Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

“You know what,” I whisper to him, biting on my lip for a long moment while I find the courage to go on. “It took me a long time to see this but…back in high school, if my boyfriend broke up with me or we had a fight or if I failed a test or something bad happened at home or friends were mean, whatever it was, I would often drag it out for as long as I could. It was like I wanted to wallow in it, become a martyr or something. I couldn’t figure it out, what was wrong with me. I thought that maybe I just liked punishment or I wanted people to feel sorry for me. Like I wanted their pity.”

I take in a deep, steadying breath and meet his eyes. He’s watching me so carefully, absorbing my words as they fall from my shaking lips. I continue. “But later, I realized that wasn’t the case at all. I didn’t want people feeling bad for me. I didn’t want to forever be a victim. All I really wanted was for what they gave me when I was one. When I was hurting, people were a little bit nicer to me. They were more gentle. Tender. Soft. It’s all I wanted. Most people don’t realize it when they’re being crass and abrasive, because the world teaches you that no one deserves extra kindness or extra anything, that there is strength in being hard and tough and strong. It’s buck up, pull up your big girl panties, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get over it. Don’t be so sensitive.” Even saying the words choke me up. “And all I wanted was just a little extra compassion. I just wanted people to be nice to me. Not because I deserved it. But because everyone does. And fuck if it’s hard to find in this world. Empathy is rarer than diamonds.”

There. I’ve just poured my heart out to him in a way I haven’t done with anyone. I’ve never said those words outside my own head before. I’ve kept them locked away because there’s a world out there that just doesn’t understand, and worse than that, will turn on you for it.

And Vicente, of all people, seems to have been born from a tough stock. He’s all tobacco and leather and prickly cactus. He’s steel and fire and the harsh sun of the desert. He’s belts and ropes and ties. He’s everything I’m not.

Yet as he’s watching me, thinking, as we both lie here on the bed naked, I see that deep inside he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“You know,” he says carefully, “in other cultures, being kind isn’t a flaw. And being emotional and open isn’t either. Violet…your heart is safe with me. You know this now. Your heart is safe, as is your mind and your soul and your body. I won’t hurt you. I won’t let anyone else either.”

I could cry all over again.

Only this time I don’t.

All the softness is turning to heat.

I smile.

Grab the back of his head, my hands sinking into his soft hair, and pull him to me, ready to go again.



I want to stay at Vicente’s all night, but again, I know I should go home.

But when his Mustang pulls onto Waller Street, I’m hit with a different impulsion.

“Do you want to come inside?” I ask him. I don’t know why the question makes me feel like I’m in high school.

He grins, a flash of white teeth in the dark. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yeah, if you can find a parking spot.”

Luckily we manage to find one less than a block away. As we walk to the door, my heart bubbles up. His arm goes around my waist, holding me tight while he has a few casual puffs of a cigarette. I briefly lean my head against his shoulder as the feelings run away with me, caught up in the scent of sweet tobacco.

This shouldn’t feel so good, so fast.

It’s so fast.

You’re just introducing him to your parents, I remind myself. This stuff happens.

But that’s not what’s fast. It’s not what’s going on, on the outside. It’s what’s happening on the inside.

Feelings. Motherfucking feelings.

Ridiculous, ludicrous, grandiose feelings.

A whole tree of them, growing at a rapid rate, a canopy above my head.

I can only hope they don’t all rain down on me at once. I can only handle one at a time: desire. Lust. Sexual obsession.

And then what happens next?

We pause in front of my house. The light in the living room is on and I can see flashes from the TV on the walls. It’s only nine o’clock. They’re probably both up and watching television.

Fuck. What am I thinking?

“You think they won’t approve?” he asks me, an edge to his voice.

I squeeze his hand and give him my most reassuring smile.

“Why wouldn’t they?”

They have no reason not to.

Just because my mother warned me about men who know all the right things to say.

She’ll meet Vicente and forget all about that.

He’ll win her over like he won me over.

“Just don’t…mention what we talked about earlier,” I tell him.

“Are you kidding me? I told you that you can trust me.” He pauses, peering at me. “And I’m not going to let what you told me cloud my judgment of them. They’re your parents and I’m sure they’re very lovely people.”

Damn. He really can read my mind.

With that in mind, we go up the steps and I stick my key in the lock, opening the door.

It’s warm inside. The hallway is dark, with only a faint light coming out of the kitchen. The low murmur of the television sounds from around the corner.

“Violet?” I hear my mom say from the living room.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I tell her, hanging up my jacket on the coat hook and gesturing Vicente to do the same with his. “Dad with you?”

“He’s out with Paul,” she says. His friend he often plays music with. It’s probably easier that he’s not here.

I look at Vicente. I can barely see his face in the dark. I grab his hand and then bring him around the corner to the room.

My mom is sitting down on the couch, her hand in a bowl of popcorn. I’m vainly glad she’s not dressed like a dork, not that she normally does but since she wasn’t expecting anyone she could have been in a green face mask and mom jeans.

Instead, she’s in heather grey cotton shorts, her legs curled under her, showcasing the gorgeous cherry blossom tattoo she has snaking up her leg. She’s wearing a thin black t-shirt and probably no bra but she doesn’t really need it. Her hair is down over her shoulders, so dark it disappears into her shirt.

It’s funny how looking at your parents through another person’s eyes makes you realize who they really are. My mom’s a fucking MILF, and at this moment, with her dark eyes focused on the TV, she looks like the spitting image of me, albeit a skinnier, older model.

“Hey,” I say to her, Vicente standing beside me.