Exquisitely Broken (A Sin City Tale Book 1) Page 10

  “So last night was the first time you’ve seen each other in what… three or four years?”

  I nod as Sin utters, “Yes.”

  “Sinclair, when you signed a yearlong contract with the hotel, did you know Mr. Johnson worked there?”

  “Not at all. We run in completely different circles. I’ve never had a reason to keep tabs on Jake.” And the hits keep coming. She’s right, but for me, keeping track of her was a compulsory impulse. Something I did to stay on an even keel, and in her mind, I didn’t warrant the most basic curiosity.

  “Did you have a reason to slap him?”

  She curls her hands into the soft hair at the nape of her neck. “Yeah I have my reasons.”

  “Any that you want to share?” Jarrod’s mouth turns up at the corners.

  “None that I can share,” Sin says, injecting false lightness into the words.

  “What about you, Mr. Johnson? After last night, do you want to reconnect with Sinclair?” His face splits into a Cheshire cat grin. “Don’t let me put you on the spot here.”

  That’s precisely what he’s doing, but fair exchange is no robbery. I knew when I sat down for this interview that, at some point, my feelings for Sin would come up. Now it’s out there in the open, not somewhere in the foggy past. Maybe saying it in this format will help Sin hear it.

  “I’d move heaven and hell to make a paradise for her on earth if she’d give me another chance.” For the second time since we sat down to do this interview, Sin turns her head to look at me.

  That’s right, baby, let me see you. Stop hiding behind the past and the mistakes. And let me in.

  “You sound like a man still in love,” Jarrod states.

  I shrug. “Those are your words, not mine.”

  “SINCLAIR JAMES FINALLY REVEALS HER MUSE.”

  —USA Today

  “HEARTBREAK AND HAND SLAPS. SINCLAIR JAMES GETS BACK AT CHEATING EX.”

  —People Magazine

  “WHO IS JACOB JOHNSON AND WHAT IS HE TO SINCLAIR JAMES?”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “JACOB JOHNSON DEFINITELY NOT HIS FATHER’S SON.”

  —Las Vegas Review-Journal

  NOW

  Jake

  Opening night in Vegas is always a big deal. It doesn’t matter if it’s for something as mundane as a medical clinic or as grandiose as a themed hotel. Show girls outfitted with glitter and feathers serve as goodwill ambassadors, the liquor flows, the cameras flash, and attendees get suited and booted to see and be seen.

  Having Sin City agree to a yearlong residency with The Hotel elevates this opening. It marks our transition from wannabes to contenders. Shows the haters, and the supporters, we’re serious about creating a legacy in our own right. It serves as a reminder that the large corporations that currently own eighty percent of the Strip aren’t the only ones that can turn a profit. Tonight needs to be perfect.

  After my media debut as the guy who broke Sinclair’s heart, I need a win. Something to pull the focus back where it belongs, off my personal life and on the business. Things have somewhat blown over in the weeks since we did the interviews, but those first couple of days were rough.

  I had reporters camped outside my house and waiting for me in the parking garage after work. They contacted my parents, the people who couldn’t stand Sin on general principle because she didn’t come from money or because her complexion was darker than mine. And because her talents didn’t include knowing the ins and outs of entertaining. Because, because, because… the list is too long to name. If my mother didn’t like her when they first met, then she damn sure can’t stand Sin now with reporters skulking through her garden and peeking in her windows.

  What a clusterfuck. I think she almost breathed fire when reporters showed up on the college campus, hounding my baby sister.

  I’m still getting requests for interviews. The national outlets have all moved on to the hot new thing, but the local papers and news stations refuse to let the story die. If it’s this hard and invasive for me, it must be twice as bad for Sin. As a person who, up until a couple of weeks ago, lived my life in the background, the spotlight is killing me.

  Just yesterday while sitting in the employee dining room, which is a smaller version of The Hotel’s buffet, I was privy to what can only be called a fascinating conversation by some of the dealers. From the sound of it, the employees fall into two distinct camps—those loyal to me because I sign their paychecks and those who hate me because of everything my last name represents in this city.

  I sat in a far corner, hidden by the metal paneling of the drink station. It was nice to sit unnoticed and relax in the familiar cadence of hotel operations. When I heard the first voice, my fork stopped halfway to my mouth.

  Dealer One: “My wife told me she read the article in the RJ about Sinclair James, and apparently, she and Johnson were high school sweethearts, but his family didn’t approve. So, his mother paid her off. Made her leave town.”

  Dealer Two: “Nah, the article I read said that they met in college and he cheated on her. Have you heard the album?”

  Dealer One: “Then why’d she slap him? One of the girls from food and beverage, who was actually there, said that she damn near slapped the color off his ass.”

  They both snickered after that statement.

  Dealer Two: “I’m telling you, the article I read said that she walked in on him having sex with another woman and decided to end the relationship.”

  Dealer One: “For real?”

  Dealer Two: “You know how these rich pricks are. We see them come through here all the time. They think they own everything including people. I’d bet you money she slapped him because he was probably trying to get her and the other woman together for a threesome.”

  Dealer One: “That’s just wrong.”

  Their conversation jumped to something else before they exited the cafeteria and I sat there in a daze. Jesus, is that what people think about me? I get the stuff about my family, at least my mom and dad. They were brutal about my relationship with Sin, my mom is still unflinchingly so. Call it ignorance or naivety, but when I found out about the attempted pay off, I was dumbstruck. My parents made no secret of the fact they preferred I find someone more like them, like us, but paying her off was low. Even I didn’t think they’d take it that far.

  I immediately drove to my parents’ house angry and demanding answers. The most prominent question I had was why? Why would they hurt Sin that way? Why would they hurt me at all? Why would they purposefully destroy the one thing in my life that came without strings? Why? Why? Why? Why? My mother’s response to my questions was a hate-fueled monologue ripping Sin to shreds. It made me physically ill.

  When I think about all the family functions I dragged Sin to I feel even worse. I still can’t wrap my mind around Sin’s silence. She never said anything. Never uttered a word against my parents or about the check. Instead, she gave the money to a halfway house that works with prostitutes trying to transition from the streets and kept it pushing.

  I stroll into the Skybox Lounge, which will host tonight’s event. It’s on the top floor of the arena overlooking the stage and Las Vegas Boulevard. From this position, I can see the empty stage.

  The roadies are scurrying around from one side of the stage to the other. I can make out their clothes—all black. The color of their skin—diverse. Their individual features are nondescript and blurry. I recognize Sinclair as she walks to center stage, hand in hand with a tiny little girl who has toasted brown skin and a mop of golden curls, and my body tenses. I squint as I try to zoom in on the child’s face, looking for a similarity between the two, but all it does is distort the already tiny features.

  She can’t possibly be Sin’s. I would know. The world would know if she had a kid. But the proof is in the pudding, and her pudding is fraught with a secret baby? My heart beats harder.

  If Sin has a kid… who by the looks of her golden skin and tightly curled golden hair is biracial, a p
erfect combination of Sin and Adam. Pressure builds in my chest as reality sinks its claws into my neck. Sin and Adam aren’t just dating. They have the whole package, the career and a family. Suddenly it all makes sense. Their sudden agreement to be in one place after years of touring. They want stability. Someplace their baby could wake up in the same place for more than a couple of days at a time.

  The little girl tries to pick up one of Adam’s guitars and tries to lug it over her shoulder. Its weight is too much for her slight frame, both she and the guitar begin to topple over. One of the roadies grabs them both up and swings them around. The little girl throws her head back and squeals with laughter. I smile at her infectious reaction even through the pain radiating down my spine.

  I turn my back on the happy picture, unable to stand another minute. Part of me wants to snatch Sin off the stage and demand she talk to me. The other part is so damn proud because she did it. Everything we dreamed about as kids—a successful career on her terms, a family. I always knew Sin would be a star in all things. She’s a supernova. Just watching her with the little girl, I can tell she’s a great mom even though in my mind her kids would have been mine not Adam’s.

  I rub a hand across my eyes and do my damnedest to force thoughts of Sin from my mind. Thinking about what should’ve been ours hurts. I’d lost the right to love Sin, touch her, and care for her… It hurts.

  She was supposed to be mine. The picture in front of me was supposed to be ours. Now I get the pleasure of watching her from a distance, and that space is frigid when I know what it felt like to live under her heat.

  I walk to the bar on feet that feel like lead weights.

  “What can I get you, Mr. Johnson?” The bartender places a napkin in front of me.

  “Whatever bourbon you have. Three fingers. Over ice.”

  I watch him pour the amber liquid over perfectly circular ice cubes. He slides the weighted glass across the counter, and I down the bourbon with an eagerness that lives in the alcoholic gene I probably inherited from my grandfather. The bartender doesn’t ask if I want another drink. He simply picks up the bottle and refills the glass.

  “Jacob Muthafuckin Johnson,” Connor’s voice booms across the room. I look up to see him and my father walking toward me. They are both wearing dark-colored suits, but where my father is in a starched white shirt and a crisp navy-blue suit, Connor is in all black, the color of his shirt blending seamlessly with the jacket. This is the first time I’ve seen my dad since Sin came back. Looking at my dad is like having a sneak peek at my future self. We’re identical in most things. Physically I have his height, his build, and his hazel eyes. But I also got his drive, ambition, and his innate money sense.

  “Son.” My father extends his hand as I stand in greeting.

  Clasping his warm palm in mine, I greet him, “Pop.”

  He holds my hand for a beat too long and stares in my eyes. I drop his hand and return to my vacated seat. He and Connor settle in chairs on either side of me.

  My dad orders a scotch and Connor, true to form, orders a shot of tequila.

  “Damn, we’re finally here. I must say the view is lovely from the top. You ready for it?” Connor tosses back the shot and slams the glass down hard on the bar.

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I say through the tightness in my chest, trying to mimic his excitement. This is exciting stuff. Really exciting. The woman that I haven’t been able to cry, drink, or fuck out of my bloodstream in four years has completely moved on. She has a man and a kid and a career. As far as I can tell, she’s checked all the major boxes, and she did it all on her own terms without me. Yep, super excited over here.

  The skybox is starting to fill up. Jeanine walks in. Her short blond hair is slicked back from her face, and her modellike frame wrapped in a knee-length fitted black dress. Connor vacates the seat on my right and with three long strides he’s in front of her. His wide shoulders blocking most of her face. I can’t hear the conversation, but it’s heated. He touches her elbow, and she jerks her arm out of his reach. What in the hell is that all about?

  I turn back to my drink. Connor and Jeanine have had their own thing for a long time. They’ll figure it out. From the corner of my eye, I see my dad take a sip from his glass and swivel the chair to face me. His eyes brush across my features, but I keep my gaze directed on the polished mahogany bar.

  “When you were a kid you were always so serious. I’d find you sitting in my office, frowning over some perceived issue. Your shoulders hunched forward with the weight of your own thoughts.”

  “Is that right?” I say around the burn of liquor going down my throat.

  “I don’t know if it’s right, but it’s true. And you know what else is true?”

  “Nah, Pop, what?”

  An uncomfortable silence stretches between us for the next several minutes. He’s staring a hole in the side of my head, gearing up to say something, and I don’t want to hear it. I love my dad, but I don’t need fatherly advice right now. My game plan for tonight is to get through the next couple of hours. No bullshit. No Drama.

  I finally roll my eyes up to his.

  “Even in elementary school you had a special ability to see the trees through the forest, and you’ll get there again. Give yourself time. Think it through. Not everything is logic, Jacob. Trust your instincts. If they’re pointing you in the direction of Sinclair James, then maybe that’s where you need to be.”

  He leans forward, his elbows resting against the bar, and I’m… confused.

  “Pop, Sin and I… We… There’s nothing between us anymore.”

  A smirk so similar to my own pulls up his lips. “Son, I don’t claim to be an expert on women. But if you can still pull that kind of passion out of a woman, I don’t think it’s nothing. The opposite of love is not hate. Love and hate take the same kind of time. The same devotion. It’s not over until the indifference kicks in,” he says, staring fixedly at the glass in front of him. His words are weighted down with knowledge and something else, I don’t know, maybe pain or regret? “I might be an old man, but from everything I’ve seen, that girl is not indifferent to you.”

  “Are you telling me to go after her? I’m surprised. I’d think after you and Mom tried to pay her off. You wouldn’t—”

  “I never—” he says, cutting me off, a flash of anger narrowing his features. “Not everything is as it appears, son.” He takes a sip of his drink, swallowing before he says, “I know the position we put you in all those years ago. I’m ashamed to say I even knew about the check, but you’re a grown man. Your mother and I can’t tell you what to do, or who to go after.” My father places a heavy hand on my shoulder and lightly squeezes. “What I’m saying as a father is that I’m only as happy as my saddest child. And what I’m saying to you as man is that you’re a good one, son. Stronger than me, smarter than my father, truly compassionate. But you haven’t been happy since that girl walked out of your life. I want you to find your happy. If Sinclair James does that. Then I want her for you.”

  “Pop, it’s not a good time for this conversation,” I say, turning my face from his.

  “Jacob… I wasn’t trying to add to your burden.”

  “Then don’t, Pop.” I bring my eyes back to his silently begging him to drop it. “Enjoy the show and the amenities. I’m fine.”

  “But for how long? How long are you going to pretend like you’re okay? Four years is a long time, and you’re still buried under the guilt and shame and hurt. When the relationship ended, I was relieved. I thought, ‘Now he’ll step into his destiny,’ but I was wrong. I realized how wrong when I saw that interview of the two of you. You were in deep when it first started ten years ago and now? I think you’re up to your eyeballs. I can’t imagine the obstacles. But you have to be that kid again, the one who sees the trees through the forest.”

  My dad gets to his feet and I stare at him stunned. Where did this man come from and what did he do with my father? My dad had never hated Sin with the vehemence
of my mother, but he wasn’t our biggest supporter either.

  He checks his watch. “Your mother and sister should be here any minute.” His eyes sweep the room before turning back to me.

  “Jacob?”

  “Yeah, Pop.”

  “If she’s worth it. It’ll be impossible for you to give up.”

  He leaves me sitting at the bar, a glass of bourbon clutched in my hands, and infinitesimal hope sparking back to life in my soul.

  Ten Years Ago

  Jake

  I’ve never been this far off the beaten path. My Las Vegas is the world of country clubs, private schools, and posh hotels. Needless to say, The Bunkhouse Saloon, located downtown on the corner of Eleventh and Fremont, isn’t a place that’s ever been on my radar. The tiny building looks like it was erected back when Fremont was a dusty wagon trail, and people walked around in cowboy hats and shit kickers.

  After driving laps around the building for several minutes, I snag a parking spot conveniently located three blocks from the front door, but I’m not complaining. It’s better than the lot with vehicles stacked one behind the other. No one is getting out of there until the very last person who enters it decides to leave. Not that I plan to go early, but I’m not sure what I’m walking into here.

  I’ve heard Sin sing. Of course, I’ve heard her sing. Music permeates every nuance of her life. She belts out tunes in the shower and hums while doing homework. When we’re lying in bed watching TV, it’s typical for her foot to tap out a beat while her while her fingers are play air guitar. Loving something and being good at it are two completely different things. I’ll support her either way. She could sound like Roseanne Barr singing the national anthem, and I’d still tell her she fucking rocked.

  In the ten minutes it takes me to walk to the front of The Bunkhouse the line at the entry has tripled. The crowd waiting out front is an eclectic mix of barely there teens and hipsters, all buzzing with almost manic energy. People stand three and four across wearing a slightly different version of the same outfit—dirty sneakers, ripped up or worn jeans, and T-shirts. My fitted joggers, Henley shirt, and retro Jordans get a couple of wary looks, but they could give two squirts of piss about me. They are here for Sin.