Absinthe Of The Heart (Sins Of The Heart Book 1) Page 3

  “Are you sure?” Bobby asked, looking into her eyes as he was suspended, naked, above her.

  She bit her lip, a habit she’d had since she was a child. This was her last chance to do the right thing. But why did doing the right thing feel so wrong? Closing her eyes, she nodded, knowing this decision would change her life forever.

  She heard Bobby open a drawer and then the rumple of foil. Once he was suited up, he kissed her gently, coaxing her to relax. But she didn’t need much coaxing when she felt him slip inside her, breaking down all her reservations.

  She lost herself in the moment, focusing on nothing but the feel of him, owning something that would always belong to him. He treated her with care.

  They both came undone with a loud, well-sated scream.

  As they laid in the afterglow, Delores knew she should feel guilt for what she had just done. But she didn’t. Bobby kissed her brow and asked if she was okay, and she was. She knew once she sobered up and the first light of dawn peeked over the valley, it would be a different story, but for now, everything was absolutely perfect.

  “…Dee?”

  Kayla felt a knife slice straight through her heart when she saw something she’d never thought she’d ever see. Her best friend in bed, naked, with the boy she’d had a crush on for years. Kayla was betrayed, and hurt, but most of all, she felt stupid because she was actually worried about her best friend.

  Ralphie had helped her search the house high and low, afraid someone might have taken advantage of her drunken state. But it appears the only person who’d been taken for a ride was Kayla, forever believing her friendship with Delores was real.

  “Let me explain!” Delores shrieked, but her naked form was all the clarification Kayla needed.

  The final straw was when Bobby put his arm lovingly around Delores, comforting her. He should comfort Kayla because her friend was no better than her mother—a dirty, bedhopping whore.

  “Never speak to me ever again!” Kayla shouted, unable to keep the tears away.

  “Kay, no, please!” Delores pleaded, but Kayla had seen and heard enough.

  She ran down the hallway, needing to escape this nightmare before she broke down. This was beyond words. She wished this were a dream, but it wasn’t. She officially had no one. Her mother and father barely cared if she was alive or not. They might be rich in possessions, but when it came to love, they were far more impoverished than Delores would ever be. Delores was her only friend, her family, and now, she was all alone.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Ralphie said, stroking her bicep and softly drawing her into his arms. It felt nice that someone cared about her. And after what she’d just witnessed, that was all she wanted—someone to take care of her.

  Ralphie’s mouth fell slack when Kayla pressed her frantic lips to his. This was the last thing he’d ever expected, especially after what just happened, but the feel of Kayla’s body twisting and writhing against him was just too much. He’d lusted after this girl for years and only dreamed of them ever entwining this way. He knew why she was doing it, but he just didn’t care.

  When she pulled him into the bathroom and locked the door, any shred of second-guessing was long gone. When she slipped out of her outfit, completely bare beneath, he vowed to treat her like the queen she was. It was a flurry of hands and clothes, and before long, they were both naked. Kayla straddled Ralphie, who sat on the toilet seat, rubbing his eyes to ensure this was really happening.

  “I don’t have any protection,” he said, still a lick of sense left.

  She lowered herself, gasping when she felt Ralphie nudging at her, eager to take away something that should never have been his. “I don’t care,” she gasped, lowering herself onto him, her eyes bulging from the foreign intrusion.

  She locked her arms around his nape and began rocking, each painful inch she took etching away at whatever love she had left for Delores. “I just want to forget,” she declared, sobbing at the pain tearing down below. And sobbing at the pain carving through her heart. “Please…just make me forget.”

  Ralphie knew what this was, and he knew he should stop, but he couldn’t. He secured his hands around her waist and promised to make her forget. And she did. For a split second in time, she forgot that life as she knew it would forever be changed.

  What was done could never be undone, and what they’d all done would never be forgotten…or forgiven, for generations to come.

  2004

  “Would you look at that ass?” gushes my best friend, Annabelle Greene.

  Peering up from my math calculus homework, I roll my eyes and almost gag when I see who she’s referring to. “Belle, please, for the love of god, give me some warning when you’re referring to that asshole. I now have to wash my eyes out…with bleach.” Belle cackles beside me, knowing that talking about him will leave me crankier than a bear with a sore head.

  She slides her huge black sunglasses down her nose with her pointer finger and peers over the top of them, licking her glossy red lips. “Too bad he’s such an asshole because he’s so…fucking…hot.” Her pause for emphasis makes me want to knock some sense into her.

  “Ugh!” I cover my ears and sing “Naughty Girl” by Beyoncé at the top of my lungs. I know she’s doing this is rile me up because she thinks it’s simply hilarious that, while almost every girl at our school, Harvard-Westlake, would happily drop their panties the moment he enters a room, I loathe the star quarterback with every fiber of my body.

  But I’m not like every girl, and for that, I’m glad.

  When I think I’m asshole-free, I remove my hands, but hold up my finger in warning. Belle giggles, hands raised in surrender. “Holland Brooks-Ferris, you’re the only girl who wouldn’t think twice if Sin got run over by a bus.”

  I can’t help but raise my eyes to the heavens once again. “Please, Sin? Who does he think he is? Some character out of The Sopranos. That name is a reflection of what an utter Neanderthal he is. Besides, his surname is actually Arrington, but apparently, that’s not cool enough for him, and he goes by his mom’s surname instead. And you’re right, I wouldn’t, because I’d be driving the bus.”

  Belle’s light laughter catches the warm summer breeze. “Okay, sorry, I meant London. London Sinclair-Arrington,” she clarifies with a smirk

  “Oh, really? That’s his name? I didn’t know,” I quip, which is an outright lie.

  Sadly for me, I’ve had the misfortune of knowing London Sinclair since he tripped me over and stole my lunch the first day of kindergarten. I wish the torture ended there, but he’s been a constant thorn in my side since that first day, going out of his way to make my life hell.

  It’s no secret we’re archenemies, and it’s pretty safe to say we’ve hated one another from day one.

  I begged my mom and dad to change schools, but they both said it was the best school in town. They’re just biased because this is where they went, and fell in love. I shudder at the thought. Parents and love—it’s not a combination any sixteen-year-old girl wants to think about.

  London, Sin, or whatever alias he wants to go by, is in full gear, practicing for the big game on Saturday night. His confident swagger and the way he holds himself with such an air of arrogance makes me want to slam my head against this thick textbook in hopes of rendering myself unconscious.

  The Sin Skanks as I like to call them huddle together on the bottom step of the bleachers, stroking the quarterback’s already huge, inflated ego by batting their eyelashes and cheering him on with ridiculous glittery signs they made in art class.

  They’d better not sneeze or move in the wrong way because I’m pretty certain with one sudden movement, we’ll be seeing who’s a real blonde or not. The thought is enough to lose my lunch over.

  London charges forward, demonstrating his sheer strength and size as he mows down anyone in his way. He doesn’t care who it is; it could be his grandma—all he cares about is winning.

  As he ducks and weaves, he scores a touchdown, which incit
es an almost riot from the skanks down below. Belle and I are on the top of the bleachers, but his overbearing arrogance almost knocks me from my high perch.

  He rips off his white helmet, pointing cockily to his legion of fans. Ugh, I hate his guts.

  I continue with my math problem, which is far more entertaining, but Belle’s swooning is near palpable, so I risk a glance his way, wondering what exactly she’s so wrapped up in.

  His dirty blond hair is longer on top with shorter sides, a lot longer than you’d expect a jock’s hair to be. It’s always mussed from him running his long fingers through it, as he knows it drives all the girls, except me, wild. Even though I can’t see them from this distance, I know from them staring holes straight through me that beneath that tousled bed hair lies a set of the stormiest blue gray eyes I have ever seen. They’re the kind of blue that reminds you of the clearest cerulean sea, but they can also suck you into a punishing storm seconds later.

  His nose is evenly sloped and slightly upturned, adding to the air of arrogance he constantly carries on his broad, muscular shoulders. His jawline is chiseled and always brushed with a dark, heavy scruff, which makes him look so much older than sixteen.

  His body is taut, muscled, and absolutely imposing, standing at six-foot-four. The way he holds himself, he knows he’s been gifted in the looks department. Too bad his virtues got lost in the mail.

  He’s everything you’d expect a quarterback to be—attractive, rich, and so full of himself, he believes his own bullshit.

  I narrow my eyes, watching the way the red jersey clings to his upper torso. He’s certainly grown from the scrawny little brat who cut off one of my pigtails in the second grade. Too bad he didn’t grow a brain as well.

  Lost in visions of our turbulent past, I don’t notice him looking at me until it’s too late. He’s seen me staring, and even from up here, I can see that trademark cocky, dimpled smirk. I hate that grin. I’ve slapped it from his face a handful of times.

  As he runs forward, his bulging arms swinging by his side, he points at me before blowing a kiss. The skanks turn briskly to see who dared steal their limelight, but they have absolutely nothing to worry about. I am not interested in anything London Sinclair has to offer. Not wanting him to think I’ve gone soft, I raise my finger—the middle one, that is—before blowing my own kiss with it.

  I can see his perfect white teeth flash me a smile from up here.

  Screw…him.

  As Belle ties back her long blonde hair, she muses aloud, “I wonder what his favorite drink is, because whatever it is has made him big and strong.”

  “Blue Cherry Gatorade,” I reply without pause.

  She pauses from primping and arches a sculptured brow. “That’s right; you’re a walking encyclopedia when it comes to Sin,” she teases, just how she always does.

  “I’ve made a point to know my enemy. It’s smart business,” I explain, scoffing when a groupie runs to the sidelines to offer London a towel.

  “Are you looking at Sin…voluntarily?” Belle asks, feigning horror with a hand pressed to her chest.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I counter, suddenly feeling hot. But I was, and I hate myself for even giving him a sliver of satisfaction. I need to get out of here because London’s arrogance is suffocating. Besides, I need to study.

  Belle breaks her ogling and peers up at me. “Hitting the library?”

  I nod. “Yes. I have to finish that history paper.”

  “Holl, you’ll ace this, just as you always do.”

  Her confidence in me is reassuring, but if I want to get into Stanford, I need perfect grades. Unlike most of the kids who go here, I have to work hard for my education. I don’t have a trust fund. Nor do I have Mommy and Daddy forking out hundreds and thousands of dollars easily.

  My father, Bobby Ferris, comes from money. My grandfather was a Texan oil tycoon. He came to Los Angeles after he struck it big, wanting to capitalize on his good fortune. Before my mother, Delores Brooks, met my father, she was doing it rough. She was poorer than poor, but thanks to my father, her life changed.

  We lived in an extravagant mansion in the Hollywood Hills where my neighbors were famous actors and people of “importance.” It was all superficial nonsense, so when my grandfather made a bad investment and our lives changed forever, I didn’t think twice when we were forced to sell and move to a less luxurious part of Los Angeles.

  Instead of a six-bedroom mansion, we live in a two-bedroom home where our neighbors are your average, working-class American families who drive hybrids instead of Hummers. Both my mother and father work honest jobs so they can pay the bills, but to the rich and richer, we may as well be white trash. My grandfather is seen as a con artist because he went to prison for embezzlement, and my mom, she’s an apparent gold digger, which is ridiculous, because if she were, why would she still be married to my dad? And my dad, he’s seen as having no balls because he remained faithful to his family.

  My soiled history is something London Sinclair ensures I don’t forget.

  We were doomed to hate one another, seeing as my mom and his mom are arch nemeses, which is ironic, considering they were once best friends. I don’t know the full story, but it had something to do with some party where both London and I were conceived. My dad used protection, but apparently, some things are meant to be.

  London is older than me by two days, but from the way he behaves, all superior and almighty, you’d think it was ten years.

  Long story short— London’s mom, Kayla, only stays with his dad, Ralphie, because he makes the rich look poor. She’s still secretly crushing on my dad, which is so gross on all accounts, and is waiting in the wings, ready to sabotage my parents’ marriage any chance she gets. London hates me because, well, I think it’s pretty obvious why. I’m a symbol of their love, flaunting what they did to her.

  I get that he’s protective of his mom, but she is a crazy bitch who needs to back off.

  My mom’s reputation has been long ruined thanks to Kayla Sinclair. But my father doesn’t care. And I love him for that. I love them both for it.

  “Where have you gone this time?” Belle quips. I’m known to get lost in my head from time to time. Everyone calls me a dreamer, but I like to consider myself a thinker.

  “Just thinking about how I won’t make it tonight.” Before she can guilt trip me, I stop her. “Belle, I have to work at six, and then I have a bunch of homework I have to catch up on. There is no way I can go, and besides, some kid is always throwing some party. I promise I’ll go to the next one.”

  Belle’s lower lip quivers dramatically, and I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t make that face.” I point at her, which only encourages her to pout further. She’s my Achilles’ heel. She always has been.

  Belle’s family pretends she doesn’t exist, and although that’s the consensus for the majority of my peers, Belle is the only one who cares. She is desperately seeking love and affection from wherever she can find it. Some call her needy or clingy, while I see someone who just wants to find her tribe. “Okay, fine, fine, I’ll see if I can swing by.” I throw my hands up in defeat as she cheers victoriously.

  I should have known she was trouble when I caught her eating glue in the first grade. “I’ll be there around ten. You know where it is. Haunted Hollows?”

  Shaking my head at the ridiculous name, I pull my lips into a thin line. “Yes, I know where it is. Why can’t our classmates be normal and have parties inside their over-the-top homes instead of outside in the dark, where the potential to fall to one’s death is not implausible?”

  Belle shrugs, but the glint in her hazel eyes reveal she’s up for the challenge. “It’ll be fun. A campfire, toasting marshmallows, telling ghost stories under the full moon.” Sometimes, she really is naïve.

  A laugh escapes me. “I doubt any of that will happen. We’re not in Girl Scouts anymore. Try a bonfire, toasting beers, and singling out which girls they want to bone under the full moon.”


  Belle squeaks, and I don’t know if it’s in horror or excitement. Unlike Belle, I’m proud that my chastity belt is still under lock and key. She’s desperate to lose the big V to any meathead jock, while I’m desperate to graduate with my dignity intact. Again, I blame this need for affection on Belle’s parents, who barely remember their daughter’s name.

  “I’ll see you later.” I bend down and hug her tightly.

  “Don’t work too hard,” she singsongs, pulling out a nail file from her Prada bag. Pointing it at me, she smirks. “Save your energy for tonight. Sin will be there. I’m sure you’ll be at one another’s throats all night.”

  I curl my lip in disgust. Even his name makes me want to hurl. “If only my hands could squeeze around his throat and I wouldn’t go to jail for a very long time for it.” I sigh with mock sorrow. She cackles loudly, but I’m half serious.

  I bid her farewell, ready to tackle this paper on World War II. Lost in thought, my guard is down, which is a very, very bad thing when London Sinclair is around. I amble down the stairs, not taking in my surroundings until it’s too late. I know better. This is a total rookie move, one which costs me dearly.

  “Watch out!” Belle’s warning comes after the event because before I know it, I feel like I’ve been whacked in the face with a baseball bat.

  The force of the hit propels me backward, and I fall onto my ass, the steel of the bleachers making me see stars. It takes me a moment to catch my breath.

  “Oh my god, Holl, are you all right?”

  Shaking my head, it takes a second for my vision to clear, but when it does, I see what or who was the cause of me dropping like a sack of potatoes.

  London stands at the bottom of the bleachers, an amused grin tugging at his lips. Off to my left is the reason he looks happier than a pig in shit. His stupid ball. He threw his fucking ball…into my face.

  What in the actual hell?

  With the world still spinning, I gather my bearings as best I can and jump up, ready to kill him. I sway to the right, but steady myself by holding the aisle chairs as I charge down the stairs. London stands his ground, arms folded across his chest, challenging me.