Guilty As Sin (Sin Trilogy#2)

I disconnect the call and feel a twinge of guilt for all of two seconds that I hung up on my mother. I’ve already admitted I’m a shitty son, so it’s not surprising. I’ve lost too many hours of my life to her tirades, and they never actually solve anything.

Letting Commodore take the role of explaining may seem like the coward’s way out, but I’m not taking responsibility for the consequences of him sitting on the information for months. This could have been resolved easily enough if he had made different choices.

I rise from my chair and tuck my hands into my pockets as I walk toward the windows. The frothing water churns over the rocks, and I finally let myself ask the question I’ve been avoiding since yesterday morning.

Was Ricky Rango my half brother?

The very idea seems ludicrous.

I stride back to my computer and lean over it to type his name into the search bar.

Dozens of images pop up immediately. Rango onstage. Rango walking the red carpet. Rango on late-night shows, standing in front of exotic cars, signing autographs, and taking pictures with his arms slung around the shoulders of adoring fans.

I forget to look at his face for any kind of resemblance, because I’m too struck by one similarity all of the pictures share—Whitney isn’t next to him in any of them.

I scan the screen, scrolling further down the page. Finally, at the bottom, I spot a photo where she’s partially visible. It’s another red carpet. Maybe some kind of awards show? She stares at the ground, a smile on her face that even I can tell is forced.

She married him, but she was never happy with him.

I’ve spent ten years assuming she was off living the high life as the wife of a rock star, but I’ve never been more wrong about anything.

No more assumptions when it comes to Whitney. None.

I lower myself into my chair and reach for my phone to listen to the songs she wrote, but it vibrates with a call as soon as I touch it.

Commodore.

“Yes, sir?”

“Meet me at the cemetery. Now.”





24





WHITNEY





“EXCUSE ME. SO SORRY.”

The blonde steps back. Her look of surprise is impossible to miss, as is the sharp knowledge in her gaze. She says nothing as she looks me up and down.

“They were right. You’re here.”

I decide that this is one of those times where it would behoove me to play dumb. “I’m sorry? Do I know you?”

Maren takes a step forward and gets a little too close for comfort, but I’m not about to step away. Women like her are the predators of the female gender, assessing potential prey for signs of weakness to determine who will be the easiest to attack. It’s a behavior I may as well have a master’s degree in after watching it so often around Ricky and his bandmates. When it comes to snagging rich and powerful men, women can be absolutely terrifying in their determination to win.

“Do you know me? Really, Whitney?” Her snide tone drips with condescension.

Instinct makes me straighten my shoulders and stand taller. I’m not the weak one here today, I remind myself. I’m confident and strong.



“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Ms. . . .”

“Higgins. Maren Higgins.”

I keep my politely confused expression in place as I shake my head. Ricky wasn’t the only good liar. I can pull it off when needed.

“I’m afraid I have no idea who you are. Which is strange . . . considering you seem to think you know exactly who I am. If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else I need to be, and you’re blocking the door.”

She stays put, her mouth twisting in a way that’s wildly unattractive. “You can pretend all you want, but we both know that you’re here trying to steal my boyfriend, and I’m not about to let that happen.”

“I think you’ve been misinformed, Ms. Higgins. I’m here because this town is my family’s home. In fact, since you know exactly who I am, you know Gable is named after us.”

“I don’t care who it’s named after. The Riscoffs own this town, and Lincoln Riscoff belongs to me. You need to back the hell off before I make you.”

I should have known politeness wouldn’t get me far with Maren, but at least I tried it. I really did. Now I’m done letting her sling threats at me without protecting myself. Women like Maren understand one language: bitch. And luckily, after ten years in LA married to a rock star, I’m fluent in the dialect of super-sweet bitch.

“Oh, you’re the fling.” I impress myself with how authentic my surprised tone comes out. “I did hear about you, actually. No one has ever called you a girlfriend, though. I was under the impression you had an on-again, off-again thing that has firmly been in the off position for a while.”

Her back goes poker straight. “I don’t know what he told you, but Lincoln and I are in a relationship.”

“To be totally honest with you, Maren, Lincoln never mentioned you. I heard the gossip around town. You know how this place is.”

She jabs her finger into my robe. “Listen up, bitch. He’s mine.”

This time I do step back, because I don’t want her touching me.

“First off, don’t ever touch me again. My lawyers would eat you alive in court. Second, you should probably clarify things with Lincoln if you’re so sure he’s your property.”

Rage burns in her gaze, and I can see how badly she wants to shred me to pieces with her tongue and her claws, but she reels it in and steps back. Retreating to fight another day, no doubt.

Her expression turns into a creepy mask of calm to blanket the anger, and I realize I made an enemy in Maren Higgins long before this moment.

“It was nice to meet you, Whitney. Next time, I’ll be sure to bring my card so if you ever want to move out of your aunt’s shed, I can find you a place. Maybe the trailer park?”

I smile as sweetly as I’m capable. “Thank you so much for the offer, Maren, but I’m staying here at The Gables, and it’s just too comfortable to consider wanting to leave anytime soon.”

Her mouth pinches before she opens it to retaliate.

“Ms. Higgins?” A spa attendant stands in the doorway to the lounge. “I’m looking for a Ms. Higgins.”

“I hope you enjoy your service, Maren. It was lovely to finally put a face to the gossip. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t run into you again.”

Maren’s brows deepen into a V as she stalks around me, and I can’t stop the victorious smile that spreads across my face.

That’s right, Maren. I might have been beaten down, but I’m still better at this game than you’ll ever be.

I move to the door to the locker room, but it’s already open. McKinley Riscoff stands in the doorway with a grin on her face and starts a slow clap.





25





LINCOLN





THE CEMETERY ISN’T my favorite place to go, but when Commodore hung up before I could reply and didn’t answer when I called back, the choice was taken out of my hands.

He beat me here, which isn’t surprising. I park behind his Escalade and climb out of my Range Rover. Commodore’s power chair is parked on the paved path in front of the Riscoff mausoleum.

When I stop beside him, he starts speaking.

“I always expected I’d be in there long before now. Long before my son.”

“I’m sorry, sir. None of us expected things to go the way they have.”

He looks up at me. “Roosevelt passing before me actually made things easier, though, if you want to know the truth.”

“What?”

Commodore lifts a hand to his face and brushes his knuckles over his lips before he replies. “I didn’t want to leave the company to him. I couldn’t.”

“What?” I hate to repeat myself, but the shock of his words has stolen any others from me.

“He couldn’t and wouldn’t protect and preserve the legacy. I knew that a long time ago.” My grandfather glances up at me. “Why do you think I called you home that summer?”

My skin prickles, feeling two sizes too small for my body. “You knew then . . .”

“That your father was more worried about sneaking around on your mother than dedicating himself to the company I gave everything to build? Yes.”