Page 31 of Heart of Sin

I didn’t feel anything after. Mostly just sore. I expected to feel bad or guilty, like I had committed some kind of crime. Instead, I just felt… nothing. My thoughts were on the money, counting it, making sure I had enough.

The guy got up and left right after. I went straight to the corner store and bought what we needed—Zara’s formula and as much food as I could that I thought we’d be able to stretch out for several days, like tomato sauce, spaghetti noodles, beans, eggs, among other stuff.

By the time I carried everything home, Ramon had fallen asleep. Zara had cried herself to sleep. Larry looked like he hadn’t moved a muscle, still passed out on the couch, smelling of pot with the remote in his hand.

If I didn’t do something, nobody else would’ve. That’s what it came down to.

I slip my backpack over my shoulder and turn to walk out. Mom’s already had enough of holding Zara and set her down on the couch. She surprises me, coming up from behind, tugging hard on my ponytail. I cry out and reach back to pry her hands off.

“You think I don’t know you got extra cash on you, you little bitch?” she snarls. She yanks on my hair a second time before letting go completely. “You can stock the fridge, but you still don’t run shit. Where’d the money come from?”

I escape into the hall outside before she can chase after me. The door slams shut, but her wild, angry screams can still be heard through the walls. All kinds of curse words and insults.

Later when I come home, she’ll probably pick another fight. She holds grudges like that.

I blow out a breath and walk off. Dealing with her craziness will always be something that doesn’t feel real. It’ll always feel like a nightmare.

But what other choice is there? I’ve got to do what it takes to survive.

Next week, rent is due. I already know Mom’s going to blow her disability check she receives. We’re past due on our other bills. We’ll be without any electricity if somebody doesn’t figure something out. Mom won’t, because she never does. Neither will Larry. I’m the only one who seems to care.

So, I’ll do what I’ve gotta do.

TWELVE

Louis

PLAYLIST: ? MOURNING DOVES - MIKKY EKKO ?

Present Day…

Tasha groanswhen she sees me walk up carrying a tray. “Big guy, I told you not to!”

“Breakfast in bed is served.”

I set the tray down on her lap like I’m Mr. Fucking Belvedere. She’s covering her face with her hands, trying to cover up the embarrassed smile plastered on her face. My much larger hands close around her wrists and pry them away.

“Happy birthday, gorgeous,” I say. “Sunny side up eggs with cheesy toast and avocado. Coffee and cream too. All the favorites are here.”

“Stop it. Stop spoiling me.”

I kiss her cheek. “What’s the matter? I told you I like spoiling my women.”

“You remembered I told you I’ve always wanted breakfast in bed.” She’s peering at me like she can’t believe what she’s seeing, nibbling on one of her long nails. A habit of hers when she’s uncomfortable, though she often hides it.

An amused smile comes to my face, and I grab her hands and tuck them within mine. “Anybody ever tell you it’s bad to bite your nails? Eat your breakfast, kitty cat.”

“Share with me. Here.”

Tasha picks up a slice of toast and feeds me a bite. It’s damn good toast, crunchy yet cheesy at the same time. I can see why it’s a guilty pleasure of hers. She smiles at my nod of approval and wipes a crumb from my lip with her thumb.

“Your turn. Don’t make me feed you too. These sunny side eggs’ll get messy real quick.”

We’re giving each other a hard time, laughing, and digging into the tray of food. Before I know it, I’m being force-fed some of her breakfast as she insists on sharing with me. We trade bites, which then turns into some kinda strange sexual flirtation even for us.

Tasha’s giving me bedroom eyes as her tongue pokes out to lick her lips and when she drops a dollop of cream on her chest, I’m not gonna lie—I’m eying the white creamy substance with dirty thoughts on my mind.

The end result is us getting carried away. The tray winds up abandoned on the dresser, and we wind up fucking—not once, but twice. The second time happens when we attempt to be responsible and clean up, then get frisky in the bathroom.