Sin Never Sleeps Page 2

  “Look,” Josie continues, drawing my attention back to her problem. “My mom is cool, but she obsesses over making sure I have a better life than she had.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s all parents,” I point out. Even though my own have a warped sense of what that actually means, I know their hearts are generally in the right place.

  “Let me translate that a little bit better. She’s obsessed with me not getting pregnant.”

  “Can you blame her?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and for a moment the screen is filled with her wild, uncontrollable curls. “No, I can’t, and that’s the problem. I mean, she was only nineteen when I was born, and it seriously set back her dancing career.”

  “Does she know that you’re…” I trail away, glancing out the window to the placid surface of the pool outside. There’s no easy way to ask this, because, in truth, even I don’t know the answer. When Josie started targeting older guys, I tried to let it roll off my back until she slept with one of our teachers. After that, I asked her to keep the pornographic details to herself. It’s easier to take a calculus test if you don’t have your best friend’s impression of Mr. Barrett’s O-face stuck in your head.

  “Does she what?” Josie prompts.

  “Does she know you’ve had sex?” The question rushes out of my mouth.

  “The list of topics that are off-limits between my mother and I is long and exhaustive, but sex is at the very top of it.” Josie presses her fuchsia lips into a thin line, grimacing at the thought. “I’d already be in a nunnery, as you put it, if she knew. I mean, I hide my pills in an Altoids tin.”

  “I guess that answers that question.” A million questions tumble through my head. How many men has she had sex with? Why? Is she using condoms? Getting tested? Somehow I manage to swallow them all.

  “Does your mom know about you?” Josie asks even though she knows that my sexual rap sheet only has one entry. I was completely honest with her about my first—and only—time. Not that there was much to tell.

  “I didn’t feel the need to clue her in on my lackluster first time, especially since I pretty much pretend it never happened,” I remind her. Sleeping with Hugo Roth had been a knee-jerk reaction to a terrible situation. I mean, what better way to get back at your cheating boyfriend for having sex in front of half your freshman class than to screw his best friend? I won’t be putting that proud achievement on any college applications.

  “I don’t think my mom would welcome any of the men I’ve been with in this house.”

  “Probably not, since they’re as old as her boyfriend,” I remind her.

  Josie smacks her forehead. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. They broke up last week. Men suck.”

  “How’s your mom?” I ask, genuinely concerned.

  “She cried for a day. Then she put on some lipstick and met someone new.” Josie shrugs but her words are tinged with cynicism. Like mother, like daughter. The Deckards employ a nonchalant attitude toward the “love ‘em and leave ‘em” philosophy followed by most men in Vegas. The ones who live there full time generally aren’t prime cuts of male. Not the single ones, anyway. And the rest of them are tourists whose presence is as fleeting as their luck.

  I pick up my phone and stare at the Instagram feed again. It’s definitely her, and while whoever’s blessed us with this account only identified her by her initials, it hardly feels anonymous. I scroll through the handful of other photos that have been posted. Hugo Roth practically dragging an unconscious girl down the hall. Monroe West, peeking guiltily over a pair of black sunglasses like she knew she was being watched. There’s nothing outright incriminating in any of the photos. It’s simply the suggestion contained in each one. It wouldn’t take a nut job to weave conspiracies in all these pictures. It’s clear that’s what The Dealer wants his audience to consider. Or her audience, I guess. There’s no sexism in stalking.

  “Who do you think took these?” I ask.

  “If I knew, I’d already have strangled them and stolen their phone,” Josie admits.

  I study the picture of her for a few more seconds, this time zeroing in on Josie’s dress.

  “Wait.” My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips. “This is the dress you were wearing the night of...”

  But it seems she’s already realized that because she gulps and nods. Thumbing back through I find the picture of Hugo with the blonde draped over his shoulder. I can only make out part of his shirt. A D and two E’s.

  “STD Free,” I mutter to myself as I picture the shirt Hugo wore that night. I’d called it false advertising. Staring at this picture, I stand by that claim. Conscience-free would have been a lot more fitting.

  “What?” Josie asks in confusion.

  “Nothing. It’s not important.” There’s no need to fill her in on the details. “This picture is from that night, too. Why would someone be posting pictures from the night Nathaniel West was murdered?”

  I glance up from the phone just as Josie’s eyes zero in on me through the screen.

  “I have a better question for you,” she says. “How many more pictures did they take?”

  Chapter Two

  An hour later, I finally pry myself away from the feed and head into the kitchen. All the paranoia is making me hungry. But a note on the fridge stops me.

  Getting a blow out. Back by 1!

  I have the house to myself and I’ve wasted that time stalking some perv’s idea of a good time. Sighing, I reach for the fridge door and freeze when I catch a figure reflected in the stainless steel. I spin around and blink a few times as if he might disappear. But he’s still there leaning against the doorway. In my defense, he looks too good to be real, but then again, he always has. His wild coppery brown hair is longer than the last time I saw him, falling just over his ears. He rakes it back with one smooth, self-assured motion, but despite the smile playing at his lips, he doesn’t greet me. Instead, we stand and stare at each other. Can he sense the line in the sand between us? We’d parted on good terms, at least as good of terms as one can when their boyfriend is being hauled off in handcuffs, but things got a little more complicated since then.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I should have come to visit you.”

  Lightning flashes in his silver-blue eyes. Without a word, he straightens and strides towards me. Reaching out his hand, he cups the side of my face with his palm, and my eyes close involuntarily. Time didn’t dull the electric connection of his touch. Jameson West caught me the first time we met. While we were apart, I questioned that, but now I know I’m gone hook, line, and sinker.

  “Don’t,” he warns me. My eyes flicker open, and I see my questions reflected in his eyes. “Never apologize to me.”

  I start to pull away, but his hand shifts to grab my chin.

  “I should have—” I begin.

  “I don’t care about any of that,” he stops me. “When I heard what happened, I lost it. Are you okay?” He pulls back and grabs my hands, studying the fresh, pink scars marring my skin. “Not being able to come to you nearly drove me crazy.”

  Is that what happened to me? I wonder. Had being apart from him driven me to insane thoughts? It must have, because here in his presence, all my fears seems ridiculous. His touch erases my doubt, leaving only certainty behind. Whatever happened the night his father was murdered, Jameson isn’t guilty of what they think he did. Looking into the depths of his blue eyes, I know he still has secrets, but who doesn’t? I have to trust he’ll share them with me when the time is right. There are a million things we need to discuss, but being so close to him that I can feel the heat roll off his body, none of them seem to matter.

  “This is your home away from home, huh?” he asks, looking past me into the gourmet kitchen that’s barely used. There’s probably still plastic wrap on the appliances.

  “My mother’s, mostly. She never really took to Hollywood. It reminded her too much of Vegas.” I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of the place. My stepfather’s spraw
ling, private estate stretches across the patchy desert, nestling into the foot of the mountains. Someone else might be impressed, but Jameson owns a casino and a mountain home and God knows what else. I really should take the time to Google his real estate holdings.

  “Is she home now?”

  “She had an appointment in town,” I tell him.

  He releases a heavy sigh I didn’t know he was holding onto. “Thank God.”

  In one swift movement, his hands slide along my torso, lingering on my hips before they slide further down. Jameson lifts me off my feet and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist. His face slants towards mine, but he hesitates a fraction of an inch before our lips meet. I can already taste the sweetness of his breath.

  “Where’s your room?” he murmurs.

  It’s hard to find words, given the promising situation I’ve found myself in. My tongue darts out to wet my lower lip, then I jerk my head backward. “Down that hall.”

  He doesn’t need further information. Our mouths crash together as he carries me with the confidence of a man who’s walked this corridor his whole life. I barely process him kicking open the door before he deposits me onto my bed.

  “I hope I got the right one, Duchess,” he says, “Because my patience just ran out.”

  My fingers clutch my familiar, yellow bedspread, and I nod.

  “This is my room,” I say softly. “There’s a—”

  He winks at me. “Give me the tour later.”

  I gawk as he reaches behind his neck and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Scientists could study the anatomical miracle that are his abs. Perfectly stacked and carved deeply, they narrow to showcase the top of a deep v that I assume continues past the jeans that hang temptingly off his hips. Thousands of tiny butterflies dance in my stomach as he lowers himself with torturous slowness over me.

  “Is this okay?” he asks. I bob my head, not trusting my voice. “That is excellent news, because I spent a considerable amount of time imagining what I was going to do to this body.”

  “What if I’d said no?” I tease, finally finding my voice.

  “Then I would have had to persuade you otherwise.” His index finger traces across my lower lip, then trails down my chin, along my neck, and further until he pauses in the valley between my breasts.

  “Think it would be that easy to convince me?” I breathe, despite the biological urge I have to pant and beg for more.

  “I think I could have made you see my side, but I’d be happy to show you exactly how I would have done that.”

  “I already said yes,” I murmur. This time, the smile that’s been threatening to appear curves over his face. A strand of hair falls over his eyes and I reach up to push it back.

  “That feels good, Duchess,” he moans, and I rake my fingernails through his locks. “You’ve been in my head so long. Feeling you touch me is like waking up from a bad dream.”

  “I’m right here,” I whisper, my voice thick with promise.

  He drops lower, nestling his trim waist between my splayed legs. I can feel the rough denim of his jeans through my thin bikini bottom. I wiggle lower, trying to see what else I can discover, but his hands shoot out to keep me in place and I find myself pinned under a very, sexy push-up.

  “I promised myself that when I got you in this position, I’d take my time,” he says. He bends forward, pressing his lips to the curve of my jaw. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Duchess.”

  “Then why are you stopping now?” An impatient hunger blooms within me, and I struggle against the hold he has on my wrists. He laughs softly before he releases them.

  “I’m waiting, because I’m not in a hurry. I’m going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before. I’m going to strip away all the distance time has placed between us, and when I’m done, there will be no doubt that you belong to me,” he raises his head and gazes down at me, “if that’s okay.”

  “I guess.” I roll my eyes a little at the ridiculousness of that question. My body’s been screaming yes this whole time. He hardly needs to ask now.

  “Where should I start? Your lips?” he muses. He brushes his own over mine, drawing the attention of my nerves upward, if only momentarily.

  I moan my approval.

  “Or maybe here.” He runs his mouth slowly down my neck, settling in the hollow of my collarbone. A slight gasp escapes me, and I grip the comforter tighter. “See? We’re just getting started.”

  It takes all my self-control not to throw my arms around his neck and pull him against me. I’m not entirely sure what stops me, except maybe the fact that I still feel guilty that he’s been sitting in a jail cell, or maybe curiosity. I want to see what he can do to me as much as he wants to show me, but before that can happen, I hear the front door slam.

  “Shit!” I yelp, pushing him off me. He lands with a thump on the floor. “Put your shirt on.”

  He reappears not bothering to hide his amusement as he plucks the t-shirt from the floor and tugs it overhead.

  “Emma?” Mom’s voice echoes through the large open foyer. I glance towards Jameson and brace myself.

  “I’m in my room,” I call. Standing, I smooth out the bedspread and point to a desk chair. I grab a pair of jeans and a tank top to throw over my bikini.

  “You: there,” I command in a low voice. He salutes me with his index finger and promptly takes his assigned seat, assuming a saintly position.

  “Emma, I was thinking that we should…” The words die on her lips when she steps inside my bedroom. “Um, hello.”

  Jameson nods in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Von Essen.”

  She stares at him for a moment longer, frozen in place, then she shakes her head as if to clear it. She smiles warmly. “Vivian.”

  “Vivian,” he repeats, but whatever spell Jameson has cast over her doesn’t extend to protect me. Turning in my direction, she shoots me a questioning look.

  “Mom,” I brace myself for what I’m about to tell her, “This is Jameson West.”

  “Ah. The famous Mr. West.” Her voice piques on his name. She doesn’t hold the same animosity toward the Wests that her ex-husband, my father, does, but she’s not welcoming him into the family either.

  “I’m afraid my reputation does precede me.” He stands and extends his hand.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says as she shakes it. I flinch, because if that’s true, she hasn’t been hearing it from me.

  “Mom,” I say in warning.

  “I have,” she says with a shrug.

  “Yes.” Jameson’s eyes dart to mine. “I believe your husband is currently in negotiations with Paramount to do a film based on my father.”

  “I don’t know much about that.” It’s an obvious lie, but one that most would willingly swallow. If she knows about it, she’s kept it from me. Probably to keep the peace this summer.

  “Perhaps I’ll discuss it with him, then. I’d like to know more.” The tension in the room has a greenish tinge that threatens to suffocate each of us, but my mother is oblivious.

  “I’m sure he would enjoy that. He has quite a few questions about what happened.”

  “Don’t we all?” Jameson tilts his head. “Maybe he can tell me how the story ends.”

  Now that our bodies are separated, I can think a little more clearly, which means questions are racing through my head. Apparently, I’m not the only one still trying to figure out what happened. If Jameson doesn’t know, the FBI doesn’t either. So how did he get out of police custody?

  “I didn’t know you would be visiting us.” Mom walks to the side of the bed and picks up a pillow that’s fallen to the floor, no doubt cataloging every wrinkle in my bedspread to use when she interrogates me about him later.

  “I wanted to surprise Emma.”

  “And you did,” I jump in. “Maybe we should check out downtown. There’s…”

  “Will you be staying long?” Mom interjects. Somehow, I’ve found myself in the middle of a
socialite standoff. The weapon of choice? Who can be more polite to the other while slowing bleeding them dry.

  “Only as long as it takes to convince Emma to come home.”

  “And why would she want to do that?” This time she doesn’t bother to sugar coat her words.

  “Because that’s where she belongs.”

  “In Belle Mère?” Mom asks.

  “With me,” Jameson corrects.

  I step forward, wedging myself between them. “I’m going to take Jameson downtown.”

  “You’ll have to bring him back for dinner,” she says, not bothering to tear her eyes away from him.

  “Sure,” I agree. Grabbing Jameson’s hand, I drag him out of the room and toward the front door.

  “Your mother is…”

  “A piece of work?” I offer. I come to a stop when I spot the white Porsche Carrera with its top down, parked in the circle drive. “Is that yours?”

  He grins at me, and this time he’s the one leading me away from the house and toward the car.

  “If your mom saw my car, she knew she had company,” he says. There’s an undercurrent of annoyance in his voice.

  I wave my hand. “She probably thought it was a spare Porsche that Hans keeps around. I mean, who would notice this?”

  “Get in, Duchess,” he says, swinging open the door. As I climb into the seat, he bends over and kisses me full on the lips. He circles around the back, and I realize there’s so much I have to tell him about what happened that night, about what I heard, and more than anything, he needs to know about the Instagram account before his picture pops up on it.

  “Jameson, there are things you need to know,” I begin.

  He hits the ignition switch. “We’ll get to that. First, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Before I can protest his trumping of my news, he twists in his seat to face me. “They haven’t dropped the charges against me.”

  “Then why are you here?” I ask. “This is a different state.” I look around as if police helicopters and a SWAT team might appear over the mountains.