Exquisitely Broken (A Sin City Tale Book 1) Read online

  How many CEOs or CFOs of major chains on the Strip can the average person name? I grew up in Vegas, the son of one of the gaming moguls and even I can only up with four names, Benny Binion, Howard Hughes, Bugsy Siegel, and Steven Wynn. Of those four names only, the last one holds any real weight with the media in the post-mob-owned era. Gambling still has a stigma and the people that own these establishments, such as me, are viewed as pariahs in traditional business circles.

  Becoming the story, the focus, doesn’t come with one positive. Putting a face, my face, to an album described as a monolithic statement of heartbreak does not bode well for me or the business that I’ve helped build.

  I run a hand down my face, hot irritation making me break out in a cold sweat. This whole thing just turned into a shit show. The employees give Connor a wide berth as he walks the few feet toward me. His presence is enough to make everyone in the room pretend they didn’t just witness the most humiliating moment of both my personal life and professional career.

  My gaze finds Sin’s retreating form as Aaron and Adam move her through the crowd and into the service hallway. She’s the only motion in the still shocked and unmoving crowd.

  Connor cuffs my shoulder drawing my attention away from the now vacant corner of the room.

  “So, I’m going to ask the million-dollar question. What in the hell was all about?”

  “Not now, Connor.” I push his hand off my shoulder and stalk in the opposite direction Sin had gone. I can feel eyes watching me, and if that isn’t annoying enough, I have a shadow matching me step for step.

  “You know you’re my best friend, right?” Connor whispers through clenched teeth and a professional smile.

  “Right.”

  “And you know I love you like a play cousin that lived next door.”

  “Uh-huh,” I roll my eyes at his pacifying tone.

  “But seriously brah I need to understand why the crown jewel of the entertainment department just went fucking Love & Hip Hop on your ass in the middle of our media blitz.” He tries to stifle a laugh.

  “Too soon, Con. Way too soon. This shit isn’t funny.”

  “From your perspective it probably isn’t, but from where I was standing, I’m highly amused. There is obviously a story that I need to know. Spill.”

  “No.”

  “No? That’s all you have to say is no?”

  “Yeah, that’s all I have to say.”

  We walk through the casino toward the elevators that lead to the executive offices. I almost expect the people sitting at slot machines to stare at us as we make our way across the casino floor, but apparently, my world is the only one that had just tilted on its axis. The elevator ride is fast, but Connor is hitting me with question after question about things that I’ve held in for a long time. Things that are coming out whether I’m ready to talk or not. And just for the record, I’m not ready.

  What more can be said? The “fuck you” from Sin was clear.

  The elevator doors open on the thirtieth floor. The offices are dark except for the ambient light reflecting from the neon of the Strip. I make for my office and collapse in the chair behind the desk.

  I lift a finger to my cheek and gingerly poke at the still stinging skin. Yep. That hurt. “She slapped the taste out of my mouth with that one.”

  “So now he’s ready to talk.” Connor lounges against a bookcase on the wall just inside the door. His gaze direct and his demeanor chill, as if we’re here to discuss something as trite as the weather or our upcoming high school reunion.

  I scowl at his unruffled calm in the face of chaos and open my mouth to speak but the words stay trapped behind my barely concealed agitation. He rotates his finger in a circular motion for me to go ahead with what I’m trying to say. I clear my throat and brush my thumb against the tip of my nose before I try to start again.

  “Come on, man. It’s…” I look up at the ceiling hoping to find an explanation on the tiles. I know I owe Connor something but… “Fuck, this is hard.”

  “Yea, she nailed your ass good.”

  Not what I’m talking about, but the slap complicates things even further.

  Connor takes the seat across from me, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he lowers onto the cushions. “She was all sweet, and doe-eyed when she was talking to me. Your ugly mug shows up, and she turns into a wet cat. I was going in for the kill when you—”

  “Don’t go anywhere near her,” I growl at him.

  Connor doesn’t have a type unless dime piece can be considered a category, and Sin is a ten by anyone’s standards. The idea of him or anyone else, for that matter, having a real shot at Sin still pisses me off. Yes, I know it’s irrational. Yes, I know she’s probably been with other men since me. No, I don’t care if it makes me an idiot. There is this tsunami of emotions dragging me under, rolling me over, and drowning me in feelings that are changing faster than I can feel them. I don’t want Connor or anyone else near her. Sin is mine. At least she will be once I figure out how to get her to talk to me.

  “And why is that again?” He leans forward, resting elbows on knees as he studies me under his broad forehead.

  I reach into the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out a bottle of Herradura tequila and two shot glasses. I tilt my head silently asking if he wants one. He nods, still eyeing me like I’m few cards short of a full deck.

  Maybe I am. When I’m around Sin it’s like Mercury immediately moved into retrograde and the crazy streak my parents tried to educate, socialize, and threaten out of me burst through the surface. I do things on impulse without thought to the consequences like ask my obviously pissed of ex for a second chance.

  I pour two shots and slide one across the mahogany desktop toward Connor. We both pick up our glasses and toss back the clear liquid. The slow burn in my stomach replaces the one on my face. I pour another and drink it just as quickly. My mouth is full of liquor when he starts the inquisition.

  “So, it’s that bad?” Tap. Tap. Tap. Connor taps his glass against the edge of the desk.

  I look at him over the rim of the shot glass still pressed to my lips and nod as I swallow.

  “Yeah.” The other words in my head die off. This time it’s not because I don’t want to talk, it’s that I can’t. I can’t find the words to admit how bad I fucked up. How wrong I was.

  Connor knows me better than most. We bonded at eleven over our shared ethnic background. He thought I was mixed, like him, because of my light eyes and light brown skin, but my family was Creole by way of New Orleans. As the only two black boys in an entire school, together we navigated the waters of gangsta rap, wave caps, slang, and girls. Circumstance threw us in the same arena, but shared experience made us closer than brothers. So, when I hurt, he knows. When I refuse to talk, which I do all the time, he gets it. He knows when to back away and when to push. It’s one of the drawbacks of knowing each as long as we have and as well as we do.

  That’s why when he comments on how the corners of my eyes are tight and repeats that he wants the story, a story that I authored away from him, the ultimate shame I hid from everyone including my best friend, I can barely piece words together into a sentence.

  He’s not going to let this go. If circumstances were reversed, I would be doing the exact same thing. Hounding him with hows and whys. Insisting he let me help. If nothing else, I’m persistent, something we both have in spades.

  “That’s all I get?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. Not after that spectacle downstairs. Go ahead and drink the whole bottle if that’s what it takes. But neither one of us is leaving this office until I understand what went down, and what kind of clusterfuck I’ll be walking into when this shit goes public.”

  Yep, bossy and persistent. Connor folds his hands and waits patiently. Watching me down two more shots as I try to find a rational way to explain who Sin is to me and why things just exploded.

  “I’ll end it right here by killing you myself. We run a mu
ltimillion-dollar company, Jake, not the set of The Jerry Springer Show. Just start at the beginning so we can get in front of this thing.” He rolls the glass between the palms of his large hands.

  “I still love her.” I forego pouring the liquor into the glass in favor of taking a long pull from the bottle.

  “What the fuck does that mean? You love her how? Like half the male population in the world or like—”

  “Like I remember she prefers her showers lukewarm and her tea scalding hot. That instead of perfume, she uses oils that get more fragrant as the day goes on. I remember what it feels like to be balls deep inside her and the way her hands gripped my ass to keep me there. Like I know the particular taste of her pussy and the fact that she rode my face as well as my dick. Like—”

  “Come again?” He waves both hands in front of his face. He gets up, storming around to my side of the desk, and snatches the upturned bottle from my lips.

  “When did this happen? Where was I?” He frowns.

  “At school and then you did those two years in Oxford. I told you about Sin.” I’d told anyone that would listen about her. Especially when we first got together. Connor wasn’t an exception.

  “I remember a Cynthia, not a Sinclair.”

  “Sin wasn’t short for Cynthia, dude.”

  “Is this the one who walked in the house and found…?”

  “The very same,” I grumble.

  “Are you serious? You fucked around on Sinclair James?” He leans against the desk, arms folded across his chest and one eyebrow arched so high it’s almost to his hairline.

  I try to snatch the bottle out of his hand, but he pulls it out of reach. The tequila must be doing its thing. My reflexes are slower than usual, which is good. Maybe it’ll help me forget that split second when I had her body against mine. Yeah… no. Not even tequila is that good.

  “No. I just made a fool of myself for shits and giggles. I love being slapped in front of a room full of people. Good times. It was great fun.”

  “So, CliffsNotes version of this story is the ex-girlfriend you cheated on is now a headliner at our hotel, and by the looks of it, she had no idea you worked here. You still have a thing for her and, correct me if I’m wrong here, she does not reciprocate on any level. Why didn’t you tell me this shit before she got here?”

  “I didn’t think it would be an issue. Other than tonight, what is the likelihood we’d run into each other?”

  “True enough. The only way that you’d see her is if you make it happen. You get in at what seven in the morning?”

  “Around there but I’m always out by three. I can’t tell you the last time I did more than just walk through the casino floor. You know the midlevel execs take care of the day-to-day operations. Her shows will be at 8:00 p.m. and 10:30 p.m., long after I’ve left for the day.”

  “But a heads up would have been nice. Neither one of us is on the floor regularly but this residency is a little different. Once you found out she was here, it didn’t occur to you that we’d have to do press and show our faces? You’re one of the cofounders for fuck’s sake. What a goddamn mess.” He grabs the black cap off the desk and twists it tight on the bottle of tequila.

  “We’ll have to bring media in on this.”

  “We don’t need media. I can deal—”

  “Call Jeanine,” he says loudly, talking over my weakly uttered offer to handle things myself.

  “I’m not calling Jeanine,” I attempt to say around my alcohol-thickened tongue. Jeanine is the director of media relations for the The Hotel. On a good day, and she’s a fucking ballbuster. On a bad day she’s a man-eater. I saw her bring one of the people from food and beverage to tears with stern looks and a brutal word. The only person I’ve ever seen her tone down the attitude for is Connor. No way in hell I’m calling Jeanine.

  “Call her, Jake, and ask her to help you fix this shit.” He pushes off the desk towering over me. “And for the love of God, pull your shit together. You’re not Drake, brah. This crying in your tequila shit is for the birds. You’re Jacob Muthafuckin Johnson. Act like it. You’re smooth enough and rich enough to win any woman, even Sinclair James. Remind her of it.” Connor refastens the buttons of his suit coat and raps his knuckles against the desk. “If you still want her, go get her. If you decide tomorrow that you’re done, that’s cool too, but you have to decide one way or the other.

  She’s going to be here for the next year. That’ll give you time. I have your back regardless.” He starts to walk out the door but turns around and points the bottle at me. “But the shit I just witnessed tonight needs to be a first and the last. Kiss her ass, say you’re sorry. Do whatever the fuck you need to do to make this okay. You got me?”

  “Yeah. I got you.”

  “Vaya con Dios, brah. I think you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  Now

  Sinclair

  I open my eyes disoriented. Where am I? I look around the unfamiliar space and blink at the harsh summer sun bathing the room in bright light. The sun only looks like that in the desert, unfiltered by smog and clouds, free to scorch and burn.

  That’s right. I’m in Vegas. I came home for a residency.

  I stretch and take inventory of my body. I wiggle my toes under the heavy down comforter. I take a deep breath and let the air seep out of my lungs. Yep, everything seems to be where it was yesterday: two eyes, one mouth, one nose. Everything is in place, but I don’t feel like me. I feel like an old, outdated model complete with chips and dings.

  The previous night’s events trickle into my conscious thought and quickly flood my brain with oh shit endorphins. I bailed on a media blitz because I… because of… goddamn Jake!

  This kind of shit only happens to me. Out of everyone in the music loving world, why him? Was it asking too much to enter the city like a conquering hero? I know, I’m not a hero, not by any means, but dammit for once I wanted the people in Vegas to embrace me. To be like that girl is one of us. Instead, I go all Nye County whorehouse and come out the gate swinging.

  Would it have been too much to ask in the four years since I’ve seen him that he’d gained weight and developed a bald spot or sported a limp? It’s like he hasn’t aged a day. Everything about him is exactly the way I remember it. His tall frame, lean and muscled. His bronze skin so perfectly smooth it looks airbrushed. Expressive hazel eyes that broadcast every thought and every emotion. Even the stupid inadequate apologies were coming out of his beautifully shaped lips. How messed up is it that he’s still beautiful to me?

  I’ve only ever let two people close to me. The first one is Adam, who has never let me down. The second is Jake, who reached into the heart of me and devastated everything in his path. Coming face-to-face with him after all these years is like looking at the wreckage of a storm. I can still see remnants of beauty, but it doesn’t cover the gaping holes or broken, jagged pieces of what remains.

  I silenced my phone last night and turned it facedown so I wouldn’t see notifications from all the trolls on social media. I don’t need to look at the phone to know I’m getting hit with a barrage of comments on all my social media platforms. Outside of the he said, she said bullshit of social media, I don’t want to see how my actions have impacted my sponsorships and endorsements. Every contract I’ve signed has an ethics clause. I’m pretty sure physical assault is not considered ethically sound judgement.

  I’d started getting calls from companies I work with and interview requests even before I made it back to the villa. I pull the phone off the side table to see the damage. My closest friends have reached out in a group text.

  Adam: R u ok?

  Miles: Sin-a-sticks!!! I was peeping out the pimp hand? WTF!? Thank Gawd I wasn’t there. I’d h8 to testify against u.

  I guess it’s safe to say someone or maybe multiple someones posted pictures or video of the incident with Jake last night.

  Dan: DUDE, it was seriously epic. Errybdy in the room was like whoa, what happened?

/>   Adam: I’ll tell you what happened. He Who Must Not Be Named caught them hands.

  Miles: Sin, you know I have your back BUT fuck I’m glad I wasn’t there. Boys, next time try knocking-up your wives, it works like a charm.

  Dan: You’re the only one with a wife, dickhole.

  Miles: Speaking of dickholes…

  Adam: And this convo just took a detour south… way south… hahaha get it… south.

  Dan: *fist pounds* Adam

  I can’t help but smile at their craziness.

  Sin: So far, so good. And here’s a thought, can I go one day without hearing about anyone’s junk?

  Adam: Y wld we do that?

  Miles: I can’t speak for the other two, but I don’t carry junk in my pants… I have THE almighty staff of life.

  Dan: Staff of… bawhahaha

  Adam: ☺ ☺ ☺

  I scan the rest of my unread messages and cringe when I read one from my publicist. Ven has been Sin City’s publicist since we released our first EP. The last thing she said to me before she flew out of Las Vegas was to keep my head down and make the easy money. Well, there goes that plan. I wince as a read her messages.

  Venetria: I taught you better than this.

  Venetria: You can’t be this big of an idiot.

  Venetria: Call me. NOW!

  My stomach drops. Those last two text messages clear up any possibility I’ll be able to push Jake into a dark corner and pretend that slap never happened.

  I turn the volume up on my phone and almost immediately, it’s dinging with alerts from Twitter, Snapchat, and every other social media platform I have downloaded. On Twitter alone, I have 10,008 new notifications.

  PR 101 says don’t read the responses. It doesn’t matter if they’re good or bad. Hiding behind a screen gives people courage. Regardless of everything I know, I open the app, curious to see what my Tweeps are saying about @TheRealSinclair, which has been trending for the last five hours. I click on my news feed and groan. The backlash is worse than bad. The first several messages are memes and GIFs of me slapping Jake.