Sinners are Winners Read online

  I nodded.

  “They did,” I confirmed. “Apparently the image of me punching that guy in the nuts went viral.” I flushed. “My face and my hand going right toward his nuts is everywhere.” I paused. “The one thing it did do was amp up the traffic to my cake page.”

  “I’ve seen the memes,” he said, sounding like he was fighting laughter. “Some of them are pretty damn good.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I try to avoid Facebook at all costs,” I said as I pulled the largest mixing bowl I owned into the middle of my ingredients and got to work. “The only reason I get on it at all is to answer private messages or deal with my cake page. And if I didn’t have to do that, I wouldn’t. Sadly, that was the thing that kept me here as long as I was able. Selling my cakes while I continued to look for jobs.”

  “You didn’t find any jobs?” he pushed.

  I shrugged. “I found some. I just don’t want to work as a waitress or in an office job. Too much sound or having to talk on the phone really messes with me.”

  He frowned. “Messes with you how?”

  I pointed toward my ear.

  “I’m deaf,” I said, pulling my hair away from my ear to show him my transmitter. “I have cochlear implants. And sometimes, the large crowds mess with my hearing. Things get jumbled and my head starts to hurt. It’s exhausting to the point that sometimes I just straight up turn it off so I can’t hear at all. I’m fairly decent at reading lips, but I got my implants when I was a young kid so reading lips was never really necessary to me.”

  “You don’t talk like you’re deaf,” he blurted.

  I grinned.

  “Tons of speech therapy,” I said. “Tons, and tons, and tons.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me.

  “You look normal.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “I am normal.”

  He winced.

  “I meant you don’t look like you have hearing issues. You don’t talk like you have any, either. It just came as a surprise, that’s all.” He paused. “Do you need any help?”

  I pointed at his double ovens.

  “You can turn those on to three-fifty,” I said as I started measuring out my dry ingredients. “And you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”

  He shook his head and walked over to his double ovens, turning both on.

  I took the moment to check out his fine ass, and the muscles in his back that rippled beneath his t-shirt.

  Jesus, it’d been six months, and the man hadn’t changed a bit.

  Me, on the other hand? I’d gained fifteen pounds, going on twenty.

  I’d refused to step on the scale before I’d left this morning, and based on what I’d had for dinner last night with Royal and Justice, I definitely wasn’t losing any.

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “And I’ll probably leave at some point. But for now, it’s definitely interesting.” He paused. “I think you’re the first person to actually cook in the kitchen, to be honest. I’ve had the kitchen done for going on four months now, and the only thing I’ve done in it is boil water for Ramen Noodles.”

  I smiled.

  “That makes me happy, breaking your kitchen’s cherry,” I teased. “Hey, did you hear that Tad was sentenced to anger management classes?”

  He frowned.

  “No,” he said. “I would’ve thought he would’ve gotten more. That’s just a slap on the wrist.”

  “Apparently he’s ‘normally not quite so volatile’ and an ‘upstanding citizen.’” I did finger quotes in the air. “And honestly, maybe he is. That man that was at that baseball game with me wasn’t the one I agreed to go out on a date with.”

  “Maybe he has multiple personalities, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” he offered. “He didn’t even get community service or anything?”

  I shook my head.

  “Apparently, he already volunteers a lot of his time at a local underprivileged youth shelter,” I said. “He does over thirty hours there every two weeks. He has documented proof, too.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Interesting.”

  It was.

  “I wonder what the fuck happened with him that day?” I said. “But the good thing is, he’s left me alone. Despite him being quite close to me.”

  “How close?” he asked as he watched me measure the vanilla with rapt attention.

  “Couple of blocks,” I answered almost absently. “That wouldn’t have been that bad, but he also works in the building across the street from me.”

  “Did you know this when you agreed to a date?” he asked curiously.

  I shook my head. “Not when I agreed, no. But when he picked me up for the date, he told me that he and a friend worked out of the building across the street. They’re computer techs or something.”

  Lock grunted.

  “I love dabbling in computers,” he admitted. “Fuckin’ sucks that we have something in common.”

  I grinned up at him before going back to my eggs.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as he watched me.

  “Separating the egg whites from the yolks,” I said. “This recipe calls for five eggs, and four egg yolks.”

  He grunted.

  “That’s a lot of fuckin’ eggs,” he said.

  “This is a lot of fucking cake,” I shot right back.

  He snorted out a laugh and went to the counter where I could see a Keurig resting.

  “Want some coffee?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Not unless you have decaf,” I replied hopefully.

  He looked at me over his shoulder.

  “No,” he said. “Sure don’t have that rot.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Trust me, I would much rather be drinking the real stuff,” I admitted as I started mixing the batter by hand.

  “Why do you say it like that?” he asked curiously, hitting the brew button on the coffee pot and turning to rest his narrow hips against the counter.

  I nearly groaned at the smell of the coffee.

  I hadn’t gotten any today—decaf or no decaf. A, I couldn’t afford it, and B, I’d packed my coffee maker up last night as I’d packed.

  “Because my doctor suggested, at a very young age, that I limit my intake of caffeine,” I said. “I’m only allotted a certain amount a day. I’d rather drink the decaf and have chocolate rather than drinking the coffee and getting no dessert.”

  “Your doctor suggested it?” He tilted his head. “Do you have something wrong with you?”

  “No,” I paused. “Not really. More like I could have something wrong with me if I wasn’t careful.” I tapped my chest right where my heart would be. “I have an irregular heartbeat. The more caffeine I drink, the worse it acts up. Nothing too serious, but something my doctor wants me to be cautious of.”

  He grunted out a wordless understanding.

  “How long will that cake take to bake?” he asked as I started to pour the batter into the trays.

  “This one?” I paused. “About forty minutes or so.”

  “You say this one…”

  I winked at him.

  “That’s because this is only the top layer of the bride’s cake. I still have to make the other four layers, as well as the groom’s cake, which is only one layer, but about twice as big as everything else.” I paused.

  He took a seat at the opposite end of the counter from me, propped his chin in his hand, and stared at me as he silently drank coffee.

  We worked in companionable silence for about ten minutes while I whipped up the other cakes. I was on the batter of the third layer when he said, “You dripped some of that batter on your chest.”

  I looked down, and sure enough, there was a splatter of batter right between my boobs.

  I cursed myself for wearing this particular tank top.

  I’d originally meant to wear something less rev
ealing, but then I’d decided last night to forgo doing laundry in lieu of watching two more How To Get Away With Murder episodes, and when I’d woken up this morning, all I’d have left was the one I currently had on.

  It was technically one that I’d had since high school.

  A black halter top with black lace piping around the edges, it’d been cute as hell once upon a time. Now it was a little too small seeing as I’d grown boobs since I’d worn it last—growing boobs was par for the course when you gained weight. Apparently, when I gained weight, it went first to my tits, and then to my ass.

  I’d yet to see the extra pounds anywhere but those two places, and honestly, I wasn’t really sure that I should even complain about it.

  It was a good weight to add on seeing as I now had boobs to fill out my halter tops.

  “Shit,” I said as I reached my finger up and stuck it down into my shirt, swiping it up and collecting it from the deep crevice.

  I had a really awesome bra on.

  Like, super awesome. I recommend every single person that has boobs to go get one exactly like mine. It lifted, separated, and honestly perked the girls up so well that they looked edible and fake.

  I needed to go buy more if I was going to continue to wear it as much as I did.

  Lock cleared his throat, drawing my attention.

  When I looked at him, though, he was looking down at the countertop as if he could see something that I couldn’t.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Do you mind getting the oven doors for me?”

  He stood up as if he loved having a direction to be pointed in, and practically skipped to the oven and grasped the door handle, waiting for me to get to him. When I finally did, he opened it, steadied the pan, and waited for me to stretch up onto my tippy toes to get it into the oven.

  “Almost too tall for you,” Lock chuckled as he once again retook his seat.

  I closed the oven door and rolled my eyes at the man.

  “I’m average height for a woman,” I told him. “Five-foot-six is about seventy percent of the female population.”

  Lock’s brow rose.

  “Actually, average height for a woman in the United States is five-feet-four inches,” he corrected me.

  I snorted.

  “Trust you to know the facts,” I teased. “How do you know that?”

  “I know random shit,” he said. “I make it my life’s purpose to know random shit. Knowing random shit makes fighting with my sister much more interesting.”

  “You still fight with your sister?” I asked in surprise.

  He shrugged. “Not as much now as I did back when I was a kid.”

  I felt my eyes crinkle at the edges.

  “I don’t have any brothers and sisters,” I said. “My parents tried for years after I was born to no avail. But they did foster some kids when I was growing up.”

  “Wow.” He crossed his arms and then leaned onto the counter. “That’s tough. I have a buddy that used to be in the foster care system. He raves about one foster parent he used to have. Some are definitely miracle workers. My buddy was really fucked up. The man and woman that took him in for a few months, though, straightened him right out. Talked him into going into the Navy. That’s how we met.”

  I smiled.

  “Tad actually used to be in foster care,” I said. “My parents declined watching him, though. They did refer him to someone in my father’s club’s Alabama chapter, however. That man ended up adopting him.”

  “There’s no bad blood there between Tad and your family?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Honestly? I doubt it. It was pretty self-explanatory at the time why my parents said no. My father had gotten hurt on the job and was off work for about eight weeks. My mom was in the middle of classes—she’s a science teacher—and we already had two other foster kids—both of which were extremely high maintenance.”

  “High maintenance how?” He took a sip of his coffee.

  “One had severe PTSD from something that happened to her parents which brought her to us in the first place.” I paused. “Every time our lights went out, I remember her freaking out so badly that she had to be medicated. And, before you ask, I also don’t know anything about what happened. My parents might, but at the time I was just twelve or so and didn’t really care all that much.”

  He grinned.

  “And the other?” he asked.

  I shuddered.

  “He was a freaky little kid,” I admitted. “He was sixteen when he came to stay with us for a couple of months.” I thought back to that time in my life. “I wasn’t sure what it was that freaked me out about him. But you know those kids—or sometimes just people in general—that just give you the creeps? They don’t have to say or do anything, really. You just know that they’re fucking weird and you don’t want to be around them—especially not alone with them?”

  Lock’s eyes locked on mine.

  “Yeah, I do,” he said.

  I studied him for a long moment before I started explaining more.

  “Kris was sixteen, as I said.” I paused. “He used to cut himself. I used to walk in on him doing it. As if he was wanting me to catch him.”

  Lock’s eyes narrowed.

  “Did you tell your parents?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I did,” I confirmed. “And they confronted him about it. Took him to counseling. But that didn’t fix him. If anything, it made him worse, and honestly more secretive about how he did his cutting.”

  “What else happened?” he wondered, leaning forward as if he knew there was more.

  I frowned. “How do you know that there’s more?”

  He grinned. “I’m a cop. Cops are curious by nature.”

  “I forgot that you were a police officer,” I admitted.

  He nodded his head with a small grin forming on the corner of those perfect lips.

  “Nice,” he said. “Now, tell me what happened.”

  “After I told my parents what happened,” I said as I walked the bowls over to the sink and rinsed them. “I used to get visits from him in the middle of the night.” I shivered. “He never did anything, just stood there and looked at me for hours.”

  Lock was at my side moments later, reaching his nearly empty coffee mug out and filling it halfway with water before dumping it out beside my bowl.

  “Sounds like he’s definitely freaky,” he confirmed. “What happened then?”

  “I told my parents, and they decided enough was enough and found him another place to live.” I licked my lips. “But over the next year or so, I used to get dead birds and shit on my windowsills. I swear to God, it was him.”

  “Fucking creepy,” he said. “Sounds like you dodged a bullet, though. Your parents trusting you like that is awesome.”

  “My parents are the best,” I agreed.

  “No, mine are the best,” he corrected me. “Yours are probably second best, though.”

  My brows rose. “I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

  He winked.

  “Probably for the best,” he admitted. “Are you hungry? I can order lunch.”

  Actually, I was absolutely starving.

  “No,” I lied. “Thank you, though.”

  He eyed me from where I stood at his kitchen sink, washing my dirty dishes.

  “I’m going to order Waitr anyway,” he said. “And I’ll get you a hot dog unless you tell me what you really want.”

  I tilted my head.

  “Maybe I’m really not hungry,” I told him.

  “Or maybe you just feel bad like you did at the ballpark when I got you that hot dog,” he countered. “Which, might I add, I have yet to receive my beer for.”

  I looked over at him in surprise.

  “You’re actually right,” I admitted. “I completely forgot about that.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “Chick-Fil-A, Taco Bell, T
he Back Porch or pizza?” he asked.

  “Surprise me,” I told him.

  Actually, they all sounded great. Though I could seriously go for one of Chick-Fil-A’s sweet teas, a taco supreme from Taco Bell, a slab of ribs from The Back Porch, and a slice of pepperoni pizza to finish off my unhealthy meal.

  Not that I’d tell him that.

  “Pizza then,” he said. “Is there anything you don’t want on your pizza?”

  “Anchovies, olives, or mushrooms,” I told him instantly. “The rest is a-okay in my book.”

  I turned the water off in the sink as he lifted the phone to his ear.

  “You forgot the spatulas.” He pointed at the objects still covered in batter.

  I picked up the closest one and started to lick it.

  “Isn’t it bad for you to lick the batter off of the spoon?” he asked. “I’ve always heard it’s dangerous.”

  “The cost/risk ratio is acceptable to me,” I said as I licked the batter. “I’m fairly sure I won’t get salmonella poisoning. And, if I did, then I’d just go to the doctor and still come out okay on the other side. I might change my tune later, but so far, nothing bad has ever happened when I licked the spoon…only good.”

  His eyes stayed on mine as he ordered our pizza.

  And when I finished the first spatula and moved to the second, his eyes went dark and hot.

  By the time he’d ended the phone call, I was halfway tempted to put the spoon down…which I did, or at least started to do, moments later.

  “Don’t stop,” he urged. “Please, finish it up.”

  I felt a bloom of heat on my cheeks as I said, “No, that’s all I wanted.”

  Lies.

  Total lies.

  What I really wanted was an entire bowl of the stuff, but a couple of licks of a serving spoon would be enough for now.

  Maybe.

  “How much time is it going to take to get here?” I wondered aloud.

  He shoved the phone back into his pocket and said, “Twenty-five to thirty-five minutes.” He paused. “That means that we’ll probably get it around midnight.”

  I burst out laughing at that.

  Sadly, with Luigi’s being the best pizza place in town, sometimes they got a little far behind when it came to deliveries.