Scandalous (Sinners of Saint 3)

“Oh,” she said, the word escaping from her mouth barely audible. I believed Trent when he’d said he was no longer seeing her, but it didn’t make it any less awkward. I wondered if she knew about him and me. If she resented me for it. If she’d even want to help me.

“What are you waiting for, Gidget? The fucking Pope? Come on in,” Bane grunted, making his way through the tiled hallway to the kitchen at the end of it and throwing the fridge open. He took out two cans of beer, like we weren’t eighteen and underage, and sauntered over to the open-plan living room. I stayed on the threshold, unable to do so much as take my shades off.

“Edie,” Sonya whispered urgently, opening the door wider. “It’s okay. You can trust me. I’ve worked as a child psychologist for fifteen years now. Forget what you saw that day. This will not affect you or your brother.”

My brother. That’s right. She was the reason why I’d seen him that Sunday.

Gingerly, I took a step in. Bane was already in the living room, cracking the beers open, The Black Keys’ “Lonely Boy” blasting from the speakers. Sonya and I walked like two stiff figures toward the couch, and I tried to cough away the ball of shame and jealousy building in my throat.

“Wash it with a beer.” Bane flung his long legs over an ottoman, dropping to a shabby, something-from-Friends, purple couch. I glanced at Sonya, who gave me a polite smile.

“You’ve had a long week, I hear.”

I downed the can in a couple long gulps and threw my head onto one of the pillows, closing my eyes for a moment. Thank you.

Sonya laced her fingers in front of me, her legs crossed, giving me her undivided attention. She was dressed to kill, and my feelings toward her were at war. I wanted to dislike her, but how could I when she was hell-bent on helping me, and being so goddamn nice?

“Enjoyed that beer?” She grinned. I nodded, cradling the empty can instead of placing it on the coffee table. My father would kill me for less than staining his precious Italian oak.

“Did you know that in Europe it is legal to drink from the age of eighteen? I always preferred the Russian way better.” Her smile was so big it almost felt like a wink.

Roman ‘Bane’ Protsenko had an interesting mother. She’d run away from Russia with him, giving him freedom, and he, in exchange, lived his life the fullest.

And she was happy for him. Content.

How odd.

“Now, tell me all about your brother and your father’s threats regarding him. I want you to start from the beginning. From when your father placed him in the first group home.” Sonya grabbed a glass of what smelled like vodka from the coffee table and took a sip.

And I did.

I poured my heart out, telling her about how Theo was never loved, not really, by either of our parents. How Jordan had bribed his way out of being a parent, always taking the shortcut, always placing Theodore in institutions and hopping from city to city every holiday so we wouldn’t have to visit Theo.

I didn’t know what was more horrific—reciting the years in which Theo was neglected, saying it out loud and realizing how bad it sounded, or seeing their faces as I confided in them. Sonya looked like she was about to cry, and even Bane turned down the music at some point and stared at me like his world had turned a shade darker.

When I was done, Sonya cleared her throat, looking down at her thighs. “Roman, please step out of the room.”

If Bane was shocked, he didn’t show it, taking his beer and sauntering over toward the door. “I’ll be on the porch, smoking my ass off after that depressing story.”

When the door closed behind him, Sonya met my eyes. “Trent didn’t offer to help you?”

“I…” I tapped my lips, thinking about it for a moment. How much did she know? How much did I want her to know? Screw it. It wasn’t about my summer affair with an older man. This was about Theo. “We got involved for a while and he helped me with paying for Theo’s facility, but nothing more than that. And I doubt he’d wanna help me now. We’re…no longer in touch.”

Sonya uncrossed her legs, took another sip of her vodka, and pressed it to her cheek. Her eyes were glazed over, and for a moment, they held the same look as they had when Trent had entered her. Drunk. I shuddered into Bane’s shirt.

“Why?” she asked softly.

I blinked. “Why what?”

“Why did you end it?”

“Why do you assume I’m the one who ended it?” I wanted to get up and do something, anything, but the need to find out if she knew something I didn’t ignited and burst into flames in me.