Page 17 of Born Sinner
I shouldn’t warn him.
The words repeat in my head as I pull my car into the parking lot outside his apartment. They burrow deep into my psyche as I climb the pretentious marble steps leading to his front door. They slice into my heart as I reach out a shaking finger and ring the doorbell.
Nothing.
I ring it again.
Nothing.
“Sam?” I press my face against the narrow window beside the door. There doesn’t appear to be any movement, but I still call his name. “I know you’re in there, SamSanders,” I say, hissing the now-familiar last name. “You don’t know who the hell you’ve messed with. Why don’t you come out here and face me now that I’m conscious?”
Nothing.
Shit.
Exhaustion and nerves hit all at once, and I collapse forward, dropping my forehead against the glass. Heaving a sigh, I twist around until my back hits the brick wall next to it.
Nice. Real smooth, Lola.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I came here with no plan and no forethought. All I know is that I can’t get Santi’s words out of my head.
“Sam didn’t touch me, Santi! We’ve never even spoken to each other.”
“Are you sure about that, chaparrita?”
I thought I was. But now I can’t seem to remember much of anything. And if Santi is right, and this S carved on me stands for Santiago, at some point late last night, I was alone with Colton.
Sanders…whatever.
Something dark and forbidden flares inside me. Something I can never speak of or acknowledge. The thought of him touching me should sicken me, but it doesn’t.
Quite the opposite.
“It’s just the drugs,” I say with a groan, stepping away from the apartment. “Whatever Troy slipped in my drink messed up my head.” Sighing, I turn to leave, when a piece of yellow paper stuck to the far side of the door catches my eye.
The closer I get, I realize it’s a Post-it Note that someone has scribbled on. Ripping it off the door, I read it word for word and line for line. Then I read it twice more as a rush of heat crawls up my neck and stains my face.
When I read his words for the fourth time, I swear I can feel him watching me again.
My mouse doesn't want to be caught. Unless that's what she desires most... Better luck next time, dulzura.
Chapter Eight
Sam
Senator Rick Sandersdoesn’t raise his voice.
Even as a kid, growing up with my twin half-brother and sister, I can’t recall a single time he yelled at us.
His methods of showing his displeasure are far more refined. When he’s really pissed, like he is now, his gray eyes darken to cold steel and the sharp lines of his Armani suit take on all the comfort of razor blades.
It’s his tone that chills the most. His easy drawl drops to a low and vicious rasp where every word, every vowel,every inflectionreturns to the tough Brooklyn streets where he grew up.
“What the fuck did you do last night, Sam?”
“You know exactly what I did, Daddio, and you know why I did it.”
Leaning back in my chair, I gaze unseeingly at the white architrave in his five-million-dollar penthouse home office. My bodyguard-jailers work for him, not me, so I knew a call to the senator would have been made the moment Lola Carrera walked into my party.
