Bad Saint (All The Pretty Things Trilogy Volume 1)

by Monica James

  Saint allows me to take it all in, which surprises me. His mood swings are sure to leave me with whiplash. I peer around, wondering if maybe a shower is located somewhere up here. But there doesn’t seem to be. Just when I’m about to ask, he clarifies just why we’re here.

  “Strip.”

  My mouth gapes open, and I blink once. “Excuse me?”

  “Strip,” he repeats, releasing me.

  I stumble backward, his command winding me. “I will not,” I argue, folding my arms around me in protection. The two Russians watch on, our quarrel much more interesting than their food it seems.

  “Suit yourself.” He grips my forearm and drags me toward the front of the yacht. I squirm, attempting to break free, but it’s useless. When we get to the edge, he gestures with his chin to the water. “You can just jump in wearing your clothes. See if I care.”

  “Jump?” I question, horrified. No way is he implying for me to shower in the ocean. But when he stands rigid, I know that’s exactly what he’s proposing. “You’re fucking insane! I’ll drown.”

  He chuckles in response. “There are worse ways to die.” Even though he’s right, what’s wrong with using the shower?

  Curse my inability to mask my thoughts, because before I know what he’s doing, he’s taking off one boot, hopping on one leg as he then removes the other. When he begins to unbuckle his belt, I back up, gulping. “What are you doing?” I don’t want to know, but I torture myself anyway.

  “Preparing in case you drown.”

  Fuck him and his smugness.

  When he threads his fingers into the waistband of his pants, clearly about to disrobe, I instantly turn my back, embarrassed. I feel stupid, but I don’t want to see him get naked. I hate the man.

  As I look out at the ocean, I wonder if maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. This could be escape attempt number two. I literally have nothing to lose, which is why I shift to the right, hoping the high sail can provide some privacy. But the thought of taking off my dress in front of those two Russian perverts turns my stomach. And with them gone, I only have to outswim one captor instead of three.

  Saint comes up behind me, startling me. “We haven’t got all day. You have one minute.”

  “I…” I lick my lips, refusing to look at him. “Please make them go away. I don’t want them to see.” I know this is absurd as I model for a living, and most times, I don’t wear much to those shoots, but that’s different. That’s work, and this is…something else.

  “Don’t be shy. They’ve seen plenty of ass and tits before, believe me.”

  I flush all over as his bluntness catches me unaware. “Well, congratulations to them, but they haven’t seen mine, and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

  I’m expecting him to tell me to stop being so precious, but when he shouts, “Go,” I almost fall over my feet.

  They exchange words in Russian, a few expletives I believe, before I hear them rise and pound down the stairs. The hatch slams shut, leaving me alone with my captor.

  “Your wish is my command. Now hurry up.” He’s running out of patience. Not wanting to push him more than I already have, I spin around, surprised to see his pants are still on.

  But I soon recover. “You too.”

  “Me too what?” he asks, the vibrant yellow in his eyes challenging the golden sun.

  “You leave as well.”

  “Nice try, but I don’t think so.” When he stands with his arms folded, legs apart, I know this is the best I’m going to get.

  “Fine.” Sighing, I pretend I’m just at a photo shoot as I turn my back and lift the hem of my soiled dress over my head. I toss it to the floor, standing in my white underwear and matching bra. Instantly, I wrap an arm around me to cover my breasts.

  Saint is quiet. I nervously shuffle my feet.

  “You done?” I’m surprised he’s given me the option of keeping my undergarments on.

  I nod quickly.

  My hair whips in the wind, and the sun thaws the chill from my skin. It’s actually quite pleasant up here. Too bad I can’t enjoy it, seeing as I’m a prisoner. Looking over the edge, I see that the jump isn’t too far, but I’m not worried about that. I’m desperately seeking a way to escape.

  Maybe luck will be on my side, and a passing ship will save me. Or a massive wave will sweep me toward shore. All unlikely scenarios, but I will take my chances because I will take drowning over getting back onto this boat.

  I shuffle forward, stepping over the silver railing and standing on the tip of the boat. Luckily, I have no fear of the water, and fortunately, I’m a damn good swimmer. With a kick of adrenaline, I take my leap of faith to what was supposed to be my freedom. But when I hear a snap around my wrist and a heavy weight crashing into the water with me, I realize I’ve just jumped holding an anchor.

  I submerge fast, the water sucking me under, and as I sink, I fight the urge to kick back up and break the surface. Drowning would be less painful than having to deal with Saint, who handcuffed himself to me right before I jumped. He’s always two steps in front of me—so much for outsmarting him.

  He wraps his arm around my waist as he swims us toward the surface. When we emerge, I take a deep breath. Saint does the same.

  “You asshole! You could have killed us!” Those words are ridiculous in light of our current situation, but when I go, it’ll be by my hand, and that hand will not be attached to his.

  He laughs, and I notice his teeth are a sharp shade of white. The top ones are perfectly straight; however, the two bottom middle ones are slightly crooked. “Hardly. Besides, you said you’d drown. I wouldn’t want that.”

  “Ugh!” I groan, attempting to swim away from him, but I can’t, seeing as we’re handcuffed to one another.

  He digs around in his pocket with his non-cuffed hand and produces a bar of soap. “It’s lavender.”

  I snatch it from his palm, scowling. When we make contact, however, I notice he flinches. It seems he doesn’t like to be touched.

  “This is the reason you want me to wash out here, isn’t it? So you can watch me?” The bathroom is tiny, and there is no way we’d both fit in there. He clearly doesn’t trust me, but he respects my privacy. So this is the happy medium.

  Saint doesn’t reply. Instead, he twirls his finger in the air, hinting I’m to hurry up.

  Not interested in being tied to him for longer than I have to, I unwrap the soap and lather it up as best I can. I dip my head backward, relishing in washing the grime from my hair. Saint bobs beside me, surprising me as he turns his cheek to give me some privacy.

  Everything about him is an oxymoron.

  “You look ridiculous with your ski mask on,” I state, passing the soap over my upper body.

  “Lucky for me, I don’t care what you think,” he replies, head still turned away.

  I take this opportunity to examine him for any clues that might give away his identity. He’s still dressed in his usual attire, but now that we’re surrounded by daylight, instead of cloaked in darkness, I can just make out wisps of dirty blond hair curling at his nape.

  Thanks to the gentle sway of the ocean, his long-sleeved shirt has shifted slightly, allowing me to see a hint of ink just over the crease of his upper shoulder. I have no idea what it is, but I suppose it just adds to the mystery.

  Even though I’m cuffed to a psychopath, feeling the water against my skin is wonderful. This is hardly what I thought when I agreed to a shower, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. Peering around, I wonder if, by some miracle, an escape route will present itself. But it doesn’t. I’m surrounded by absolutely nothing.

  “Okay, time’s up.”

  “What’s in Turkey?” I respond to his suggestion.

  He turns slowly, clearly not interested in having a heart to heart. “Let’s go.” He swims us toward the boat, but I pull back with all my might.

  His eyes widen, clearly surprised by my rebellion.

  “You don’t scare me,” I reveal, leaving
out the word much.

  He wades in the water, watching me closely. The air begins to grow thick, and I brace myself for my punishment. “Are you always this disobedient?”

  I gulp as I was not expecting such a response, especially with a hint of wickedness wrapped around his words. Desperate to escape, I attempt to swim away, but Saint swings his arm inward so I’m forced to face him as he turns his body.

  We’re paddling together, eyes locked, wrists bound. “I asked you a question.”

  “So did I,” I counter, thankful my legs are submerged so he can’t see them trembling.

  He snickers, shaking his head at my insolence. “We’re not going to Turkey,” he reveals while I cock a brow.

  “But I heard—”

  He abruptly talks over me. “Turkey is merely a means to an end…like you.”

  My lower lip quivers because that was just plain mean. Being out here in the open, with the sun shining and not a cloud in the blue sky, I have let my guard down because Saint has shown me a sliver of kindness. But as his words come back to haunt me, I won’t make the same mistake again.

  Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness…

  “I’m ready to go back,” I say blankly as I refuse to allow him to see what his words have done.

  He nods once without any argument; he’s probably happy to shut me up. We swim toward the boat, and when I see a ladder hanging off the side, I allow him to ascend first. He is sopping wet as he climbs the steps, dragging me behind him.

  There are a million things I want to say, but I decide the less I speak to him, the better. I need to save my energy to strategize how the fuck to get off this yacht.

  I don’t give him the respect of looking at him, but instead, I turn over my shoulder, refusing to make eye contact. When I feel the cuff snap open, I instantly rub my raw wrist. As he pushes me lightly, hinting I move, I shrug from his touch as I want no part of him near me.

  If I were thinking straight, I would be covering myself as I am parading around in very transparent white underwear, but what do I care about modesty? It’s clear he sees me as nothing but chattel.

  We walk past the Russians who are sitting near the wooden wheel, watching us curiously. They are ogling me, and just as I’m about to cover my breasts, I see it—my escape. Sitting under the helm is a CB radio. If I can get to this, I can alert someone, anyone that I’m in trouble.

  One of the Russians sits on a white chest, eyeing me. But he can gawk all he wants because I bet flares and a life vest are in there. I want to take a closer look, but Saint hurls me away, sensing his partner in crime appreciates my transparency a little too much.

  But this is exactly what I need, God save my soul. One of them expressed interest in me when he tied me…if I can play on that, then maybe I have a fighting chance at getting off this boat. The longer he stares, the more certain I am that he is the one.

  I need a distinguishing mark, something to tell them apart, and when he turns his head to whisper something to the other Russian, I see it—a small birthmark under his left eye. He returns his attention my way, and that’s when I put my plan into motion.

  As he’s spooning canned sardines into his mouth, I wink—it’s subtle, and I’m playing with fire, but this ship is only as strong as its weakest link, and I just found a hole in the design. His mouth hinges open.

  Jackpot.

  I don’t have time to gloat because Saint moves me down the stairs, but I go willingly. When down in my dungeon, I’m surprised to see a change of clothes on the leather seat. It seems they have this all planned.

  Not bothering to ask if they’re for me, I walk toward the shorts and tank top. I really want to change my underwear, but they don’t seem to be that prepared. As I reach for the jean shorts, I only then realize that Saint is still here, watching me.

  I’m about to spit a sarcastic comment, but the look in his eyes steals the air from my lungs. He watches me closely, just how he always does, but something is different, something dangerously…predatory.

  My heart begins a deafening rhythm, and my legs begin to tremble.

  I quickly slip into the shorts and throw the tank over my head, thankful to be dressed even though I didn’t dry off. My bravado soon dies, and I await his next move. His heavy breathing fills the small space while I toe over a flaw in the wooden floor design.

  Finally, he breaks this tangible electricity and walks over to a small bar fridge to grab a bottle of water. I practically salivate at the sight because I am so thirsty, but I won’t ask this asshole to do me any favors.

  “Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the bench seat, and I do.

  If I could see his face, I imagine he would be arching a brow, surprised by my submission. But he doesn’t know a lot about me. He thinks he can break me, but he can’t. I will get off this hell on earth one way or another, and when I do, I will make him pay for all the horrible things he’s done.

  There is something different about him, the way he seems to be careful not to touch me for too long as if he can’t stand to make contact. He removes the cuffs from his pocket and snaps one around my wrist, refusing to look at me. He then attaches it to the silver railing of the seat.

  I’m expecting him to drop to his knees and tie my ankles, but he doesn’t.

  He simply places the bottle of water near me and exits up the stairs. When the hatch closes, leaving me alone, I exhale, releasing the breath I was holding. Frantically reaching for the bottle of water, I place it in my cuffed hand and uncap it with my other. Once it’s opened, I gulp it down in one long swig.

  The coolness has me gasping, but my body relishes in being replenished. The water dribbles down my chin, but I savor the feeling as I don’t know when I’ll experience it again. Once I’ve drained the bottle, I slouch back, but then sigh as I have a little room to move.

  Tugging at the cuffs, I’m surprised Saint has bound me this way. My eyes grow heavy as the cushy leather beneath me and the sway of the ocean lulls me into a sleepy state. I rearrange myself to lie down, a comfort I will never take for granted again.

  My arm is raised above my head, but I use it as a makeshift pillow, and here finally, I lose myself to the calm.

  I wake to voices…a lot of them.

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I see the full moon slipping in from the window, revealing I finally succumbed to my exhaustion and slept for hours.

  Shuffling up, I come to sit, my arm throbbing from the odd angle it was bent in. But at least I was able to lie down. It’s dark as there is no light on, but the moon is my beacon, allowing me to see that on the table lies a black, long-sleeved shirt and a shiny key—the key to my cuffs. My heart begins to pound.

  Saint must have taken off the necklace, intent on changing, but the fact it’s still down here has me guessing that whoever is upstairs was unexpected and Saint greeted them half dressed.

  Is this stranger a friend or foe?

  Steadying my breathing, I listen for any clue as to who they may be, but I can’t make out anything specific, just a clutter of voices. It’s now or never.

  The table is a few feet away. Looking back and forth between it and the hatch, and ensuring the voices are still present, I tongue the corner of my mouth and slide my body off the seat, extending as far as I can go. My arm is jerked from its socket as I stretch out, willing my body to grow just a few more inches.

  “Come on,” I growl, craning my neck to see how far away I am. I kick my foot out, hoping I’ll be able to loop it around the leg of the table, but I’m still too far away. Sweat gathers along my brow as I extend my leg, but it’s not enough. “Shit.”

  I try to maneuver my arm to give me some more slack, but it’s no use. Sighing, I study my escape, and the few measly feet separating me from it. I know what I have to do. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I rotate my arm backward, muting my whimpers as I reach out. Tears sting my eyes as I continue pushing my body until I hear a pop. My shoulder gives way, and I stretch those few extra inches to be able to l
oop my foot around the leg of the table and drag it toward me slowly, ensuring I don’t make a sound.

  My shoulder throbs, and I’ve chewed the inside of my cheek until I’ve drawn blood, but when that table is within reach, I slide the shirt toward me and grab the necklace with the tips of my fingers. Whimpering in relief, I don’t waste a moment as I unlock myself.

  The moment I do, I gnaw at my lip to stifle my pained breaths as I cup my elbow to support my shoulder. Inhaling slowly, I calm myself because I need to focus on popping my dislocated shoulder back into place.

  I drop my injured arm by my side, flinching when it flops lifelessly. I then begin to rotate my shoulder backward as far as it can go before slowly bringing it forward. The pressure in the joint is unbearable, and I bite my fist to mute my screams. Closing my eyes and mentally counting to three, I jar it forward quickly, and it pops back into the socket with a snap.

  I only know how to do this thanks to the first-aid skills Lea taught me.

  My eyes flicker as I almost pass out from the pain. But I shake my head and breathe in and out heavily. Once the dizziness subsides, and I think I can walk without throwing up, I head for the small window near the sink and cautiously peer out of it.

  I ensure to stay out of sight, shielding myself as I scope out what’s going on outside. I can’t see much, just a flurry of shadows. Cursing, I decide to use the window in the bathroom. Hobbling toward it, I brush the sweaty hair from my eyes and position myself so I can hopefully see what’s going on outside.

  I can hear the voices clearer. One belongs to Saint. And another deep, menacing voice belongs to a stranger. Craning my neck, I stand on tippy toes for a better look, but when my vision focuses on a figure, I almost fall from my perch.

  Ensuring I’m not seeing things, I press my nose to the glass, and when I see the unmissable uniform of a police officer, adrenaline soars through me, and I run for the hatch. My breath is heavy, and my heart is in my throat because the police are here. In moments, I will be rescued. This must be because of Drew. I feel awful for doubting him for even a second.