, just because he didn't put me in a hospital, it didn't mean I wasn't without a split lip for a week or so. Twice.

I tell myself again how I should leave his sorry ass. I know I'm not going to do it too soon, not while he can still make me turn back on my word just with a few nice lines and that look that burns through me.

Hope... hope is what's slowly killing me, numbing my senses and transforming me into a one-neuron bimbo. I still have hopes for us that we can rekindle the passion that joined us and seal this gap I have inside my chest.

As if reading into my mind, he suddenly tempers his tone, opens his fists, and decides to adopt a whole different strategy. “I'm sorry about the money, babe. Okay?”

I can see him change his attitude a hundred and eighty degrees. It's like he has a sixth sense when it comes to these things, like a fucking robot that locks in on its target and knows exactly what strategy to adopt.

“Listen,” he asks of me, running a hand between his thick swirls of blonde hair.

I so wish he was ugly. I'd be in such a different place if he was ugly.

“Baby,” he continues, “I needed the money to go to Vegas and talk with this guy.”

“I know the prices went up on gas. But one grand to drive to Vegas? You should have taken a plane.” Who does he think he's fooling? Not me, that's for sure.

His eyes roll to the back of his head as if I didn't let him finish what he was about to say. I did. He just wasn't saying it until I forced it out of him. “Okay, I admit, I might have placed a few bets. I was even winning until fucking lucky 7 wasn't so lucky anymore.”

“Well, I hope you took a set of craps to have for dinner tonight because the fridge is fucking empty.” What's done was done, however, there are consequences, and he must suffer them.

Nick stands up from his seat, taking a few steps in my direction. I'm still in the chair, not bothering to move on his account. He closes in anyway, catching my face between his palms and tilting it so that I look at him. “I'll order us a pizza, babe. I still have a couple bucks left. I'll try and get more later tonight. There's a guy that owes me money and I'm going to have a chit chat with him.”

Who would owe him money?

I let the thought slide just so we won’t get into any more polemics. He's probably going to gamble the few bucks he has and invent something, depending if he loses or wins.

Still, I can't help myself from opening my mouth and saying something about it. “We're so rich now that we're lending. Who would have thought?” I don't go on, especially since I see his anger building up again, as he scowls his eyebrows. But I can’t keep myself from complaining. “I don't want pizza again. I only wanted a damn lasagna. Seems I can't even get that these days.”

“The things I do for you.” He bends and gives me more like a peck than a kiss on the lips then turns around to grab his phone from the table.

I skulk, thinking he's about to flee again. “Where are you going?”

“To get you lasagna, where else?” He's out the door even before he finishes his sentence and I'm not sure if he's in a hurry to please me or just get rid of my nagging. Either way, works for me. I can't tell for how much longer I could have kept my mouth shut and avoided a fight.

I suddenly remember the bottle of white wine. I don't feel like celebrating with Nick later on, plus he said he's leaving again so the alcohol won't go too well with driving, therefore I decided to only share a glass with myself.

I needed some motivation anyway to clean the pigsty he made of the apartment. The place wasn't much to begin with anyway. One bedroom, if you can even call it that—a space the size of a closet with a bed that occupies the whole area of the so-called bedroom. Let's just say that the place is so small that I need to change the sheets from the hallway.

Next was the living room. Definitely doesn’t have my eight-seat leather couch, more like a couch where the chances were eight people probably died on it. The material is so worn out that I'm afraid it will get torn the next time I wash it. At least it's clean now. Correction, it could have been clean if it weren't for the grease stains from chips and other snacks Nick made sure to leave along its armrests. The man doesn't understand the notion of a napkin.

Our apartment is the definition of modest. Still, it's the best we can do for now, and no matter if the door hits you in the head each time you get up from the toilet, I wouldn't accept following through with Nick's proposal just to get out of here.

I tried to do something about the disaster that seemed to have taken over the entire house. I know Nick's the real disaster here and I can never understand just how he can make such a mess in the few hours he spends at home. Pizza boxes, cigars, pizza boxes with cigars in them, dirty socks, clothes, cans, wrappers... and the list could go on for fucking ever.

I try to pick up a few of the things before he gets back, but I only finish cleaning the living room by the time he returns with our meal.

The smug look on his face is all too visible as if he's been out into the woods hunting and not two streets away at the local supermarket.

It’s only frozen lasagna, not wild moose, get a grip on yourself, Nick.

Leaving the tray of lasagna on the table, he expects me to turn on the oven, as if because I can crack a safe that somehow makes me responsible for all box-shape items in the house, including the oven.

Setting the timer, I return to cleaning—this time the kitchen. The sink is full of dirty, unwashed dishes. None of which I remember taking out of the cabinet. These are all Nick’s because I just did the dishes last night.

I want to curse at him or say something so obscene that would make even him blush, but before I get to retaliate, he comes to my left flank, grabs a dishcloth, and begins to clean the grease from some plates. “I do appreciate everything you do,” he whispers, hissing like the most venomous snake in my ears, feeding my mind with exactly what it needs to hear. “Babe—” he sounds serious.

“What is it?” I ask, rinsing some glasses and trying not to be impressed by my new assistant.

“I want us to get married when this is all over.” His confession brings on a strange silence. I’d been dreaming for a couple of years to have a family with him, but the constant fights and disagreements were making it seem impossible.

Something within me tells me this is related to taking on the job. In an ideal world, I wouldn't want to believe Nick is playing me into agreeing to accept the job, but when it comes to him there's always that doubt eating away in some hidden corner of my soul.

I don't go on, just stop and look at him, trying to decide if he's just bluffing.

From what I can tell, he's not, but I still can't be sure of his reasons. “Nick, I'm not going to do it, if that's what you're planning.” I like to play with my cards on the table.

“It's okay. I understand. We'll probably figure something out at some point .” The tone of his voice tells me that this some point will be achieved when we're sixty. “Just promise me you'll give the offer some thought. It doesn't have to be a yes. I just need to know you thought things through.”

I could give him his answer right now. However, I don't. I don't want to seem inconsiderate, and not give him a chance. I'll just let him know next time he asks. Plus, the man just made me a promise to take me down the aisle. I can't crush his dreams in the same minute.

The oven dings, announcing that dinner is ready. I can't say it’s a lovely meal, but it’s decent. Nevertheless, the producer should take the New Recipe sticker off and go back to producing the old one. I hate when someone ruins something already good. I should have stuck to the pizza. I just don't admit it to Nick and give him more reasons to rub it in my face.

Our couple time doesn't last long. He takes off shortly after dinner to meet with the guy who owes him money—if that person even exists.

I guess I've gotten used to being alone. Just another regular night at home. Me, my glass of wine, and the bathtub. Too bad I had to go through the soap opera drama to get here. There's nothing else for me to do anyway. There are not too many places where I can go in this city except for some bars and cafes that are crawling with runaway-from-home cowboys. Then there's the mountains or the desert. And I'm not to be mistaken for the adventurous kind. I wouldn't be caught dead venturing alone into the wild, especially with all the coyotes and snakes just waiting to get a piece of me.

I happily stick to my bath. It's not the candlelit one as I planned. I forgot to bring in the candles and by the time I remembered, I was already covered in bubbles.

Besides, there was nothing romantic about the evening. Come to think about it, I haven't had any romance since I ended up in this place. I mean the five minutes of sex I get once in a while during the commercial break of some football game that’s on TV definitely don't have an ounce of romance in them.

Dressed up in a loose shirt and my panties, I wrap my hair into a towel and begin cleaning the place. I know I won't be able to sleep anyway, and my next shift isn’t until tomorrow night at 10. I'll probably get some sleep during the day, so I won't doze off during my night shift.

Pushed by my slight OCD, I wipe the place clean. There's something about the mess in general that alters my normal functions. It's like I can't rest properly if all the glasses aren't in their place and the clothes aren't folded and stacked on the closet shelf.

It's not every day that I'm like this. Sometimes I'm just too tired or too drained of energy to even care about the look of the place and I must admit, I've had a lot of those days lately.

I might be a psycho, but I only finish everything by the time normal people have breakfast. Imagine if I lived in a mansion... But I can't deny there's a hidden catch to it. Nick isn't home yet and it's almost 10 AM. The chances are that even if he got the money, he's probably in some casino spending it by now.

I try calling him but his phone’s battery is out. He keeps talking about getting a new one since he has to charge it every three hours, but he always blows the money on something else.

Still, I sit around and wait for him for a few more hours with a whole new wave of anger brewing inside me. I don't even know when I manage to drift off on the couch. Okay, drift off is an understatement because as I look at the clock ticking on the wall I discover I had slept for ten hours. That's certainly a sign of the depression kicking at my door stronger and stronger with every new day.

It's 9 PM when I realize that I wasted a day and a half between these walls without actually doing anything with my life. And I'm due for a twelve-hour shift which basically can translate to incarceration.

Nick must've come home in the meantime. I can see him stretching across the whole bed, catching up on his lost night. I want to yell at him so badly for being such a douchebag that I feel my face itch from containing myself. I know there's no use to it anyway. It would only make me late for work and we can't afford to lose my job—as low as the salary might be.

I'll have plenty of time when I return home—if he's even here.

It's not really a long drive to work, but between arranging my hair and searching for clothes, I make it just in time so that Monica doesn't pack her bag and leave the gas station unattended. That never happens, but she's been threatening me with it ever since I was first late. And come to think about it, that was since my first day at this job.

In reality, I get along great with her. We just don't spend that much time together because of our schedules, and mostly because of Nick. He's not that keen on me going out, and maybe I would put more of a struggle into it just to piss him off if I believed I would have anything fun to do in this city.

Monica leaves in a hurry. It's Friday night and she's got a date with a guy she's met on Tinder who promised he'd make her legs shake and her throat sore. I stopped her right after hearing those details. Didn't need to know anymore, just asked her to send me a text with pretty much everything she knew about him and give me the location of where they would land tonight. You can never be too careful with things like that, and she needs some kind of protection in case he ends up being some serial killer.