Make Me Sin (Bad Habit, #2)

by J.T. Geissinger

This is one thing my mother got right. She never cooked or cleaned, so no one ever expected it of her. And if ever she got a wild hair up her butt and cooked something for us—even something as simple as toast—the entire family acted as if it were a Christmas miracle. She might be a pampered snob, but she’s no dummy. If you don’t spoil other people, they can never take you for granted.

A.J. says quietly, “Probably. But I think therapy is bullshit. The only person who can fix you is you; paying four hundred dollars an hour to pour your heart out to a stranger is just an emotional jerkoff. In the long run, you’re still stuck with yourself, problems and all. And I don’t put anything in my body that will alter my state of mind. Life’s too short to miss out on anything, even if it’s pain.”

Idi spat, laskovaya moya. Ghostly and indistinct, the strange words appear in my mind like a warm breath blown on a cold pane of glass. I don’t know what they mean, but I do know that the tone they were spoken in was anything but angry. The tone was tender. Almost . . . loving.