Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

She turns to look at us and to her credit she only flinches slightly when she realizes I’m not alone.


“I’m sorry,” she says, slowly placing the bowl of popcorn next to her. “I didn’t realize you had someone with you.” She’s squinting at us—with the glare of the TV and us in the shadows, she probably can’t see that well.

I take a step toward her. “Vicente was dropping me off so I thought I’d bring him in to meet you.”

So you can stop being so goddamn paranoid.

My mother slowly gets to her feet, rubbing her palms on her thighs before offering her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Vicente,” she says.

Vicente steps out of the shadows and grasps her hand in his. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. McQueen.”

A faint gasp comes out of my mother’s mouth as she stares at Vicente in absolute horror.

“Something wrong?” Vicente asks lightly.

“Mom,” I chide her. “You’re being rude.”

What the hell is wrong with her?

She just blinks, managing to clamp her mouth shut while her eyes stay wide open. Vicente shakes her hand and shoots me a sly smile. “She must be shocked by my handsome good looks.” He turns back to her and raises her hand to his mouth, not dropping eye contact as he kisses it. “I’ve been told I have that effect.”

I have to admit, it’s a really weird moment. I wasn’t expecting for Vicente to be so intense with her, and I wasn’t expecting her to have a fucking aneurysm.

He drops her hand and looks around the room. “A really nice place you have here.”

“Thanks…” she says, swallowing hard. She glances at me and I can still see traces of fear in her eyes. I don’t know what her deal is.

“Mom, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I tell her. “Chill out. He’s not staying. I just thought he’d come in and say hi and you wouldn’t act like an absolute loon.”

“I get that a lot,” Vicente says, coming back to me and taking my hand, squeezing it. I squeeze it back, grateful for his support. “I must have one of those faces.”

“You certainly do,” my mother says carefully. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Vicente.”

“Vicente what?”

“Mom…”

He gives her a charming smile. “Vicente Cortez. Do you want to see my driver’s license?”

“ID doesn’t mean anything,” she mutters under her breath. Then she perks up. “I’m going to go get us some wine for the occasion.” She looks at Vicente. “Do you like wine, Vicente Cortez?”

“I prefer tequila, if you have it. Patrón.”

“I don’t. Wine it is.” She walks over to me and grabs my arm. “Violet, I need your help with the glasses.”

And then she hauls me out of the living room. I look back at Vicente, trying to shrug, but he just raises his palm and nods, somehow understanding all of this.

“Mom,” I hiss at her when we get to the kitchen and I wrestle out of her grasp. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“Don’t you fucking swear at me,” she says, hugging her arms close to her chest.

“What? Since when?”

“Since you bring some fucking strange Mexican into the house.”

Whoa. “Mexican? Mom, please don’t tell me you’re drinking the racist Kool-Aid now.”

My mom is the most liberal person I know.

“You don’t know him, Violet,” she says, pacing between me and the fridge, her fists opening and closing. “The other day, two men, Hispanics, not from around here, were shot dead in the park.”

“That happens all the time,” I tell her.

“No. Not like this. It was a clean killing. Nothing sloppy or rushed about it. Not the kind of killing you would do over a drug deal. It was murder and it was planned.”

My mind is totally boggled. What the hell is she talking about? “Murder? What? Mom…I think you’ve been watching too many crime shows…” I trail off, my mind going where I don’t want it to.

To the newspaper clipping.

“Why does it matter if he’s from Mexico?” I ask carefully. “Do you have bad blood with them? Did something happen once?”

She stops pacing. Looks at me with a pale face. She blinks, trying to take in my words. Finally she says, “No. No.” She presses the heel of her palm to her forehead and takes a deep breath. “Sorry, baby. My medication is messing with me these days. I think I need to switch. I just…you’re right. I’ve been watching too many shows.”

I exhale loudly, feeling bad. I don’t know why, but that’s par for the course.

“Let me get the white,” I tell her, opening the fridge and taking out an almost full bottle of chardonnay.

“I’ll get the glasses,” she says absently, grabbing three of them from the cupboard. When she puts them on the counter and I begin to fill them up, I can feel her watching me very carefully.

“What?” I whisper tensely.

“I just want you to be careful,” she says in a low voice. “That’s all. You said this was the guy who always has the right thing to say. And I can see that. I don’t trust him.”

I give her a sharp look. “I don’t care if you don’t trust him. I do.”

She shakes her head slightly but doesn’t say anything.

“You going to behave?” I ask her. “Be a normal mom?”

She flinches at that, almost spilling the glasses. “I am a normal mom.”

I let out a dry laugh and walk back to the living room. Fucking hell she’s normal.

Back in the living room, Vicente is hunched over, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the family photos on the mantelpiece. I have to admit that with his dark grey jeans and black long-sleeve shirt, he does look a little like the bad boy every mother has to warn her daughter about.

“Here you go,” I say to Vicente, holding out the glass. “Sorry about my mom. She needs new meds.”

“Violet,” she admonishes, and I can tell from the tone that I’ve actually zinged her with that one. But she needs to understand that the honesty is important to Vicente.

Vicente takes the glass from me and raises it at my mother. “Regardless, thank you so much for letting me into your home, Mrs. McQueen. No, that sounds too formal now that we are all friends. What else can I call you?”

“Mrs. McQueen is just fine,” she says sternly.