Sinners Anonymous : A Forbidden Love Dark Mafia Romance
Sinners Anonymous : Chapter 1

“MY NAME IS RORY Carter and I do bad things.”
The wind snatches the words from my lips, carrying them away from the cliff edge and over the choppy sea.

I like to do that sometimes. Say it aloud when I’m alone just to see how the truth tastes.

I’m not a criminal. I just do bad things. Morally questionable things. Spiteful, revengeful things. I didn’t used to be like this, but now there’s a stain on my soul so dark and stubborn that there’s nothing I can do to scrub it away. So, I don’t bother trying anymore. Instead, I confess.

I take a step closer to the edge, holding my breath when pebbles scatter under my sneakers and disappear into the raging Pacific below. The wind howls like a wolf, as if warning me of the incoming storm. From up here, I can see it looming in the distance, the black and gray smudges hanging low above the sea.

A bitter laugh escapes me. It was always going to come to this. Me, standing on the edge of Devil’s Dip’s highest cliff and thinking bad thoughts. Which is ironic, because, for the first time in three years, I’m doing a good thing. A completely selfless, self-sacrificing act that nobody in their right darn mind would do if they weren’t desperate.

I twist the ring around my finger and swallow the knot in my throat.

If I was to…jump. What would it feel like? Would it hurt? Would everything go black? I don’t believe in God, or heaven and hell, but I wonder—would I still scream a confession as I broke the surface of the water, in a last-bid attempt to save my soul?

Balling my fists and stuffing them into the pockets of my hoodie, I lift my toe and inch it farther toward the edge, until there’s nothing underneath my foot but air.

Adrenaline zaps down my spine, and for a moment, I close my eyes and stick out my tongue, tasting the salt and moisture and danger. I let the wind take control of my body.

Is this the closest I’ll ever get to being free?

Then I taste something else. Something thick and bitter.

“You hoping to fall, or fly?”

Oh, sparrow.

My eyes snap open and I scurry away from the edge, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Heart hammering, I twist my head to follow the voice, and my eyes lock on a man.

He stands less than a foot away. Sharp suit and an even sharper cheekbone, from what I can see of his profile. It becomes even more defined when he slips a cigarette between his lips and inhales deeply.

Smoke. That’s what I could taste.

He’s staring out to the sea as if he never said anything at all. Maybe he didn’t. Jesus, how long has he been here? And where did he come from? Licking my weather-beaten lips, I glance to the road behind me, which runs parallel to the graveyard. A black sports car is parked haphazardly, the front wheels mounting the edge of an old tombstone.

The initial shock loses its grip on my shoulders, leaving room for another feeling. Panic. The last person I should be standing on an edge of a cliff with is a man who parks like that. Because if he has no respect for the dead, then he certainly doesn’t respect the living.

Maybe he’s the grim reaper?

I can’t help but huff out a laugh at the stupid thought.

My eyes drag back to him. Well, he is dressed all in black. Just an expensive-looking coat instead of a cloak, and he holds a cigarette instead of a scythe. The cherry glows red against the gloomy sky as he takes another deep drag.

I tuck a wayward curl back under the hood of my sweater and draw the cord tighter under my chin. I should go. Not just because this man gives me the creeps, but because Alberto has eyes and ears everywhere. Max, my escort, isn’t a snitch, but he’ll be back any minute and—

“Because if you’re hoping to fall…” He takes a deliberate step toward the edge and my heart leaps into my throat. He has the confidence of someone simply peering over the side of a swimming pool and not into the raging sea a hundred and fifty feet below. “You’ve got a long way to go.”

Push him.

The thought rattles around my head, unwanted and unsavory, and I wish I could pour acid over it. What is wrong with me? Instead of thinking poisonous thoughts, I should tell him to step back, or grab his arm, because that’s what my fingers are twitching to do. But I don’t. Maybe it’s the fear freezing the blood in my veins, or maybe it’s the morbid curiosity haunting my soul, but I stay still and silent.

I stare in sick fascination at his leather wingtips teetering on the edge. Not only does this man not respect the dead, he doesn’t respect death. Because if he takes half a step forward, or a sudden gust of wind blows the wrong way, he’ll…disappear.

My fists clench. My pulse thumps in my temples so loud it drowns out the roar of the wind.

What would I do if he fell?

The question leaves my head as quickly as it arrives. Of course, I already know what I’d do. I’d cross the graveyard, round the church, and slip into my favorite phone box across the road. Then, instead of calling the Coast Guard, I’d dial the number I know better than my own, and I’d confess that I’d done nothing to help.

Because that’s what compulsive sinners do.

Only when he finally takes a step back, do I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I let out a stale lungful of air, relieved that I feel relieved and not disappointed. It means my poisonous thoughts didn’t win this time.

I glance up at his profile, just as he takes a final drag on his cigarette and flicks it into the sea. And then he turns and gazes right into my eyes, as if he knew exactly where to replace them.

My heart hitches.

Whew, falcon. He’s handsome.

Piercing green eyes and a squared-off jaw as sharp as his cheekbones. That’s all my muddy brain has time to register before he turns beside me, his back now facing the gloomy horizon.

My breathing shallows. He’s too close. Dangerously close, and now I feel like I have one foot over the edge again. I stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, trying to remain still. Trying not to breathe too hard or fidget too much. Trying to ignore how the pressure of his arm burns through my raincoat, or how the ghost of his cigarette entwined with the oaky notes in his aftershave make my nipples tighten.

He stoops low to meet my ear and I brace for impact.

“Suicide is a sin,” he rasps, his stubble grazing my cheek. “But Devil’s Dip has a way of making you want to throw yourself over the edge, doesn’t it?”

And then he’s gone, those wingtips crunching over the gravel toward his car.

My chest rises and falls as my heart fights to remember its natural rhythm.

I stand there, stupefied and staring out to sea, until I hear the purr of an engine and the screeching of tires. Then with a shaky exhale I sink to my knees into the mud.

Who on earth is he, and what on earth was…that?

Once my heartbeat slows and the adrenaline loses its sharpness, my brain makes room for other observations. Like, the time. Oh, and the fact that it’s freezing up here. I glance at my watch and mutter a bird-word. Max is picking me up from the front of the old church in less than three minutes, so if I want to make my usual phone call, then I better get it together.

I turn my back to the cliff edge, and the dangerous allure it holds, and trudge through the overgrown path that cuts through the graveyard. I pass the church and cross the road, tutting at the black tire marks on the asphalt, and slip into the phone booth next to the bus stop.

Tucking the receiver between my shoulder and cheek, I dial the number.

The line rings three times, then it clicks into the voicemail service.

“You have reached Sinners Anonymous,” a woman’s robotic voice says. “Please leave your sin after the tone.”

After the long beep, I take a deep breath and let my soul bleed.