Sinner(225)

The interview ends, and I finally get Samantha to get off my arm by promising to call her later even though I’ve certainly never saved her number anywhere. I almost want to smile at the predictability of Reagan marching right up to me after she yanks off her microphone, but I keep it under wraps at the look in her face.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Her eyes flash past me at Sam walking away behind me and her eyes narrow a little, “So how’s Sam?”

I reach out and put my hand on her arm. “Calm down, it’s not what it looks-”

“Don’t tell me to-” She stops and takes a deep breath. “Hudson I don’t care,” she shrugs my hand off and takes one small and yet infinitely giant step back. “We’re both adults here, you can do whatever you want.”

I take a step towards her, my voice low and growling. “You know what I want.”

She opens her mouth but then shuts it abruptly as she nods towards the sound of Samantha giggling obnoxiously at something across the room. “Yeah, I guess I do. Have fun, Hudson.”



I feel like a fucking idiot when I knock on her door, about to escort her to fucking Chet Kennedy’s “gala” event. Whatever the fuck that is. I’m literally driving the girl I can’t get out of my fucking head into the arms of her shitty ex-boyfriend.

The old Hudson would have punched this Hudson in the nuts and told him to sack up.

She opens the door though, and any and all rational thought just flushes right out of my mind as I stare at her. She looks stunning. I mean, she always looks amazing, but the short, slinky, form-fitting little black dress she’s wearing is like a punch right to my gut, and I find myself just opening and closing my mouth as I let my eyes roam over her.

And then of course the thought hits me that she isn’t wearing this for me, and I frown.

“Well?”

Her voice startles me out of my freeze and I jerk my head up. “Jesus, why are you wearing that?” I immediately cringe. Nice man, nice.

Her lip curls into a snarl. “Well fuck you too, Hudson.”

“No, I mean - isn’t this a formal-”

“It’s black tie, black cocktail dress. Isn’t that your circle of things?”

Yeah, hardly.

“I’m just saying you look nice.”

“Gee, thanks. Funny way of showing it.”

I roll my eyes. “Listen, Ray-”

“Can we go please?” She looks at me sharply. “I’ve got a date waiting for me.”

I freeze. “Excuse me?”

She taps her heeled foot on the ground. “I said can we go.”

“You know what I mean, that second fucking part.” I growl.

She smiles at me, as if she know’s she’s just scored a hit on me. “My date, Hudson. Chet’s waiting for me.”

I can feel my blood pressure jump through my skull as I grind my teeth and clench my fists. I know exactly what she’s doing, but the shittiest part is, it’s working.

“You’re dating Chet again?”

She shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like last night never happened.

I can still imagine the way her lips felt wrapping around my cock, or the way her hair smelled and the way her skin felt so warm and alive when she slid down onto me. I’m instantly thinking how incredible she felt rocking up and down on top of me, and the sounds of her cries as she came.

And suddenly, I’m rock-hard inside my pants, which is thoroughly confusing with the angry scowl she’s giving me in our current situation. All I want to do is kiss her hard right here in the doorway. I want to shove her up against the door, lift up that teeny little black dress she’s wearing and remind her exactly how good last night felt since she’s clearly pretending to have forgotten.

“Reagan can we just fucking talk about this like adults instead of acting like children?”

She stares daggers into my eyes. “I am acting like an adult, Hudson. Now can we please go so I can get on with being an adult with my date?”

Chet, who I get to fucking drive her to. Who I get to watch her moon over all night at this stupid fucking ‘gala’ while everyone fawns over the two of them and takes their pictures and tells them what an incredible ‘power-couple’ they are.

In recovery and in the program, they talk about ‘relapse triggers’ like ‘feelings of frustration,’ or expecting too much of other people.’

If you can ball every single one of those triggers into one damn thing, it’s called ‘Chet Kennedy’s stupid fucking gala event that I have to take Reagan to.’

I’m furious, raging inside like a bomb about to explode. But I swallow it, all of it, as I look at her sharply. “Fine. Let’s go.”