Make Me Sin (Dark Gods #1)

Chapter 4

Nick's been gone for almost half a day now, and I’m getting fucking sick and tired of sitting around waiting for him. Jesus, I just want us to leave this place and go back to Cali. I have a feeling that everything will be so much better there, including us .

His phone is turned off by now—probably out of battery. What bothers me is that he doesn't go through the trouble of charging it, not even knowing that I have someone stalking me.

I realize exactly how bad this sounds and how stupid I must look for putting up with his shit. Still, I have my reasons. He’d been there for me when Michael was gone, lifting me from the ground when he could have just let me fall. So, I owe it to him to try and get through this because I know he's at his lowest these days.

Buzzzz

I suddenly hear my phone vibrate with an incoming text.

It must be Nick.

I'm almost convinced it’s him, so I don't even get up from the couch to go pick it up. It's not like anyone can see me ignoring him, and I don't want to succumb to the temptation of answering his texts that fast. I'm pissed off with him and things are going to stay this way until his attitude changes.

Water. I need water.

It's not the desert sun that gets to me. More like an altered version of my conscience guiding me toward the phone without even realizing it.

Who am I kidding anyway? I'm just trying to fool myself that I can keep away for more than five minutes from reading the texts.

That's all I’m going to do. Just read it without answering.

Another lie I tell myself just so I don't seem so lame.

Once I have my precious glass of water in hand, I pick up the phone, still trying to appear unfazed. Not that anyone could see me, but I have my pride to protect.

The text is from Monica, not Nick. I don't want to be disappointed, but I am.

Come have coffee with me. I need to tell you ALL about last night.

Monica and I aren't exactly besties. I don't really have besties. I don't even have friends anymore since I hooked up with Nick. I think I consider Monica and myself more like outcasts. We have both been living far away from home, in a city that doesn't define us. She came here when her granddad passed away and is sticking around until she can sell part of his belongings and the house. Until then, she’s staying in the old picket fence house, taking advantage of her rent-free place while attending her online college classes.

We actually have a lot in common, but our sex life isn't one of them, mostly because I'm not that convinced I have one. So, that makes me not so thrilled hearing about the guy on Tinder and her night of sin. But I don't want to sit around waiting for Nick either. Still, I remember my current financial situation. My wallet’s more drained than the desert's sand. And there's no way in hell I'm asking Monica for money to go out.

As if hearing my thoughts, the screen lights up with another text.

My treat

Well, I wasn't asking, but to be honest, sitting around here doing nothing will soon send me to the looney bin. Plus, it's just coffee. That probably means I’ll get an hour's break from my new routine of procrastinating.

It takes me only a minute to convince myself to text her back.

Where u at?

I can see her writing back while I already search through my wardrobe for something to wear. I didn't get to pack too many things when I left LA. Besides, I’d already sold pretty much everything I had of value to finance my investigation into Michael's death—designer clothes and accessories included.

There's a pink, light summer dress I haven't worn since I got here, mostly because I only leave the house to go to work, and I already have a uniform for that purpose.

It's pretty hot outside, so it should work just fine.

I'm half naked by the time Monica texts me.

I'm on my way to that retro cafe next to work. The one where we kept saying we're going to go someday.

I know exactly the place. It's the prettiest cafe around, decorated to maintain the classical fifties vibe.

The whole town seems to be a strange mix of modern and conservative old. Everything is pretty fancy around here, although I wouldn't be surprised to see Miss Goodie-two-shoes-Prius-driving-housewife having midnight drinks with a wannabe cowboy. The place is filled with cowboys. I'm pretty sure they even have their own museum around here, and they definitely have the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering.

Yup, you read that right—that's a thing. I saw it on TV the other day and couldn't get it out of my mind. I just hope it's not being held at the fifties-themed cafe I'm heading to, so we can still find a free table when we get there.

On my way

I text her back as soon as I step out the door. I'm not too fond of the idea of her paying, but I'll make it up to her the first chance I get. I'll just have to keep my gas station tips from falling into Nick's hands for a while. Might as well hide them in my bra. He barely searches for anything there these days.

I give myself a mental eye roll, thinking of how lame I sound. But now isn’t the time to feel sorry for myself. I'm finally out of the house. I might as well enjoy it.

Monica is already waiting for me at a two-seater table by the time I get there. No poetry gathering in sight, so we should be good for now.

“I already ordered you coffee. I hope it's okay,” she says, pointing at the coffee cup in front of the empty chair.

“Sure,” I smile while getting myself comfortable. She must be so excited to share the news that she didn't even have the patience for me to go through the menu. It's okay either way. She knows from work how I drink my coffee, so let the dirty confessions begin. “Did he live up to his promise?” I chuckle, praying that she'll keep her voice low before some purist housewife decides we need to be exorcised.

“Shaking legs, sore throat, and then some...” Monica bites her lower lip, holding back from telling the rest of the story.

She couldn’t go on. Not before she did a visual check and made sure we had no other listeners to our conversation. “Okay. I think it's safe to speak. He opened a bottle of champagne, then shoved it in—”

“Whoa. It might be safe to speak, but I don't think it's safe for me to hear it.” I had the feeling that what she was about to tell me regarding her Tinder date would be dirty, but things were getting out of hand too fast, too soon. “What about dinner? Was he even cute?” I feel I need an introduction to the story before she would get straight to the smut.

Monica looks amused by how shy I really am. I come off as being much more of a tough bitch than I really am on the inside. The truth is, I only had one other boyfriend before Nick. No random hookups, no Tinder dates, not even some wild nights to be remembered.

Monica decided to indulge me and briefly fill me up on the rest of the story before she got to the juicy part. “We had dinner at that fancy new restaurant. The one next to the police station.”

“At least you were close to getting help if he had turned out to be a psycho.” Maybe I should move my work closer to the police station to deal with my own psycho.

“He wasn't a psycho—except for the sex. That was pretty fucking wild,” Monica continues while a red blush spreads across her cheeks. “Okay, more normal details first. I forgot,” she cackles, stopping to take a sip of coffee. “He's a seven out of ten when it comes to looks. Decent enough to take home, and a perfect gentleman when we were out; opened my door; paid for dinner, even waited around for me to order dessert. But when we got back to his apartment... I could swear he was a whole different man. The things he did to me were epic.”

Epic, the word should make me laugh, but it only managed to raise a slight jealousy to cloud my mind. Nick gives me an orgasm a year—if I’m lucky. It's just the way my body works. It's like I need all stars and planets to align for it to happen. That never could include our couch sex or anything under twenty minutes. So pretty low chances of that occurring sooner than a solar eclipse.

I don't even think I want sex for the actual sex . It's about the union, the connection, about the sex being the only way I can feel Nick still is invested in our relationship lately.

My mind is rambling again while Monica is going further with her story. “Our clothes were piled up on the floor when he popped open a bottle of champagne that we picked up on our way home from the liquor store. Then... are you ready for this?”

“No,” I answer, knowing that she'll tell me anyway.

Which she does. “Then put the bottle's neck inside me and drank it from between my legs.”

My mind could barely process the info. I think it even might be rejecting it in a way, but all shock was outshone by the need to reassure myself again that no one was listening in.

“Chill, I've already checked.” Monica caught onto what I was doing, only to complete her story in the next second. “He said my pussy tastes like strawberries. It was a strawberry-flavored champagne, but I thought it was funnier not to bring that to his attention. Let him think I'm a goddess or something.”

I couldn't help laughing out loud, this time getting everyone else in the cafe to look our way. At least they didn't hear what we were talking about. I think they would have kicked us out already if that was the case.

“We have some spectators. I'll have to whisper the rest,” Monica leans towards me to spill the rest of the beans. “We had sex in every inch of his apartment. And it's a two-bedroom one.”

Why does that sound so appealing to me? Jesus, even the champagne bottle seems alluring at this point.

Maybe I need Tinder in my life.

Hell no. It was just a random thought, but I definitely do need quality sex.

I'm happy for Monica, especially since she just told me she'll be seeing the guy again, even if he's only a seven .

Still, I can't help feeling sorry for myself. I think Nick might be an eight and a half, maybe even a nine. But no sex! At this point, I think I'm coming by as shorthanded when it comes to boyfriends.

Monica doesn't know much about me or my life. Not even half of what I know about hers, but since it's confession time, she manages to get me to open up a bit.

I don’t delve into my life of crime. More like I let her into my life of misery.

I don't have many sex adventures to talk about. Instead, I tell her about my family. Of how I grew up in Logan, Ohio—a place very similar to Elko, just way poorer people there. Maybe that's why I don't feel comfortable in this city. My parents are simple people with simpler needs, too low for my brother and I’s ambitions.

I tell her about Michael's death, only mentioning it was an accident, then about Christina, my sister whom I never get to see. She thinks she’s too good for us. Sometimes I believe she might be. Her life seems almost perfect these days. Graduated college, married some big plastic surgeon, and never takes the time to even call.

I don't blame her. I just miss her at times.

Christina knew about some of the things Michael and I were doing and didn't want to risk her future being associated with that. Good call, I guess. Look where I ended up.

I miss having someone to talk to so much, and right now Monica is as close as that gets. That premise turns our coffee into three more, even if I try to leave several times so she won't have to pick up a too-inflated bill. She just reminds me that we got paid two days ago and she still has enough money left. Besides, coffee shouldn't be a luxury, even for a gas station worker.

That brings us to a much more delicate subject—Nick. Even if I try to go around it, she's smart enough to figure out on her own that he's the main reason for my empty wallet. And come to think about it, deep down, I know he's not the only one to blame.

I could condemn him for taking my salary, but not because we don't have money in general. I fell into depression after Michael's death, so back then I was the one who couldn't pitch in to cover some of the expenses. I indirectly pushed him into making all those wrong decisions as he was trying to regain our old lifestyle. It was only bad luck that when I finally got back on track, he managed to fuck up the rest of our lives. Karma got to us.

I need a drink to survive that thought. Monica's been begging me to go to a bar for over an hour. And since we're on a spill-our-lives rampage, I accept, but with the condition that I'll be the one taking her out next time.

She doesn't even seem to care. She would do or say pretty much anything in order to get out of the coffee shop and into a place where there would be much more alcohol.

Like I have a tracker device up my ass, my phone lights with Nick's name the second I rise from the chair.

Now he decides to call .

I look at my phone and for a second debate with myself if I should answer or not. It's a very quick second because my finger moves to the off button, and I turn my phone off completely. Let him get a taste of his own medicine.

We end up in a bar nearby. Monica says she's been here before, so I don't contradict her about picking the place since I've barely been anywhere in this town until now.

The place looks way cooler than I expected. I was prepared for some hillbilly barn gathering but in reality, this place looks like an architect just finished his final touch.

I'm impressed, and I don't hide my excitement as I follow Monica inside. There's a large glass bar that seems to split the place in two, almost like an island. On one side, there are the tables, and on the other, a dance floor with a row of high tables and bar chairs.

The bar is nothing like what I would have imagined architecturally-wise and everything when it comes to the men. Same hillbillies, only dressed in better suits, probably to fit in. I recognize the look on most of their faces all too well. Men usually look at me like I'm some kind of plastic Barbie doll. Can't help it if there's a trend where women want to look like me. It's the way I was born—natural beauty with all the right things in all the right places, as my former ex used to say. And men pick up on that instantly. It's one of the reasons why Nick doesn't like me to go out.

Well, Nick can go screw himself right now.

Monica is a nine out of ten herself—how she likes to categorize herself. I blame Instagram for that insane labeling. She’s thin, with long, toned legs that any woman would kill for—especially since she doesn’t even go through the effort of attending a gym. Her long, dark hair, along with her dark brown eyes give her that porcelain princess vibe and that unapproachable aura. Together we can make quite an impression amongst the men present in the bar. That makes it easy for us to instantly get a table with the help of a thoughtful waiter.

Sometimes beauty can be a valuable asset. Just not one I like to abuse. I usually prefer to use my mind to get what I want, but not tonight. Tonight I want to dumb it down.

Going over my life today with Monica made me realize just how much of a mess I made of it lately, especially when the question she asks after Cosmopolitan number three leaves me speechless. “Do you even love Nick?”

Should I normally answer YES ? Because I can't say that. Something deep inside me forces me to take my time before I can even open my mouth to speak.

Fuck , I curse at myself because things should have been so easy, the answer should just have slipped off my lips. Instead, it only raises more questions.

In a way, I want love to be whatever it is that I'm feeling for him. It would justify my totally irrational behavior when it comes to him. Still, I can't help myself but wonder if it’s just routine, maybe habit, the fear of the new and unknown. I can't clearly express in words what I feel for him, mostly because clear is a word that doesn't belong along his name in the same sentence. All I know is that we're not even married, and we don't have kids, so there must be something else bonding me to him. It's just that Cosmo-number-three must have numbed it by now.

I finally answer with a shy “ Yes ,” which I don't fully believe myself. It's only for the public—Monica in this case—so she won't ask again. I have no real idea what I would really say sober in the daylight.

The questions remain to linger in my mind, slowly allowing my greatest fears to devour me.

Why am I still here with him?

I know the mobster out there on my trail has a lot to do with it, but I also know there's something else too. I stay because I keep hoping to relive that spark again. I'm wasting years to feel something … anything except the anger that he’s been stirring up in me lately.

I find myself downing the last sips of Cosmopolitan-number-five. The liquor got to both me and Monica, still not enough to get either of us drunk, maybe just a little tipsy.

At this point, we're on the dance floor, moving our bodies to whatever track the DJ puts on.

A few men approached us earlier. Okay, more than just a few, but this is girls' time out, and I have enough man-trouble as is. They all got the hint. I can be more than a little bitchy at times, and I’m perfectly capable of getting rid of unwanted company. Well, not all unwanted company. The man who was stalking me at the gas station is on my mind more often than I’d like. I just try not to think about him every damn second so I won't lose the last drop of sanity I have left.

There's a big mess in this head of mine. My thoughts keep racing between the music, the threat I'm living under, and Nick.

I need Nick to be different. That would probably solve most of my troubles, or at least give me the push I need to keep up with him. I want him to be more spontaneous, and not just when he walks out the door. I want him to be a real man, to feel protected, loved, and cared for. I want to feel fucking butterflies, and he's not even managing to give me damn moths anymore.

I suddenly feel tired, and maybe a little drunk, but I'll never admit to that. I'm just worn out, and looking at Monica, I can tell she's not too far behind. Her movements are becoming careless and the second I ask her if she wants to get back to our table, she agrees.

We don't get to drink number six before she decides to call it quits for the night. Which is perfect given the feel of the aftershocks from my heels as I sit down. I'm going to have to walk barefoot to the car because there's no way I'm feeling heroic enough to return home wearing these wasps on my feet. By now, I must have more blisters than a sheet of bubble wrap. Just another reminder of how my life has changed. I used to wear heels all the time. Now I don't even own more than this pair.

I curse again as I wait for Monica to pick up the tab. Causing me to also curse Nick for taking all my money again.

A waiter shows up in no time with a large smile imprinted on his lips. “Your tab has been covered.”

“Covered?” Monica asks, surprised since it doesn't make much sense. We know we’re in a bar and these things are likely to happen, but we haven't flirted with anyone. Hell, we haven't talked to anyone either, except for my diplomatic fuck-offs, and none of those men would’ve picked up the tab. That, I guarantee.

“Who covered it?” I decide to intervene since Monica isn’t receiving any explanation.

“It was paid at the bar. That's all I know,” the waiter answers, picking up our empty glasses from the table.

Then the bar it is. I decide to head there, taking Monica along to solve the mystery.

I try to put on my most sensual smile for this. I can play the temptress when I want to. I just don't ever want to. “Hi! Can you please tell me who picked up the tab for that table next to the arcade?”

“Sorry, don't really remember.” The barman is clearly trying to avoid us as he picks up some glasses and pretends to give them an extra shine.

I don't understand any of this. Isn’t he supposed to tell us? Isn’t that how this usually works? The bartender tells you who picked it up so you can start a conversation with the guy. Not that I would want to start any kind of conversation. If it were up to me, I’d decline and ask the bartender to refund the card that was used, if that is a possibility, so we could pay for it. But I’m not the one not getting the bill tonight.

“How can you not remember?” I insist, maybe I would piss him off and make him talk since my million-dollar smile didn't work on him. I want it on record that I’m certain he’s gay. There's no way he’d dismiss me like that otherwise. Maybe I am a little drunk, but that's a different story.

“It's very simple,” the man snarls, hoping we'll leave him alone after this. “He paid enough for you two to drink whatever you want and for me not to remember. So unless you want me to get you another drink, I have customers to serve.”

Monica shakes her head as a no. She can barely stand, let alone drink.

There's something off about this whole picture. Why would someone cover our tab without revealing who he is and so we could offer our eternal gratitude? Not that it would ever happen, but I don't see a point to all of this, unless... unless he doesn't want our gratitude. He wants my fear. He wants me to know that he's here, watching, stalking.

I instantly sober up, as if someone had dragged me into an ice-cold shower. I'm being watched. I have no doubt about it as I start hearing my heart racing faster and louder than all the speakers in the bar combined.

Monica said something about a cab earlier, but I decide to drive. Drinking and driving aren't really what I planned when I came to the bar, but it wouldn't be the first dumb thing I've done in my life. Plus, I'm a little bit wary of taking a cab at this hour with a stalker on my tail, and sober enough not to need to.

I ask Monica if she thinks I should call her a cab. I don't think she’s in any danger. It's me that the man wants. He's playing mind games, not coming to end me, and still, not letting me live either.

Monica decides to ride with me. She lives only two streets away from my house and doesn't want to take a cab alone at this hour. Besides, I think she can tell I'm even more awake than when I usually come to work in the morning.

The trip home takes much longer than usual. I'm driving granny-style tonight, not giving the police any reason to stop me and leave me without a license.

I manage to get Monica home safely, and after watching her enter her house, I continue my journey to my place. My two-minute journey, that is. The longest two minutes of my life. I feel there's someone watching me, following every step I take and just waiting for the perfect moment to do something so horrid to me that my imagination quivers just at the thought.

Locking my car, I run inside my apartment as if zombies are chasing me.

The door slams behind me, and I start closing all the locks as if any of those pieces of crap could keep anyone out.

“What's wrong?” Nick's voice startles me. I didn't even see him as I came in and now that I do, I don't want to talk to him. However, he doesn't seem to feel the same way about me. “What happened? Where have you been?”

My limbs are still trembling although nothing really happened. It's just the danger exposing itself, threatening to tear me to pieces at any moment. And I’ve had just enough of it. “What's fucking wrong?” I ask, addressing the source of all my problems. “You! You're what's wrong! Someone is always on my ass because of you!”

“Maybe if you kept your ass inside none of this would happen. Where were you anyway at this hour?” Nick has some nerve playing the jealousy card when he always acts like this apartment is a hotel where he can come and go as he pleases.

“You never tell me where you go or what you do. You're not entitled to question why I came home so late.” I can't believe the nerve of this man.

“I can take care of myself. Look at you, coming home drunk at this hour,” he mutters.

I'm fuming like a steam engine at this point. “And who got us into this? Huh, Nick? Because of whom am I being hunted like a fucking antelope?”

Out of nowhere, his gaze falls to the ground, as if I'm holding a sword above his head and he has no other choice than to finally admit defeat. “I fucked up, okay?” his words dreary, like he struggles to even say them. “I don't have a way out of this. I just don't see a way to make all the money to pay Luciano Moretti back. At least not in this lifetime.” The desperation in his voice spreads across his face. I’ve never seen him like this before. To be honest, seeing him so powerless scares me to death. “I know you might hate me right now. And I hate myself for getting you into this situation. I have no idea how to stop the man who's following you around, or how to reverse any of the stupid things I’ve done until now. But I do know that I love you and I'm fucking terrified at the thought of losing you.”

Every single one of my instincts tells me to choose wisely and kindly tell him to fuck off. He doesn't deserve me, but for the first time, he's admitting defeat and I can't bring myself to leave him alone at a time like this. He's right about me considering leaving him. The thought has circled my mind lately more often than anything, but he's at his lowest, and I just don't have it in me to crush him even further.

Still, I can't deal with him either. Not at a time like this. “Let's just go to bed and we'll talk about things in the morning.”

Nick was stating the obvious. I unconsciously knew for a long time that he didn't have a real solution to get us out of this mess. I just hoped he would man up at some point and either do something spectacular or just crash to the ground.

I guess I got my answer. Even if it isn't the one I was hoping for, it is the one I was expecting deep down.

Throwing my pair of heels on the floor, I step into the bathroom for a shower. I drove home barefoot because walking in those sandals was like me re-living Christ's walk to the cross. Something only someone who has spent a day in six-inch heels can understand.

Opening the zipper of my dress, I let it slip from my shoulders when I feel someone sneaking up behind me and helping the material advance down my waist. For a second, my mind stops functioning, but I quickly recognize the hands that are clutching onto me, pulling me back to support my weight against the body standing behind me. “What do you think you're doing, Nick?” I ask with false irritation in my voice. I know exactly what he's doing, and the alcohol inside me urges me to let him go on, but we're getting nowhere like this.

“Has it been so long that you forgot?” he asks, reinforcing my thoughts.

“Yes, it has been so long. But that's not what's important right now. Getting your hands on me doesn’t solve anything. You’re not bringing back rainbows and sunshine with sex. We're adults. It's not how these things work.” I want to go on, but I spot a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He just used the last ace he held down his sleeve. Nick has no idea what to do anymore, and I don't offer him any slack. “I'm not having sex with you if that's where you're going with this.”

My eyes are still fixated on the mirror as his head falls back, admitting total defeat. “I'll let you shower.”

He leaves with steps so heavy that one might imagine he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Shit , my head rests on the tile in front of me as I let cold water run down my spine. I need to wake the fuck up, and it's not just from the drinks I had. I have both no and every idea of what I should do next, I just can't believe I let myself get dragged into this.

The water keeps falling on my shoulders while I keep hoping it would help me clear my thoughts. Only it seems to do exactly the opposite, confusing me further.

I leave the shower with a weight pressing on my chest. It might very well be the last time I'm in a room with this man. There's something in the air that feels like an ultimatum. Time has finally run out on us.

I think he feels it too because he's already waiting for me in bed when I was determined to ask him to take the couch.

I hesitate to enter the bedroom, and again it's as if he feels it, preying on my weaknesses and crawling back under my skin. “Can I at least hold you tonight?” His voice pulls the last of the necessary strings to make me hesitate to leave him.

I don't answer, just slip into bed next to him and let his arms wrap like vines around me. I don't love him anymore. I can feel that. But I also feel I could love him again so easily if only things were set right again. It's just not in his power to do that any longer.

Like saying a painful goodbye, his lips brush over mine in a heartbreaking kiss. He knows I'm not here for him anymore, but he also knows how to bring me back from the dead.

They say love is blind. I am the definition of it.

Nick's body slowly slips between the sheets. It's not sex he's after. It's something much more devastating than that. He lets himself curve into a ball, head deeply nestled into the center of my belly. “What have I done?” his words, full of shame and sorrow, rip through my soul like it's made of rice paper.

Still, my lips remain tightly shut. At least I pray they would, but somehow the weight of all our memories together leaves me with no air to breathe. “Nick, if we had a chance to start over would you do it?”

“In a heartbeat,” he chants.

“No, I mean really start over. Just us. No gambling, no who-knows-what jobs. No troubles whatsoever.” I'm getting tired of pretty much everything. The struggle, the city, but most of all, always living on the edge.

“That's pretty much impossible now, babe. I really fucked things up for us. But if I had a chance to change things, first thing I’d do is go back to LA and marry you.”

We had been dragging out the inevitable until now. It's either call it quits or go all-in, and I was never a quitter. “Swear that you'll give up gambling, and I'll do it.”

“Do what?” his voice startled and intrigued altogether.

“Swear it, Nick.” He knows damn well what I'm talking about and I don't like him playing stupid.

“I swear!” his lips don't even linger on saying the words out loud.

“Okay,” I draw in a long breath, knowing that I might just have signed my death warrant. “Set an appointment to meet Seth Malvagio.”