No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  Oh yeah, I am. This time she got it right. “Fuck off to your mommy, and tell her how you offered to spread your legs for me, spread your fucking pussy to a stranger outside a bar because you’re drunk off your fucking ass.”

  “You’re so mean. Why...?”

  “God, woman, just fuck the hell off.”

  She seems so surprised. I wonder if most people are shocked when they discover that the world ain’t all rainbows and unicorns. That it’s a damn nasty place.

  And I’m the fucking dark writhing at its center.

  ***

  Trouble.

  Fucking trouble. I hear the crack of breaking glass a moment after the half-full bottle of Vodka is ripped from my hands and smashed to the street, and by then I know. I sense it as a kick to the back of my legs makes me stumble and a shove sends me staggering across the deserted street.

  I know these guys—Fred and Crichton. Brothers, boys me and my gang liked to tease in school. Now they’re all grown up and made themselves into self-proclaimed avengers, choosing me as their favorite target. I was the gang leader, after all, the instigator.

  And my gang scattered. Those who’ve stayed in Destiny, those out of prison, keep a low profile. A couple married young, had kids. Nobody remembers them much.

  Everyone remembers me.

  “Asshole,” one of them snarls. “You get what you deserve, motherfucker.”

  No doubt.

  The other one is silent as he pummels me, catching me on older bruises and cuts, opening them again so blood flows, warm against my cold skin. Halfheartedly, I twist out of his reach—only to be kicked again by Crichton.

  Look, I deserve it. I know I do, and some days I wonder what’s there to fight for. Who I am defending? Myself? What for?

  Some instinct of self-preservation rises out of nowhere and I throw a punch at his face, but it doesn’t connect. His brother slams into me from behind, and together they throw me to the asphalt and lay into me.

  A boot catches me in the ribs and I curl in the dirt of the road, my breath cut off. Fuck... Even filtered through the black fog of guilt, this hurt. The superintendent won’t like it if I turn up at work all bruised and fresh out of a street fight, although I didn’t start it.

  As if he’d believe that. Everyone knows I’m evil incarnate. My dad believes it. Why shouldn’t they? I made sure they would.

  Reap what you sow, and all that shit.

  Another kick catches me, and I bite back a groan, then turn my head and spit blood. Okay. This is okay, this is right. Nobody will listen if I try to apologize now, make amends. Too late to be sorry, right? So this is all I can offer. All I can do is shut up and take it. Accept the pain and the humiliation because I have a choice, just like others didn’t get a choice when my gang bore down on them, bullying them and hurting them.

  And I was the goddamn leader. No point in lying about it, denying it, refusing it. I was the leader, and this is my fucking penance.

  ***

  Later on, after my penitence for the day has left a small puddle of blood on the street behind the grocery store—from my split lip and a cut I got on a shard of glass as I was kicked about—my road takes me, limping and cursing, between thinning houses and gardens, toward the river.

  Just another fine day in the life of Ross Jones. What do I win from bleeding out? From letting them lay into me every day? Do I regain a measure of peace? No. Does it make me a better man? No.

  Do I feel like an idiot? Yeah, mostly.

  Then why the fuck can’t I stop? I should fight harder, introduce my fist into their ugly mugs properly, show them who is boss around here. Show them that they should be fucking afraid of me, just like they were years ago. You can chain a tiger, but you should never trust him. Dad taught me that. Taught me about cruelty and hopelessness.

  Only fucking problem is, that’s not me anymore. The boss. The leader.

  I don’t know who the hell I am.

  A cooler breeze is blowing here, laced with other smells: water, mud and shit and rotting things. I wipe at my bleeding lip with the back of my hand, wince at the stab in my kidneys, and curse again, remembering I have no way of numbing the pain tonight, the last of my money having gone into that bottle that’s now lying in pieces on the asphalt. I should be getting paid soon, but still.

  Sucks ass.

  This is it, Ross my boy, I tell myself and fuck if it isn’t Dad’s voice speaking inside my ringing head. Down in the doldrums. Down, as in, all the way down to the bottom. Hit the end of the line. You’re sinking faster now.

  No lifeline.

  Let go.

  But I keep going. No idea why. One foot in front of the other, one fucking drop of blood after the other. I walk toward the water. Cross paths with a couple stray dogs, hiss at them until they slink away.

  Don’t wanna think about how much this life stinks, or I might just decide to end it. It’s crossed my mind a few times. Go ahead and be shocked. Go ahead and accuse me of being a coward. Tell me others have it worse. That I’m not worth an easy way out.

  It’s what I keep telling myself, too. You don’t get off that lightly. You don’t get to escape. You did bad shit. You have to pay.

  Fucking hell.

  Now, I’ve never been religious. Never gave penance much thought as I grew up. Never thought much beyond getting through the day, staying out of dad’s clutches even for a few hours, numbing the anger and pain with booze and drugs, when I could get my hands on them. Making others hurt, transferring the pain to them, that was my way. Why should they be okay when I wasn’t, right?

  It made sense at the time. Still does sometimes. When the anger gets the better of me. Gets fucking hold of me, sinking claws into my chest and shaking me. Making me into what I am.

  Nothing can save me anymore.

  Yeah, I’m the monster in your closet, under your bed.

  Run away while you can.

  Chapter Three

  Luna

  “Hi, I’m Dena,” the girl in the waitress uniform says, quirking a smile and thrusting her hand out at me on my first day at work in the diner. “Welcome to Mike’s Diner.”

  “Thanks.” I shake her sweaty hand, and adjust my little frilly white apron around my waist. I didn’t count on uniforms, to be honest. I mean, I’ve served tables before, but we only had to wear a white shirt and black pants, not short black skirts, aprons and white collars.

  Destiny. The place where time stands still.

  “I remember you, you know,” she says brightly, and I cringe, moving behind the bar and straightening the stack of menus.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You got teased a lot.”

  I cringe a bit more, die a bit inside. “True.”

  “I thought you were cool.”

  I blink. “You did?”

  “You were top of your class. And wore whatever you wanted, never gave a damn. That was cool.”

  Actually, I did give a damn, but trendy clothes were too expensive and hard to get in my size, so... I pretended I didn’t care.

  Where were you, I want to ask, while I was teased and bullied to tell me how cool I was? Where were you to drag me out of the black pit that was swallowing my soul, and my confidence? If you admired me so much, if you’re telling the truth, where were you?

  But I don’t say that. Nobody owes me anything.

  Instead, new me smiles and nods. “Thanks.”

  Fake it till you make it, right? Pretend to be confident until you are. Pretend to be the best there is, until you are.

  The fact that I’m still pretending the same things I pretended three years ago hits me hard, but I do my best to shove it to the back of my mind.

  Customers come in, and I grab the coffee pot and do my rounds, serving coffee, taking orders. The routine is soothing, and if I was uneasy at first in the little short uniform—I mean, it’s not like I turned into an anorexic supermodel overnight and I may be more confident now but let’s not exaggerate—I’ve pushed it now to the back of
my mind and focus on doing my job.

  Just for the summer, I remind myself. Just a couple of months. Surely I can pull this off. I’ve come this far. It’s a chance to see Josh, and Dad, put away some money and decide what to do next.

  How to run away once more, you mean?

  Shut up, I tell the voice in my mind. You know nothing.

  “You okay?” Dena shoots me a concerned look. “You’re, like, talking to yourself. And glaring at the glasses you’re drying.”

  I glance down at the glasses, throw the rag on the counter. “I’m fine.”

  “Good, because I need to take a smoke break. Will you be okay on your own?”

  I wave her off, press my lips flat and get back to drying the glasses. New me, remember? I won’t backtrack, won’t regress. I came here with a promise to myself not to lose my confidence again, not to find myself crying in the corner again.

  So I deserve to be here, in this diner, in this town. In this world. I’ve fought hard for it. Cried even harder. I’ve paid my dues, done my service. All I want is to be accepted and happy.

  I got this.

  When Dena comes back inside, I let her wipe down the tables while I make some fresh coffee and fill the pots. I hum under my breath along to the country song playing on the radio and everything’s sort of okay right now.

  Until Dena hurries around the bar, teetering on her high heels—why is she in high heels, for God’s sake?—and stage-whispers at me, “It’s him!”

  “Him, who?”

  “Ross Jones!”

  Shit. “What is he doing here?” Lowering myself behind the bar, not caring if I look ridiculous, I scan the diner for a certain tall blond. “Why?”

  “He’s a paying customer, chickadee. Coffee and pancakes, that’s his poison, at least in here. From what I hear and see, pancakes may be his only solid food group. He tends to live on booze most of the time.”

  Still. The monster eats like us real humans? Go figure.

  I see him enter and let out a hissing breath. “Shit.”

  “Mike won’t be pleased,” she goes on, tugging a chestnut strand behind her ear. “Last time he told me not to let Ross in, but how can you stop him?”

  “Mike Meyer, the owner? Why not? Because of his rap sheet?”

  “Because he doesn’t pay. Put it on my bill, he always says. His bill has to be as long as the diner is wide by now. He always finds excuses.”

  I lift my head above the bar and watch as he takes a seat by the window, stuck speechless. My dad and brother telling me he’s still around is one thing, but seeing him with my own eyes, after all this time...

  Disconcerting.

  Because he’s still hot. Nah scratch that: hotter. My God, when did this happen, between going to prison and his dad trying to kill him? Is he an alien? When did his cheekbones become so sharp, his lips so full, his shoulders so wide?

  Did I forget his beauty? It’s lethal. A strike to the heart. It makes your eyes burn, your heart constrict. But he’s no good. A rotten heart, hidden inside the most gorgeous boy in town. How ironic is that? How unfair?

  A whole frigging lot.

  “Okay, fine,” I mutter. Not much I can do against a customer, is there? “But you serve him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “No problem.” She glances at him and away, and a blush spreads on her cheeks. “He’s so sexy,” she breathes, and I gape at her, amazed. “Don’t you think?”

  No. God, no. She has a crush on him? Really? Don’t girls around here have any brains? “He’s an asshole, Dena.”

  “So what?”

  “So I don’t want to be close to him, or anywhere near him. He bullied me at school, and around the town, called me names, along with his asshole friends. I hate his guts.”

  She frowns. “Oh come on, don’t make such a big deal out of it.”

  “Are you serious right now? Not a big deal?” A hiss escapes me. My heart is racing. Hot tears rise to my eyes, but I blink them away.

  “Yeah, like, don’t make a scene. He’s a customer, and all that was in the past.”

  “My past, not yours,” I whisper, anger burning through me like a wildfire. “Not your call.”

  Pressing her lips into a thin line, she grabs her pad and the coffee pot. “Whatever. You were away too long, chick. Not many handsome men in town, I’ll have you know. Not gonna pine after old pudgy men with beer bellies. I’d much rather pine after sexy bad boys, and you know what? I can be in lust and not explain myself to anyone, much less you.”

  “If you want to date a bully, now that’s up to you. People don’t change, Dena.” I shake my head.

  “Look, I’m not out to marry him or anything. It’s just his hot body I’m after. A night with him, that’s all.”

  She swings her hips as she makes her way to him, and I turn away, not to see either of them. Problem is, she thinks that now, that it’s just lust, that she can walk away anytime. That she can sleep with him and then forget him.

  They all think that. But they’re wrong. And then they’ll have to learn how to live on a broken heart.

  Like I have been doing, each beat cracked and bleeding. I was stupid. My teenage heart was weak, and I fell for a pair of blue, cruel eyes, a cruel smile, a cruel soul.

  Never again.

  ***

  He’s still there when new customers walk into the diner and I let Dena take their order, hiding and hating myself for it. By the time I talk myself into going out there to do my job and ignore him, he’s already left.

  Coffee pot in my hand, heart still thumping, I stare at the seat by the window where he’d sat, still seeing the spikes of his ash-blond hair, the wide set of his shoulders, the powerful arms, the tattoos.

  Dena isn’t speaking to me. Nice start at work, huh? But no way am I taking back the things I said—about Ross, and about the things she said.

  About her choices. It’s all about her choices, really. About whether or not she believes I’m overreacting when I say Ross bullied me. About whether it’s okay to have a one-night stand with him—or many night stands? No idea—because he’s not, no matter if he’s an asshole.

  I’ve made my choice: I’m steering clear of him. Nothing to say to him, not if I don’t want to make a scene, and I don’t. Not doing that for him. Or for Dena.

  No, I’m doing it for me. I don’t want to drag the past into the present. Not if I want to heal. What I need is not to be around Ross and his bully friends, and I’ll be fine.

  Josh and Dad are waiting for me at home. They decided we’d have a movie night with spicy pepperoni pizza and lemonade. It’s warm, and we can put the TV on the porch. I missed that kind of thing. We used to do it a lot, before.

  Before I ran, before I thought my life was over before it even started.

  Changing back into my own clothes, folding the uniform and placing it in my backpack to take home with me, I wave Dena goodbye—she ignores me—and head out. I’m walking home. Destiny is a tiny place. One bus rolls through its main street a few times a day, and there are no cabs. No hotel, no movie theater, no fancy restaurants and coffee shops.

  I used to find that normal. Now it’s jarring. Weird. Quaint.

  Still I find myself smiling as I pass outside the ice cream shop where Josh and I always went after school. The ownership changed after the lady who had it turned out to be an accomplice of a disturbed guy who abducted Matt Hansen’s kids and girlfriend. The new owner, Jake, is a nice old guy and I check to see if he’s in on my way past.

  He isn’t. And then I remember how often I skipped ice cream, after I was bullied at school, called all those names...

  Huffing out a shaky breath, tucking my hair behind my ears and smoothing my T-shirt over my not-so-flat belly, I hurry away.

  God, why won’t the memories leave me alone?

  ***

  I’m settling in fine at work, and in the town. Ross doesn’t come back to the diner in the next days, and that’s a relief, th
ough Dena comments that it’s unusual and that she hopes he’s okay.

  Okay? Who cares? Screw him. I’m just glad to be living my life without his shadow looming over me.

  I find ways to distract myself. I make vague plans for the future, trying to decide what to study, what sort of job I want. What sort of life.

  And I watch people.

  Like this one...

  “Who’s that?” I ask Dena one evening, in between bouts of frantic shuttling back and forth dishes and drinks to a couple of big families.

  “Who?”

  “The guy in the corner.”

  “I dunno... oh wait, I think that’s Jenner. Jenner Hawkins, you know him from school. Cleaned up nicely, didn’t he?”

  “Maybe. Can’t remember him much, to be honest.” I squint at him. He does look kinda cute in the dim light of the diner. He’s blond. Another blond.

  No idea what this means, if it means anything. Do I have a thing for blonds?

  Gah, no. No, I don’t, okay?

  “You’re talking to yourself again,” Dena mutters, giving me the side-eye.

  “Am I?” I sigh, shake my head at myself. “It happens when I’m trying to convince me about something.”

  “Are you going for it?”

  “Going for what?”

  “Jenner.”

  It takes me a moment to decipher her words. Me, go for a boy. What a brand-new concept.

  “Yeah. Like, talk to him, check him out from up close. Ask him out. Or let him ask you out.”

  “D’you think I should?” I ask cautiously, testing the waters.

  “Sure.”

  The next question hovers on the tip of my tongue and spills out before I can stop it. “Do you think I have a chance?”

  New confident me is so fragile it’s already cracking. Bullying does that to you. Being told your extra pounds are ugly will do that to you. Hearing that day after day, year after year, damages you. No matter how hard you try to rise above it, it always sucks you back down.

  But Dena answers right away, not giving me much time to stew. “Why not? You got curves, girl.” She slopes her hands over her boobs, pretending they’re huge. “You got some serious curves.”