Page 8 of Craving Sin

“They’re stuffed and delicious.”

I tell her thanks and then go into the breakroom, where there is, in fact, a huge box of stuffed donuts on the table. I pick one that looks to be lemon and take it to my office. “Happy birthday to me,” I say to myself, before taking a bite—alone.

*

It’s not every day that you turn thirty-eight and realize how lonely you are.

I have two birthday messages—one from my ex, who I’m sure just feels sorry for me. I assume he messaged from his new house with his new boyfriend, where they spend a lot more time together than Hector and I did.

Hector: Happy Birthday, A. I hope you went out and did something fun. You deserve it.

Hector isn’t a bad guy. Not that I’m excusing him for cheating on me, because for the year and a half we were together, he was fucking another man for six months of it, and then tried to make me believe he didn’t break up with me, for me. As though he did me some kind of favor by stringing me along while he not only stuck his dick in someone else, but fell in love.

“You don’t get out enough, Abbott. You don’t have friends. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Okay, so clearly Hector isn’t perfect, but I do think there is a part of him that cares about me, that really did think he was doing his best to try not to hurt me by telling me he’d found someone else. And as a whole, he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true.

And hey, at least he cares enough to message me himself because the only other Happy Birthday note I have is an email from my father’s assistant.

Preston,

Your father asked that I send you a message wishing you a Happy Birthday. He loves and misses you and hopes the two of you can get together soon.

Thank you,

Alexandria Mason

He does not, in fact, love me, and I’m sure it’s Alexandria who remembered it’s my birthday in the first place.

This is why I’m half-deep in a bottle of bourbon, when I rarely ever drink, and why the world looks fuzzier than usual. Why I can sit here, on the balcony off my bedroom, and acknowledge the fact that I’m alone. And that I miss my mom…so fucking much. And that in a way, I’m no better than Hector.

Because even though I was a child, I knew about the women my father had. That I kept his secret. That I let him hurt her.

If there is one thing my father loves, it’s power—professionally and personally. He likes being important to women, likes getting what he wants from them, fucking them, and then walking away, because in reality, they mean nothing to him.

Just like my mother hadn’t.

It’s my loneliness, coupled with the fact that maybe if I had told my mom the things I’d seen, she would have left him. She would have left him, and then maybe she wouldn’t have been waiting on my father that night when a guy crossed her path and decided her money was more important than her life.

I flip my cell over in my hands a few times, and when it’s face up, I stare at the email from Governor Abbott’s assistant—the man who couldn’t be bothered to message me himself.

I don’t know why it’s bothering me tonight. I don’t want to hear from him. There’s nothing we have to say to each other. If we never spoke another word, I would be okay, but for some reason, I find his name in my contact list and press it. Governor Abbott—I don’t even have him listed as Dad.

“What is it?” he asks instead of saying hello. Honestly, I’m surprised he even answered, but considering I never call him, he had to be curious.

“I was five years old the first time I saw one of them.” I take another drink of the bourbon, my throat feeling hot.

“One of what, Preston? You’re going to have to give me more than that to go off of.”

“She was my babysitter,” I say, picturing it. His office door at home cracked…her sitting on my father’s desk. He stood between her legs, running his finger up and down the side of her face. “She was a college kid. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. She used to come over to stay with me when you and Mom went out. You told me she had something on her face, and you were helping her get it off. I was young and naïve, so of course I didn’t get it.”

“What are you going on about? Are you drunk? Calling me to make up stories while you’re drunk is childish. We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

“They were all young,” I say next. He doesn’t reply, but he hasn’t hung up. I can hear him breathing. “When I was nine, I saw you kissing one of them. You’d forgotten Mom was dropping me off at your work. You forbade me from telling her, told me that you loved her, and all it would do was hurt her… You don’t want to break your mother’s heart, do you, Preston? She would never forgive you. Please don’t hurt your mother. It won’t happen again. Jesus, I can’t believe you said those things to me.” I can’t believe I’d believed him. He put the responsibility on me, made me think I would be the one hurting her. “She deserved better than you.”

“Don’t be so naive. You didn’t say a word to her because it was easier for you not to, and your mother wasn’t as innocent as you think. She knew, and she didn’t care as long as she kept living the lifestyle I provided for her…the same way you wanted to live the lifestyle I provided for you.”

I don’t even bother arguing with him. There’s no point. And hell, maybe he’s right. Maybe I didn’t tell for selfish reasons.