Scandalous (Sinners of Saint Book 3)

“YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I want to see you, but not on Saturday. I wish you’d let me come see you at your house. Your mom can’t be that bad, and I miss…us,” I told Bane on the phone at work. He was the only person to listen to me. The only person to care. Mom was too out of it lately to do much more than lie in bed watching television.

“Just say you miss my dick and we’ll call it a day. And a date.” I could hear the waves crashing on the shore behind Bane. He was teaching at the surf club again. Jealousy prickled the back of my neck.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” I rolled my eyes. “I meant as a friend.”

“Yeah. Whatever. I’m here if you need me. Be strong against Daddy Delirious.”

My father had come back from Switzerland all smiles, which meant this particular mistress was a keeper. He didn’t even seem too bothered by the fact the iPad I’d stolen from Trent wasn’t connected to any of his accounts and was utterly useless. He just gave me another assignment, firing orders and not taking one goddamn moment to ask me how my meeting with Theo had gone that Saturday. Or how Mom was doing. Or if I’d taken her to the doctor because her meds were messing her up again.

Bane scoffed. “Fuck Jordan. You keep doing this thing, Edie, where you’re trying to hold the entire universe on your shoulders and sprint with it to the nearest safe haven. You can’t. It’s too heavy. You’ll collapse. Ever tried to see what’ll happen if you let go?”

“No.” I rubbed my face tiredly. “I’ll never let go.”

“Well, then you’ll never be free. Not this year, not next year, not fucking ever.”

The truth hit me in a sensitive place, right between my gut and my heart. Bane was right. My situation was hopeless.

The previous night, I’d cried into my pillow until the imprint of my face settled into it. Not gonna lie—it felt good. I’d tried to remind myself that breaking was necessary in order to rebuild yourself. Only problem was, I had no idea where to start and how to get out of this pickle.

“Talk later, Gidget.”

“Okay.”

He hung up first. Bane didn’t need to see my tears to know that I was tangled in suffocating wires of distress, but he hadn’t invited me out to initiate sex. He should have. I would have slept with him solely for the purpose of pissing off Rexroth, even if only in my twisted head.

And now I was in the office, on the fifteenth floor, at eight o’clock in the evening, about to do something I’d always considered a very hard limit.

Trespassing and burglary. I was looking at jail time if I ever got caught.

Everyone was long gone. It was Monday, one of those summer evenings where the whole world caved into happiness, vacationing or downing drinks at the beach. I relished the quiet, and the fact the next day was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays meant time with my precious Camila and Luna. The fact I got to skip all the dirty work I normally had to do around the office didn’t hurt.

Standing in front of Trent’s door was like facing a firing squad that aimed straight at my conscience. I was running out of ways to justify my behavior, even to myself.

I tried to reason with myself that I wasn’t actually ruining Trent’s life. Not actively, anyway. What was the worst thing that could happen? My father might manage to kick him off of the board of Fiscal Heights Holdings. Rexroth would still hold shares in the company. He would still be a millionaire and have his precious, precious money. He would likely be courted by other companies. So I’d be doing him a favor. He obviously had his priorities all wrong. He’d get to spend more time with Luna. He should fight for her, not with his money and nannies and a team of experts, but with his love.

I tugged at my stupid, out-of-place hoodie, inhaling.

Retrieve the flash drive. I can do that.

Someone was vacuuming the carpeted boardroom while talking on the phone loudly in a foreign language. He was the only person on the floor, and he would never notice me. I was too far. Too hidden. Too careful.

Trent’s office was never locked. Paranoia and anxiety didn’t drive him like they did my father. But that didn’t mean the reception desk in front of his office wasn’t wired like the freaking Pentagon. I’d changed into my black hoodie and a pair of jeans in the bathroom, knowing he could easily spot me on the security camera and also knowing I was going to deny everything he’d accuse me of. For all everyone on the floor knew, I came in that day with a powder blue DKNY dress. Trent could say whatever he wanted—the security footage would show someone who looks nothing like me.

Head ducked down, hoodie covering my hair and face, I pushed the door to his office open in one go, ready to bolt to his desk.

Then froze, heart hammering in my throat.

The sound came to me before the visual. The dry jingle of bracelets hitting one another and skin slapping skin.

Then came the sight that melted my knees into jelly.

A woman, bent over on Trent’s desk, her scarlet hair spilled across her shoulders like fire, one cheek pressed against a stout stack of documents. He was standing behind her, fully clothed, pounding into her while squeezing the back of her neck like he’d done to me the day he escorted me to my car after he’d caught me pickpocketing. Like an animal.

I wanted to move. Knew that I needed to, fast. But I was overwhelmed by everything—my being caught, them being caught, and the realization that I was about to catch on fire with jealousy. I was glued to my spot, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene in front of me. I didn’t have to make myself known. I was standing right in front of them, choking the doorknob with my grip, mouth comically agape. My heart parachuted, making my stomach roll in both agony and thrill.

Trent’s eyes locked onto mine, his hips rolling forward as he showed me how he fucked. Thrusting, moving, demanding. He twisted the tresses of her burgundy hair between his strong, long fingers. And he watched me. Watched as if it was me bending for him, taking him in. I returned his gaze.

“Van Der Zee, you’re here just in time for the eight o’clock show.” His indifferent tone was a contrast to the wild act he was performing for his audience. Me. “I know what you’re looking for, and it is in my pocket. Word to the wise—this game is played by two. If I finish before you make yourself scarce, I will chase you. And I will catch you. Which means that you will sing for me, Edie. You will tell me exactly what your father’s fixation is with me. So, leave.”

This was the part where any sane girl would run for her life. Take his advice, turn around, and make an escape. But I was coming to terms with the fact that maybe I wasn’t completely sane, and that I was undeniably not a smart girl where Trent Rexroth was involved. I dropped my eyes, scanning the woman. Her wide eyes told me getting caught wasn’t her kink, and yet she kept grinding against him. Horror and embarrassment leaked from her features. She looked back at me like she knew me. Like she recognized me. But that couldn’t be true. The redhead looked to be older than Trent, which put a thorn in my gut, twisting painfully. If seasoned was his favorite flavor, he had nothing to look for in me.

Not that I want him, anyway.

My gaze snapped back to Trent. His eyes fed me lies I was tempted to believe, even from him. They told me I was the seed from which everything beautiful grew in this world. That I was air and water and art. That I was the woman he wanted to sleep with. They were naked of everything life had tainted him with and sent raw goose bumps down my skin.

The jealousy. The unbearable green monster felt like it was sucking the logic out of me. I needed to react, even if I had no way of explaining what I was doing there in the first place.

“You wanted me to catch you,” I said quietly, my voice barely quivering. He was still going at it, one of his hands digging into the flesh of her waist as he thrust so hard into the woman, the heavy oak desk moved and scraped along the granite floor. She closed her eyes and moaned. He didn’t acknowledge me with an answer.

“You’re twisting our game,” I added, my hold on the door relaxing. I was still on guard, but my make-believe nonchalance leaked into me, giving me courage.

“I’m making it interesting.”

“You’re cheating,” I said. I didn’t know why. Maybe because it stupidly felt like it. Like he was mine somehow, even though I had no reason to believe that.

“You cheated first.”

“How?”

“With Blondie.”

“Blondie is just a friend.”

“Yeah, well, Sonya is just a fuck.”

I swallowed, my eyes darting to the woman on the desk. She looked too lust-crazy to care about the exchange anymore, and I briefly wondered if this was what being a “proper” adult felt like. My father was indifferent. Trent was indifferent. His friends were. Everyone on this floor was. And the only person who did care about love—my mother—had lost her mind in the process.

Trent’s lover’s cleavage was exposed, the top half of her conservative navy dress unbuttoned, and she was moaning so loudly, her eyes rolling in their sockets, there was no doubt the objectification was mutual with these two.

I hate you, I mouthed, feeling my sweaty hand slipping from the handle. It was directed at both of them. I wasn’t counting on Trent to hear me. It was more of a private declaration. Then again, I forgot that Trent lived with a person who made him scrape for words and beg for sounds.

“Good.” He smirked, jerking his chin up. “Because the feeling is mutual. You’re going down, sweetheart. On your knees, and otherwise.”

“That’s no way to talk to a child, Rexroth,” I taunted, flashing him a grin to match his own. I turned around and walked away, not bothering to close the door behind me. I believed him when he’d said he knew what I came there for. I also knew that Sonya was his answer for me telling him I’d slept with Bane. She was not a part of our equation. In his mind, he was evening the score.

I got to my car in the parking lot, expecting him to follow me, spin me, stop me. That’s what the only constant man in my life had been known for. Tugging at my arms and making sure I listened, and obeyed, and complied. But Trent was the antithesis to Jordan. He enjoyed pushing me, but he never really let me fall. I started my coughing piece of old metal, looking around the blackened parking lot, swallowing down my erratic pulse and the scent of burned rubber and fuel. Nothing happened. I was alone.

Driving home, my mind was not on the road. Somehow, I made it back in one piece and cooked my mom some dinner. She was always watching her weight, so I opted for quinoa with veggies and a tofu burger I pulled from the pack and threw into the oven. I brought it to her bed on a tray and sat at the edge, offering her my idea of a smile, considering my crazy evening. Her eyes were sunken, and so were her cheeks. My mom had been a Miss America contestant at one point. She was still beautiful, but in a sad, wilting way. A flower in sand, without water, air, or roots. She never asked Jordan for anything but to love her.

But he couldn’t even do that.

“Did you have dinner, darling?” She sniffed around the food, like I would poison her or something.

“Yes,” I lied. Maybe it wasn’t such a lie. I’d just had a big slice of humble pie, served by my very own dark knight. He’d shown me what he could do to a woman’s body, and I’d wanted to continue watching even though it made me sick. A tight knot squeezed my throat at the memory of Trent having sex with a woman who wasn’t me. It not only felt bad, it also felt awkwardly good.

Anything that could drive you mad cannot be all bad, right?

Even jealousy. Even hate. Even Trent Rexroth.

“That’s good. Hear from Daddy?” Her tired smile failed to light her face. My father asked me about Rexroth, my mom asked me about my father, and no one asked me about me. Or Theo. Or surfing. I pushed my lower lip out, ironing her linen with my open palm.

“You know how he gets with the time difference and everything.”

I had no idea where my father was, but I wasn’t protecting him. I was protecting my mother. Though I really wished she would divorce him and spare me from taking part in this charade. According to the laws in California, she was eligible to fifty percent of everything he had. She didn’t even need five percent of it to maintain a luxurious lifestyle. I was going to convince her to do it one day, to just get rid of him. But she needed to get better first, and I wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to.

A part of me suspected that her helplessness was a trap. My father couldn’t discard my mother like he did his mistresses when she was in such a fragile state. It was the kiss of death to his career for two reasons: it made him grossly unrelatable—which he was—and it made her a ticking time bomb who could dish out all his dirty secrets.

Mom sprawled in her bed and blinked at the flat TV in front of her. She was watching a soap opera without really paying attention. The show played on mute, and it made me think about the Rexroths.

“I think we should all go on vacation when he comes back,” she declared, tugging at her blonde locks like she wanted to get rid of them. I raised a hand and stopped her from pulling her hair, afraid she was going to yank it out.

“Sure, Mom. Sure.”

The last time the three of us had gone on a vacation was eight years ago. Jordan snuck out one of the nights to sleep with one of the hula girls. Mom had a claustrophobia attack in the sauna—probably as a result of his disappearance—and was rushed to the hospital. Needless to say, it hardly left me craving more family time.

“Is there anything on your mind, Edie? You seem quiet.” Mom paused the TV and cupped my cheek, frowning. Her room was huge and white. It suffocated me, pregnant with still air from her sitting in it all day and stale with her Chanel perfume. I wished I could tell her. About Trent. About Theo. About Bane. About Sonya. I wished I could tell her about Jordan and what he’d blackmailed me to do. I wished I could be the daughter in our relationship, just for once, and break down. Instead, I rolled my eyes, patting her blanketed knee.

“I’m fine. Totally okay. Hey, we need to get you to the doctor tomorrow at nine thirty. Will you be ready, or do you need me to wake you up? I was thinking of catching some waves beforehand.”

“Definitely. I’ll be ready. Dr. Fox, right?”

“No.” I scrunched my nose, giving her a funny look. Dr. Fox was her plastic surgeon. “Dr. Knaus.” She thought she was getting Botox? And that I would take a day off work to get her there?

“Oh, him.” She pursed her lips, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “I think I should just go cold turkey on the pills, to be honest. I’ve read an article, Edie. It says that they really mess with your head. Those psychiatric pills make you feel like there’s a weight lifted off of your shoulders and you get addicted to it, and to them, and it never stops. A vicious cycle. I don’t need them.”

But you certainly do.

“Listen, Mom…”

“Yes, Mom. I’m your mother,” she reminded me, pulling at her hair again, like it was a nervous tick. “The responsible adult in this situation. And I don’t want to take the pills anymore.”

“But…”

“No but.”

“You need them, Mom. I’m not saying forever, but you have to get yourself checked and take care of this, eh, situation. Please, let’s go to Dr. Knaus. He’s been dealing with issues like yours for years. He’ll know what to do.”

“Is that why he gave me the wrong meds?”

“It’s all trial and error with these things. It’s difficult to find the right balance, but once he does…”

“Edie Van Der Zee.” Her voice turned to steel in a second, her tone like whiplash on my skin. My shoulders sagged. Unreachable. She always lived behind a screen I didn’t know how to peel back. “Enough with that. I understand that you are desperate to go surfing, and taking me to the doctor is the perfect excuse to ditch work for a few hours, but you need to respect my decision on this. It is my body. I have plans to make and I want to go on a family vacation, which I intend to start planning for first thing tomorrow morning. The pills are making me gain weight. It’s a proven side effect. They make me tired all the time. I have a bladder infection because of them. Again. I’m telling you, I’m better off doing yoga and drinking that herbal tea your daddy makes me every night when he’s at home.”

For a moment, I just blinked. She thought I was mad because I wanted to go surfing tomorrow. Thought she was a tool, a pawn, a small chunk of a bigger plan. Clearly, she’d lived with my father far too long. I got up from her bed, running my fingers through my long, untamed hair.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me,” I murmured.

She gave me a slight nod, pressing the play button on the remote, her eyes shifting to her soap opera. “Same goes to you, darling.”

I walked out of her room trying to think of the last time Mom had helped me with anything and couldn’t come up with one.

An odd feeling coated me. Like everything was going to shit and I had no way of stopping it. I’d caught Trent having sex with another woman—a woman, God, she looked to be in her late thirties—and my mother was starting to deteriorate, slipping further away from sanity right before my eyes.

I stuffed my cell phone into my JanSport, grabbed my keys and surfboard, and went to the beach in the middle of the night, not caring how stupid and dangerous it was.

Everything felt pointless.

Everything but the ocean.