Sins of the Flesh (Exposed Series Book 1) Read online

  “Hmmm. I think Trey will cure cancer, Becca will become president, and Ian will start a boy band.”

  “C’mon, I’m being serious,” I said.

  Danielle laughed. “You really wanna know what I think?”

  “Yeah.”

  She squinted for a moment before she spoke. “I think most of us will graduate from college, have kids, and spend the rest of our lives worrying about money.”

  “Jeez.” I shook my head. “Sorry I asked.”

  “Well that’s the goal, isn’t it? To do exactly what our parents did, but better.”

  “I guess.”

  She reached forward for her cigarette, and I gave it back.

  “Not to be cheesy, but I suppose the most any of us can really hope for is that we find love,” she said.

  I smiled. “You mean someone to worry about money with?”

  “Among other things,” she said. “Isn’t love supposed to make everything a little more tolerable?”

  “So they say.”

  “Are you done?”

  “What?”

  “Are you done with your beers?”

  “Oh. Um…” I lifted the bottle in my hand and finished the last warm third. “Yeah. Looks like I am.”

  “Want to go in and make sure we haven’t missed anything?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Because we weren’t total jerk offs, Danielle and I brought our empties back to the porch. So at least Trey’s parties wouldn’t come to an end because someone left booze in the treehouse.

  As I set the bottles on the ground below the overflowing glass table, I noticed Ian was still hanging out by the keg.

  “Where have you guys been?” he asked.

  “Watching 70’s porn,” Danielle said.

  I flinched.

  He blushed. “Kate, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I found it amusing that he had the nerve to ask me for anything. Even if it was just a moment of my time. But I was feeling a little more charitable in my drunken state.

  I looked at Danielle.

  “Do what you want,” she said. “I have to go check on Becca anyway.”

  “Do you need help?” I asked.

  “I’ll call you if I do.”

  I nodded. “Okay.” I turned back towards Ian in time to see him handing off keg pumping duty to one of his lacrosse lackeys.

  “C’mon,” he said, heading into the house.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I want to talk to you in private.”

  “If you think I’m going upstairs with you-”

  “Not upstairs.”

  I sucked in my cheeks and resolved to act less drunk. After all, being drunk and alone with him is what got me into this mess in the first place.

  He came to a stop in front of the mystery closet. I watched him pull something out of his pocket and fumble with the lock.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Trey’s not as smart as he looks.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Quick,” he said, opening the door.

  I stepped into the dark closet and he followed, closing the door behind him.

  “I’m a little old for seven minutes in heaven Ian-”

  He flicked the light on. “How about seven minutes indulging in heavenly wine?”

  I looked around the closet. It was as big as a parking spot, and the walls were lined with wine racks.

  “Wow,” I said. “I’ve always wondered what was in here.”

  “Well now you know,” he said, making a grand sweeping gesture. “Choose your pleasure.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Some of these could be hundreds of dollars.”

  “C’mon, I wanted to surprise you with something nice to make up for being such an idiot.”

  I took a deep breath and noticed that the wines were sorted by region with each section denoted by a small gold plate.

  “Don’t worry. Trey told me his Dad doesn’t even keep the valuable ones in here because he doesn’t want to accidentally drink one.”

  “And he told you that he didn’t mind if we helped ourselves?”

  Ian scrunched his face. “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly?”

  “He told me his Dad probably wouldn’t notice if one was missing.”

  “I see.”

  “C’mon Kate.” Ian stepped up to me. “Have a drink with me? I’ve been waiting all night to show you this.”

  I felt a warm twist in my belly that didn’t make sense. I mean, I spent the whole week convincing myself I was repulsed by this douchebag. So how did I end up alone in a wine closet with him?

  “One bottle,” I said.

  A smile spread across his face. “You pick. I insist.”

  I didn’t know much about wine, but I noticed that the Beaujolais section of the closet looked crowded. So I slid one out of its cubby and handed it to Ian.

  “Excellent choice,” he said, pulling a wine opener out of his back pocket.

  “Is it? I don’t know anything about wine.”

  “Me neither,” he said. “It just seemed like the thing to say. I just know that it comes in two colors: red and white.”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s a pink one, too.”

  “Seriously?” he asked. “Well good thing I had you pick then. You’re obviously an expert compared to me.”

  I smiled and ached for him even though I didn’t want to.

  He took a seat on the floor, and I joined him on the ground.

  “You first,” he said, tipping the neck of the bottle towards me.

  “Thanks,” I said. I lifted the bottle to my lips and took the first swig. “It’s delicious.”

  He took the bottle back and raised it in the air. “To Mr. Ford,” he said before taking a big gulp. “Mmm.” He furrowed his brow. “I’m getting a pungent tang of-” He licked his lips. “Hmm. What is that?”

  “Grapes?” I guessed.

  “Yes! Grapes! That’s what it is,” he said, sniffing the opening of the bottle. “And there’s an earthy potpourri of sunshine and French arrogance.”

  “Couldn’t have described it better myself.” I took another sip, feeling ever more lightheaded. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I felt like royalty drinking Coors and fine wine in the same night!

  Ian let his leg fall against mine and looked at me like a hopeful, horny school boy.

  I passed him the bottle. “So why did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  I gave him a look.

  He looked down between his feet. “I told you. It was a big misunderstanding.”

  “Please explain.”

  “I mentioned you in the locker room.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Charming.”

  “Which I shouldn’t have done.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And Chuck asked if you had a bush like 70’s porn star. And I hesitated to answer him because that’s obviously none of his business. So he assumed you did even though I eventually said you didn’t.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I’m really sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” He ran a hand through his shiny hair. “I mean, shit, Kate. I like you. A lot. You make the other girls in our class seem so shallow and dull and-”

  “Okay. I get it.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  “Sure I do. It was a misunderstanding. Locker room bullshit that just spun out of control.” Nothing to freak out and trim my hedge over.

  He nodded.

  I sighed. “Sorry I kicked you in the balls.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “That sucked.”

  I shrugged.

  “I can’t believe I still like you after you did that.”

  I felt a burst of warmth in my cheeks.

  “And I figured out how you can make it up to me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Go to homecoming with me.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I meant will you go to ho
mecoming with me?”

  My head was spinning. I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t think straight. Of course I liked him, and I wanted to believe his story. And if I went to homecoming with him everyone would know that I didn’t have a bush like a 70’s porn star.

  I looked into his bloodshot blue eyes.

  Without waiting for my answer, he reached up, pulled my face towards his, and kissed me. A ripple of heat ran up my spine, and when he slipped his tongue in my mouth, my mind went blank.

  As his kisses became more intense, I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to stop the trajectory. And I was torn.

  I mean, I wanted to see if he would last this time, but I didn't want him to know I gave my pussy a buzz cut over a stupid misunderstanding. And then there was the fact that I might never have another chance to do it in a wine closet.

  But I needn’t have worried about any of that. Because a second later someone started banging on the closet door.

  And it turned out that someone was the cops.

  Chapter 6: Dawn

  I woke up to the sound of drilling in my brain.

  But as my eyes broke free from the shackles of the previous night’s mascara, I realized the sound was just Mick’s snoring.

  I didn’t get up right away. I had a monstrous headache that reminded me why I no longer drank whiskey by the barrel. And I was afraid of the pain that would rush over me if I got vertical too quickly.

  Plus, I was mesmerized by the sound of Mick’s breathing. It was comforting somehow. Like Snarls’ purr. But it sounded so strange. Almost foreign.

  I used to be so familiar with the sound of a sleeping man. So at home. But lying there and listening to Mick’s snoring filled me with a tangible loneliness. Male company was no longer the norm for me. Being with him was a fluke, an accident. It was like I was living someone else’s life. Or my old life again.

  I knew if I waited long enough, he would throw an arm over me and nuzzle into the nape of my neck. When he woke up, he would press his morning wood against me and run his hands over my body. We’d be right back where we started.

  And as much fun as that might’ve been, I couldn’t let it happen.

  Of course it had been entertaining the night before to act like no time had passed. Like it was only yesterday that we were traveling the country in a dirty van and sharing everything down to our toothbrush. But it was all a farce. And the harsh morning light made that painfully clear.

  Not only had too much time passed since we’d spent the night together, but gravity had weighed down on us, too. Surely the last thing a failed rock star needed was to go to bed with a young woman and wake up with an old maid. Not that I was a hag. Or even a spinster. But I wouldn’t be doing either of us any favors if I ruined the fantasy of it all.

  And it would be so me to just be gone in the morning when he woke up. He wouldn’t take it personally. More importantly, he would remain on the outskirts. Which is where I wanted him.

  I was old enough to know that it’s rare to have an uncomplicated relationship. I wasn’t about to spoil what we had by sticking around.

  And I couldn’t risk him wanting to take me out again. Even for a slice of pizza. I couldn’t let him back into my life. If I did, he might eventually discover the truth: that I was doing the one thing we never believed either of us would do.

  I was dying.

  Plus, Mick already let it slip that he was surprised (disappointed even?) that I wasn’t a Madame or an Heiress. The least I could do was let him believe that I had retained my feisty unpredictability. I wanted him to remember me as the girl that could keep up with the boys, the kind of girl that would never cough up blood in the middle of a party.

  After all, the only thing I was more committed to than having a good time was not being a buzz kill. And it’s for that reason that I had no choice but to kiss him on his sleepy, beautiful forehead and slip out of the room. It was the best way to make sure my visit would be interpreted as a pleasant run in with a ghost from the past and nothing more.

  When I got in the car, I lit a cigarette, but I was so ill and lightheaded after two puffs I had to throw it out. Then I swung by Dunkin Donuts just like I used to on all my walks of shame. Or drive in this case.

  Of course, I didn’t feel any shame about sleeping with Mick. I’d slept with him countless times before. It’s not like he was a stranger who didn’t give a shit about whether he satisfied me.

  And he certainly had. In fact, the last thing I remembered was the smug grin that stretched across my face in the dark hotel room just before I passed out.

  It was only when I couldn’t finish my breakfast sandwich that I realized how severe my hangover was. I tried to fall asleep on the couch, but it was no use. I couldn’t sleep through the pounding in my brain. And I was afraid to take a bunch of pain killers because I suspected that there was still a lethal amount of whiskey in my system.

  After all, I held the remote the wrong way when I tried to turn the TV on. Then I knocked everything off the bathroom counter into the sink when I tried to brush my teeth. I even kept forgetting that I only had one leg out of my leather pants, and every time I remembered I couldn’t bring myself to finish the job.

  The fact that I’d gotten into them earlier that morning was a miracle.

  To make matters worse, a car alarm went off in the street outside. And the noise got so irritating I wished I had a rifle to wave out the front door so someone would turn the fucking thing off.

  Then again, I lived in an apartment building. No one would even see me. And it’s not like I was going to shoot anyone.

  But that happened, didn’t it? People had all sorts of strange reactions to finding out that they were going to die. Sometimes they decided they wanted to take other people with them.

  But not me. My reaction had been to get drunk and sleep with an old flame, and it kind of pissed me off that I didn’t feel a whole lot better. If anything, I felt sicker than I had in years. Though I did feel some satisfaction about the fact that at least I’d brought it on myself.

  But why did I have to be so all or nothing? How come, even in my forties, I still felt the need to get drunk if I was going to have a drink? How come whenever I worked out (which I tried to do at least four times a year), I overdid it to the point where I couldn’t walk or lift my arms above my head for weeks afterwards? And how come every time I started a box set, I had to finish it as soon as possible, even if it meant going to work exhausted and having nothing to look forward to?

  What was my problem? I couldn’t think of a single example in my life of something that I did in moderation.

  I was either ahead on all my bills or behind on all of them. My apartment was either full of healthy plants or they were all dead, and my fridge was either stocked or it was empty.

  Perhaps I had never grown up. Or maybe I was damaged from all the drugs I used to do. Or maybe it was just bad genes.

  Then again, I had a sister who was the veritable queen of moderation and rationality. She got drunk once in high school and puked. I’m pretty sure she never got drunk again. As far as I’m concerned that makes her a quitter.

  I used to think she was really lame, but over the years I’ve decided she’s just bionic. She was always better at everything than me except for partying, having fun, and giving advice.

  Not because her advice wasn’t good. Most of the time it was exactly what Martha Stewart would say. But her opinion is irrelevant for the average flawed individual.

  For the record, I was also always better at word games, but a lot of good that’s done me. Of course, I resent her for way more reasons than I have the energy to go into now.

  Anyway, that morning, I found myself unable to sleep or eat or smoke or remove my leather pants. Which had taken on a sort of boa constrictor like hold on my increasingly swollen right leg. So grabbed a half full bottle of red wine and went to my bedroom.

  Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I reached into the back of my closet for
my favorite shoebox, sat on the floor, and lifted the lid.

  The box was filled with mementos from all the happiest times in my life. There were pictures of me and Tina all over the world and pictures of me with old boyfriends at concerts. There were even pictures of me and my sister from before we were old enough to understand that we had nothing in common and no business being friends.

  Half way down there was a copy of the only cd I ever recorded when I sang backup vocals for Mick’s band. Just under it was a picture of us eating from each other’s ice cream cones the day we recorded it. In it, I was wearing enough makeup to seal a hornet’s nest.

  Wedged along the box’s perimeter was a stack of twenty seven pictures of me lying naked on a bed in Paris. They were taken by a photographer I spent a romantic weekend with in my twenties. He was my first older man.

  Essentially, it was a shoebox sized monument to my best memories, and it gave me some peace of mind. At least no one could say I hadn’t lived. No one could say I hadn’t packed life into my years.

  But no one could say I was without fault either. Because at the very bottom of the box, there was a picture that reminded me of the most painful memories I had. It was a picture of all my greatest failings captured in one shot.

  The photo featured Scott and I at a Fourth of July barbeque. In it, he had ketchup on his cheek, and I had it on my mouth. And I was wearing a pretty red sundress that I used to love, and we were both smiling from ear to ear.

  Because he didn’t know yet that I was pregnant.

  It was the last picture we ever took together.

  Chapter 7: Kate

  I was relieved to see my Dad when he pulled up. My Mom would’ve been pissed and scary, and I was too drunk to deal with that.

  “Thanks for calling me,” my Dad said to the officer standing next to me. Then he glanced in my direction. “Get in the car.”

  I stood up from the curb and started towards the passenger side, keeping my eyes on my feet as I put one foot in front of the other.

  “I won’t be able to do it again, Fred. You know that,” I heard the cop tell my Dad. “It was just a favor this once.”