Guilty As Sin (Sin Trilogy#2)

Just like everyone else, Ricky Rango didn’t realize what he’d had until he lost it. I finally grew a backbone—and then he killed himself.

For months, I’ve struggled with the guilt.

Did standing up for myself really make him push that needle into his vein? Did he know what he was doing when he shot that fatal dose? Could I have stopped it?

I can’t put these questions out of my head. Maybe it makes me weak, but I think it makes me human.

I’m not responsible for Ricky’s actions.

The thought materializes in my head and I grasp it like a drowning woman being thrown a life ring. It grows stronger with every breath I take, and the more I allow myself to believe it . . . the more liberated I feel.

I stare out at the gorge and focus on the blue sky between the clouds.

I won’t let his actions drown me in guilt for the rest of my life.

I won’t let him steal my future because I’m stuck in the past.

I take a deep breath and soak in the beautiful view. I’ve never meditated before, and I have no idea if that’s what I’m doing, but as I let go of the negativity, I feel lighter than I have in months. A few moments later, words start coming to life in my brain, and my fingers itch for a pencil and paper.

It’s not a song. I don’t know if I have any of those left in me, but it’s a voice that won’t go silent until I get the words out of me and onto paper.

I rush to the desk and find a stationery set with a beautiful pen in a decorative inkwell. As soon as my fingers wrap around it, I second-guess myself.

My songwriting ability was equally a blessing and a curse.

But maybe . . . just maybe . . . getting the words out is a way of letting go of the past. Maybe this is exactly what I need to do to give myself any kind of shot at having happiness in my future.

I can write anything and it doesn’t matter. No one will ever see it or read it. It can be just for me. An outlet.

Giving myself permission is like flipping a switch. As soon as the pen touches the paper, I lose myself in the words and time ceases to matter.

Line after line, I unburden my brain from the guilt and negativity that have been dragging me down.

A pattern takes shape, and I flip to a new page. The lines start to rhyme. A chorus chants in my brain. Absently, I hum a melody, and my body rolls with the beat.

It should scare me. I should throw down my pen and back away from the desk, but instead of fear, I’m filled with an undeniable sense of power.

What I’m writing has meaning.

It’s my truth.

I put words on paper until my hand cramps and my brain finally goes quiet, and the only sound in the room is my calm, steady breathing.

I stare down at the scattered sheets and realize that for the first time in a long time, writing words that will become lyrics fills me with purpose. Maybe because it’s out of instinct and not duty?

With my hand wrapped around my now cold mug of coffee, I rise and walk to the windows. I don’t know what time it is, but it doesn’t matter because all I see above me is sunshine and blue sky. The clouds don’t even register.

A smile tugs at my lips. So this is what it’s like to feel optimistic about the future.



I finish my cold coffee just as someone knocks on the door.

Probably Jackie taking a break.

I turn and walk to the door, my step a little lighter. I don’t bother to check the peephole before I pull the door open with a smile.

But it’s not Jackie. It’s Lincoln, and he’s holding a takeout bag.

“Edward called me, worried that you hadn’t ordered lunch or left the room. I told him he didn’t need to report your every move to me . . . but I thought maybe you’d like to eat.”

I blink, staring at the bag as he raises it higher.

“Cocko Taco.”

“Did Cricket tell you it was my favorite?”

Lincoln shakes his head. “No. You told me once.”

“And you remembered?” A strange feeling pangs in my chest.

“I remember everything, Blue.”



We stand there for the longest moment, staring at each other in the doorway.

I bite down on my lip, because it’s on the tip of my tongue to say I do too.





19





LINCOLN





“CAN I COME IN?” I ask.

Whitney continues to stare at me, shock evident in her expression. I probably deserve to have her slam the door in my face, but thankfully she doesn’t.

“Only because you brought tacos.”

She turns and walks toward the marble slab table, leaving me standing in the doorway. I don’t waste time following behind her.

“If that’s what it takes . . .”

She glances over her shoulder at me with a raised brow. “Don’t push your luck, city boy.”

Her use of the nickname she gave me the night we met gives me hope that I haven’t completely fucked this up for good.

“Besides, they’re really my second favorite tacos, so don’t go letting your ego get out of control.”

I set the bag on the table and decide that this challenging version of Whitney is a hell of a lot more intriguing than the girl who let me have my way.

When I pull the tacos out of the bag—enough for about a dozen people because I hedged my bets by pretty much ordering the entire menu—she starts laughing.



“Seriously?”

“I wanted to make sure I got what you liked. Whatever we have left over, we can give to the staff. No one says no to tacos.”

Her gaze cuts up toward mine. “Thoughtful of you.”

But I don’t want to talk about employees or how they’re like family. In fact, I want to stay as far away from any topic that’s likely to have us tiptoeing around to avoid land mines.



“If Cocko Taco is second best, where are your favorites from?”

Whitney chooses two foil-wrapped tacos and a few napkins. “Torchy’s in Austin, Texas. You have to order the Trailer Park, served trashy. It’s life-changing.”

“Trashy?” I ask as I make my selections.

“With queso. If you don’t order it that way, you’re literally missing out on life. Fried chicken with queso is everything. And their guac.” She moans. “Seriously incredible.”

To anyone else, it might feel like inconsequential small talk, but to me, this conversation is the best I’ve had all day. I latch onto the information she gives me like it’s a golden nugget.

“Sounds like you’ve been there a few times.”

She nods and takes a bite. “Some days it feels like I’ve been everywhere . . . but also nowhere at the same time.”

I follow her lead and unwrap my taco. “What do you mean by that?”

She tilts her head to the side as if she’s trying to figure out how to explain it. “Before I left here, I wanted to go everywhere. It took a while before I realized that not all travel is created equal. When you’re hitting a new city every day, all you see is hotel rooms and venues and backstage. It all looks pretty much the same. So, while I’ve been to hundreds of cities, I haven’t experienced hardly any of them. No tourists sites. No landmarks.”

I nod. “I know what you mean. I’ve been to big cities all over the world—and seen their finest conference rooms.”

“Seeing the Eiffel Tower from a hotel window isn’t exactly the same as standing under it at night, staring at the lights.”

I chew the bite of my taco, and I’m in complete agreement with her. I’ve seen a lot of things . . . while on the way to and from meetings. But rarely have I had a chance to experience the culture of the places I traveled because there just wasn’t time.

“So, where would you go first if you were to choose for yourself?” I ask, opening the guac and pushing it across the table toward her.

Whitney snags a chip and scoops up a glob before crunching down on it and letting out a small moan. After she swallows, she reaches for a napkin.

“Back to Austin first for tacos, obviously,” she says with a laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Maybe as a pit stop on my way to the Indian Ocean. I’ve seen it from a plane window, but I want to stand in that crystal-clear water of the Seychelles.”