Page 54 of SINS & Temptation

What feels like a second after I closed my eyes, my phone rings.

My eyes adjust to the brightness of the screen as the name Smoke cuts through the haze. My pain-in-the-ass older brother, probably ready to lecture me on starting a war with Andre.

I answer, groggy and irritated. “What?”

“Just calling to make sure you’re still coming to my wedding.”

His wedding...fuck, when is that again? “Of course, I’m coming. I said I would, so I will.”

“Oh, good. I wasn’t sure, considering I just heard you’d been shot.”

“Do not tell Trinity,” I order, my voice firm.

“Then stop getting shot,” he fires back. “But since you’re not dead, I guess there’s no reason to say anything to our baby sister. Other than you’re an idiot.” He huffs. “A fucking idiot.”

“Are you almost done?”

His voice rises so loud that the sound warning goes off on my phone. “It’s just like you to pull a dangerous stunt like this, days before my wedding, without at least clueing me in.”

When he finally takes a breath, I cut in, “You sound like a nag.”

“And you sound suicidal!” he shouts. “Butting heads with Andre? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

I hold the phone away to avoid my eardrum bursting. I let Smoke vent; he probably needs it with the wedding jitters and all. Finally, he calms down. “So, you got yourself shot. Where? In the ass?”

“In the arm.” I sit up, wincing as pain radiates from both my arm and head. “Just a graze,” I mutter, trying to blink my eyes open and realizing it’s pitch black. How long have I been out? I shake off the grogginess and squint at the time.

Past midnight.

Fuck.

I fumble around the abandoned building as Smoke’s voice booms through the phone, giving me more shit. “From the way you’ve been going after Andre, I was sure you’d been shot in the head. What else could explain Mr. Reckless Behavior other than something close to a lobotomy?” He blows out a long, meditative breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m”—fucked six ways to Sunday—“fine.”

“So, my man of honor is still coming to the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because you know it’s in about thirty hours.”

What? Thirty hours can’t be right. “It’s in three days,” I argue, pretty sure the groom should at least know the right day he’s getting married. “Sunday.”

“That’s right, genius. Sunday. And today’s Friday. Do the math.”

“I know that.” I totally forgot.

I trip over something in the dark, swearing up a storm as some furry, screeching Chupacabra darts over my foot and across the room, scaring the living shit out of me.

“What was that?” Smoke obviously hears the commotion, and maybe even the unholy hissing from a demonic rat from hell. “Where are you?” he asks.

My brain finally kicks in, and I use the flashlight on my phone to meander the rest of the way out of the building.

Hmm.

One glance around what remains of the brothel, and I seriously wish I didn’t need the light.

The place is a living nightmare: moldy walls peeling like old scabs, stained mattresses strewn about, and the unmistakable stench of decay hanging in the air. It’s the kind of place luminal would make light up like the Vatican City at Christmas.

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