Sinful Hearts: Chapter 9

“So… What do you think?”

I moan as I chew slowly, letting the steak dissolve in my mouth. When I don’t say anything—I can’t, because this shit is way too good to interrupt with words—and only shake my head, Sean grins.

“It’s fuckin’ amazing, right?”

I give it another few seconds, letting the flavor spread over my tongue a little longer before I finally swallow. I glance at Sean, nodding.

“That’s fucking good, man.”

His grin widens as he clinks his glass of whiskey to mine. “What can I say, man? That’s my girl.”

We’re at Shank, a brand-new steakhouse with a modern vibe in the Meatpacking District, down the street from the Whitney Museum. Sean’s an investor in the place, and his girlfriend Maya is the chef de cuisine of the joint, which was recently short-listed for a James Beard award.

Restaurants are notoriously iffy investments, since something like eighty-five percent of them close within the first year, usually way in debt. But I think Sean picked a winner here—both with the spot, and with the girl.

The food is fucking . The cocktail list is cool and trendy without being hipster and obnoxious. And they’ve got a killer wine list, curated by one of New York’s top sommeliers. Plus, the ambiance is great—low lights, German brass fixtures, exposed brick and dark hardwood everywhere. Sean and I are posted up at the bar, but there’s also a wine lounge on the second floor, the main dining room behind us, and even a few glass-walled private dining rooms along the back wall. The glass on those can be turned opaque with the touch of a button. Which is supremely cool.

“Sean, this place is going to kill it. Congrats, man.”

He grins as I raise my glass to his.

“Nah, man. It’s all Maya. She’s a fucking force.”

“Remind me why you haven’t been smart enough to wife her yet?”

He makes a face as he takes a sip. “I dunno, man. I mean I love her and shit, but it’s a big step, you know? And we’re not even thirty yet. Who knows what the future holds?”

I roll my eyes. “Dude, as your friend, I’m going to level with you.”

“Yeah? Please do.”

“Sean, you’re a six-foot-four ginger giant with generally shitty people skills and table manners, a moderate drinking problem, and a below average dick.”

He snorts a laugh. “You are an asshole.”

“I’m just saying, man…the ‘future’? For you? Maya is He grins.

“How’s the steak, boys?”

Sean sputters into his whiskey as we both turn to see the chef herself standing behind us, her hair slick against her temples under the white chef’s hat, a flush on her face from the chaos and heat of the kitchen.

“Maya,” I shake my head, waving my fork at the plate in front of me. “This is fucking….

.”

“Hades is about to make a mess of his underwear over your steak. And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that,” Sean grins at his girlfriend, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

She laughs. “Well, try not to make a scene, Hades. But if you and the steak need to get a room, the Standard is right down the street. No questions asked.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Maya.”

She chuckles as she gives me a quick hug, then pulls back. “All right, well, try not to jizz on any of the guests. I need to get back in there.”

“Love you,” Sean growls, pulling her close.

She blushes. “Stop it, I’m a sweaty mess.”

“Yeah?” he grins, nuzzling her neck. “Good.”

She kisses him once more before she dashes back into the kitchen.

“Seriously. Like , you dumb Irish fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “I’ll shove you into traffic myself if you don’t marry her.”

He laughs, draining his glass before motioning to the bartender for another.

“Yeah yeah yeah. I know. Look, anyway, I wanted to ask your opinion on something else, too.”

“Shoot.”

“You know Bob Warren?”

I stare at him. “Bob Warren as in the boxing promotor Bob Warren?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah I’ve heard of him. Have you heard of this guy Michael Jordan who used to play some basketball?”

Sean snickers. “Well, he wants to work with me. What do you think—”

“I think if you have to ask me another dumb-ass question like ‘should I marry the best woman I’ve ever and will ever meet’ or ‘should I work with the most famous boxing promotor in the world who will make my career’, I’m going to have you fucking committed. Jesus fucking Christ, dipshit. You call him right the fuck—”

I don’t finish my thought. I can’t.

Because behind Sean, Elsa Guin just walked into Shank.

Elsa, who is looking in a dark gray—of course, but here it works—sleeveless dinner gown, her hair swept up.

Elsa, who is clearly here .

Something vicious and monstrous snarls and claws inside of me. A red mist I don’t quite understand, that I haven’t met before, creeps around the corners of my vision as my eyes land on the two of them: Elsa, and the fucking guy she’s out to dinner with.

The guy I want to, for whatever insane reason, break in fucking half with my bare hands right now.

He looks old enough to be her fucking , for fuck’s sake. And he’s got “schmarmy moneyed douchebag” written all over him. I could overlook the cocksucker grin he flashes at the whole place as if everyone should stand and applaud him for simply existing. I could ignore the overly-bronzed tan from whatever island he just came back from, and the comical combover to hide his baldness.

But I cannot—

, for reasons that mystify me in this moment—overlook the way he puts his hand on the small of Elsa’s back as they follow the maître d’ across the dining room.

Suddenly, I want to kill him. I want to rip that fucking hand away from her, remove it and the arm its attached to from his body, and beat him to death with it while she watches.

Or, even more disturbingly, maybe while she rides my cock.

?

Sean is saying something to me. I have no idea what. I can’t look away from watching Elsa and this fucking dude walk across the restaurant and into one of the private, glass-walled dining rooms behind me, where they sit across from each other with smiles on their faces.

I’m filled with rage.

And it’s all very, very confusing.

Why the fuck should I or do I care who Elsa goes out to dinner with? Because I fucked her? I’ve fucked more women than I can remember. And I’ve never once given a single shit about them the second it’s over.

I don’t do followups. I don’t call. I don’t have second encounters.

.

I come, I…well, , and I leave. And I give zero fucks afterward.

So why can’t I pull my eyes and my gaze away from the two of them?

“Yo, Hades. Hello? Hades. Ground control to Major Tom.”

I blink, finally managing to tear my gaze from where Elsa is smiling and chatting away happily with the walking dildo. When I turn back to him, Sean is giving me a confused look.

“Who’s the girl?”

“No one,” I mutter, entirely too fast.

He smirks. “Really.”

“Yeah, really.”

He frowns, peering past me. “Well, someone should tell her she can’t blow her date in the restaurant.”

I snap my head around so fast I see blurs.

.

Sean chuckles as I whip my gaze back to him. Elsa and fuck-face are just sitting at the table like regular people, having a conversation.

“See, this is why I always beat your ass in the ring, brother,” Sean laughs. “You’re way too easy to fuck with emotionally.”

“You beat me in the ring because you’re a giant ginger monster with a tiny cock.”

“Bro, I swear to God—”

“Hold that thought.”

I stand. And before I know what I’m doing, I’m marching across the dining room, as if I’m going to war.

“Hades!” Sean calls after me. But I ignore him.

I ignore everything.

Everything except for the fact that some fucking guy thinks he can just take Elsa out to dinner. Talk to her. Look at her. Fucking her.

And even if I don’t quite understand it myself, I do know one thing.

He’s dead fucking wrong. And he’s about to learn that the hard way.