No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  Luna

  Arriving home feels like walking through a dream. When Dad asks why I was late, I give him a vague reply about staying late to help out at the diner.

  I’m shaking so bad I have to stop at my bedroom door and take some deep breaths before I step inside. Throwing my small backpack in a corner, I let myself fall on the bed, on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

  It still has glowing stars, remnants of my childhood. Dad stuck them there long ago. They light up my nights, when I can’t sleep. I count them like others count sheep, naming them.

  But right now it’s not dark enough, and their light doesn’t shine.

  Didn’t expect to be bullied again, to be cornered and be called names. Didn’t expect anyone to save me, least of all my nemesis.

  Ross.

  “I didn’t do it for you. You were in my way.”

  He knew those guys. Come to think of it, I know them, too. They were at my school, hanging around Ross like stray dogs hoping for scraps.

  Shit.

  This is the thing with returning home: nobody else has left. Nothing has changed. It's a place caught in the web of time.

  Few people live in a town like Destiny, and even fewer ever leave. Few get the chance. That means all the scum and filth is right where I left it.

  Right here.

  God, I have to get away, fast. Suddenly talking to Dad about college and the future feels urgent. Somehow I have to make the topic come up while leaving out what happened tonight, and keeping my fingers crossed it won’t happen again.

  Not sure what I’ll do if it does. The panic that will grip me, the rush decisions I might make, like buy a bus ticket and just run away.

  Again.

  And... Ross. What in the world just happened? Why would he defend me? Discarding his harsh words, putting them aside for a second, why would he come to my rescue?

  And actually, why did he let those guys beat him up in the first place? Oh sure, he shoved them back once or twice, but he let them get their punches in. He had blood running down his chin, and a black eye, and older bruises on his face and arms.

  A guy like him, tall and muscular, strong. Aggressive. He’s always swaggered about, or stalked, moving like a dangerous animal, a predator, pale eyes intense and confidence in his every step.

  He still moves like that, still has that dangerous air about him, but he’s holding back.

  I stare at the dark stars above and worry my lower lip between my teeth, trying to figure out this puzzle. Where does he fit in—his saving me, his reluctance to fight back, his words.

  “You shouldn’t have come back,” he said. “You should have stayed away from this town.”

  And he’s right. It’s what I keep telling myself, this last attack driving the point home more than ever.

  In my memory’s eye, I examine the look on his face, the shadows in his eyes, the clench of his jaw, of his fists. The softness underneath the roughness of his voice, of his words.

  “I didn’t do it for you.”

  But then also, “I won’t do this ever again, you hear me,” as if I’d have expected something else. Something more. Something good.

  Why would I ever expect anything from him? Anything at all, except for pain.

  ***

  Keeping Ross out of my mind is paramount if I want to hold on to my sanity, but it’s hard to do when Dena can’t stop talking about him. He’s a hot topic in town, it seems—or at least in Mike’s Diner.

  It’s still early today, not so many customers, and she’s wiping down the trays and talking, a running monologue with no end in sight, despite me doing my best not to show any signs of interest.

  “... and then he took the extra fries I’d put in for him, just a little treat, trying to get him to even look at me, and he didn’t even say thank you. Took the fries and ate them and that was it. To this day I don’t know if he noticed it was extra, I mean, since he’s not paying and all. I was so mad, I tell you. One day I mentioned it to him, I said, you don’t deserve kindness, Mister, because you don’t pay attention when someone tries to treat you nicely. And you know what he said?”

  “No, what?” I bite my lip, because I wasn’t going to reply or otherwise betray my fascination with her stories.

  I’m drawn in despite my resolution and my efforts to ignore Dena’s ramblings about her favorite bad boy. I loathe the fact I’m so thirsty for any knowledge about Ross, but especially after the other night when he stood up to the other bullies, I’m just... curious. Interested.

  Though I really shouldn’t be.

  Dena huffs. “He said, “Kindness. Kindness doesn’t do it for me, sweets. My dad always said you had to beat everything into me.” Can you imagine?”

  “He said that?” I swallow back horror, tell myself to cool down. I’d heard such stories before. Not all parents are kind.

  Stop listening, Luna.

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s no secret that his old man beat the living shit out of him all the time as he grew up. Makes you wonder how Ross would’ve turned out in a different life. Growing up with his mom’s murderer can’t have been a walk in the park.”

  "Whoa. What?" I stop what I’m doing—basically rearranging everything behind the bar just for an excuse to listen to Dena’s stories—and spin around to face her. “Wait. Are you serious? Not joking about. I only heard that his dad tried to kill him. There’s more?”

  “Oh yeah, didn’t you hear? His dad took a knife to him. Rumors say Jasper grabbed a knife and went for his son’s heart but missed because he was so drunk. Holy shit, right? Seems Ross went to confront him about his mom’s murder. For a long time, he thought his mom had walked out on them, but as it turns out, she hadn’t gone not even a mile. Police found her skeleton by the river.”

  I press my back to the bar, feeling kind of faint as it sinks in. “God. How did Ross find out?”

  “Well, it’s a long story.” One Dena is obviously dying to tell, and for once I’m not complaining. “Did you know that his dad had more kids? Remember the Watsons? Octavia, Gigi, Merc? They left town before you did. They’re Ross’s half-brothers and sisters.”

  “For real? I remember them.” They do look alike, now I think about it.

  “Yeah. And what’s more, it turns out that Merc, the youngest, witnessed the murder when he was a child. Has been having nightmares about it all his life, and when he finally decided to get serious about it and looked into it, all sorts of terrible details came to light, leading to the discovery of the skeletons.”

  “Skeletons? Plural?”

  “Oh, yeah. Jasper Jones has the honor of being Destiny’s first serial killer. I mean, assuming two killings that we know of are enough to put him into that category.”

  Holy shit. I shake my head, frowning at her. “Who cares about the category? Jesus. I didn’t know Ross’s mom was dead. When did that happen?”

  “Long time ago. Ross didn’t know. Nobody did around here. We all thought she skipped town. Jasper beat her, so it made sense, or so we thought.”

  A headache has started behind my eyes. My lungs feel tight. Shock, I think. The serial killer thing, the skeletons by the river, the killer being a man I’ve known all my life growing up. Who doesn’t know Jasper’s Garage and the sleazy man behind it? I just never thought... It doesn’t seem possible that...

  That all this was happening and I had no clue. That a killer lived among us. That he lived with Ross, beating him up, twisting him.

  That Ross was a victim all his life, and I had no clue.

  Stop. Stop it, Luna. Don’t go giving Ross excuses for everything he’s done. And even if that is the reason, it doesn’t matter. He is who he is. He’s done what he’s done. To others. To you.

  I know. I know! Jesus, I’m just... I feel sick.

  Wiping my hands on my apron, I pour myself some coffee and move away from the bar. “Hey, I’m going to take a break. Cover for me?”

  “Sure.”

  I don’t smoke, but I could use a few mome
nts of quiet out back, to think. Or not think. To block these confusing thoughts, try to erase the mental images of a young Ross with his violent father, of his father killing people. Killing Ross’s mom.

  Ross finding out and confronting him.

  His dad pointing a knife at Ross’s heart and barely missing.

  Ross letting those guys in the street beat him up.

  Ross protecting me.

  How does all this add up? What connects the dots? What’s the link?

  Pushing the back door of the diner open, I step onto the street. There are some old houses behind, gardens overgrown with weeds, porches dilapidated and falling to pieces. Leaning against the diner wall, I sip at my hot coffee and close my eyes, willing the images and questions to fade. I try to replace them with my family’s faces, with peace and quiet, willing my racing heart to slow.

  God, I’m so lucky. So blessed. So grateful for my dad and for Josh, for my aunt and my cousins. That’s not something I think about every day. Have I ever even told them that? How much I love them, how much I appreciate their affection, their patience and care as I was growing up.

  Deep breaths.

  And all this still doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t. It doesn’t erase years of Ross’s meanness, of leading this group of sadistic boys around, of sitting back and watching while schoolkids were made to cry day in and day out, made to think their lives were worthless.

  If I believed in heaven and hell, then I’d say there’s no salvation for the soul of Ross Jones. The line may seem fuzzy at times, like now, after hearing the horrid account of his life, but it’s there.

  Then again, I’m not sure I do. Believe in heaven and hell, that is. That would mean condemning more people, like my mom who abandoned us. Or most of the boys in Destiny, because they followed Ross and did his bidding. Or maybe invented tortures of their own, like the guys who cornered me the other night.

  “What, deep inside you’re all saints?” Ross’s voice resonates in my memory.

  And then, “Let her go.”

  In moments like this, no matter how I struggle to see the line, the boundary between the good and evil, the righteous and the wicked, I can’t, and that scares me to death.

  Because if it means I have to change the way I see things, the way I remember the past... then it also means I need to change the way I remember Ross and in redefining him, redefine who I am.

  Chapter Eight

  Ross

  “Get your fucking asses moving!” the construction superintendent, Hudson, yells. “We got work to do. Break’s over.” And then, predictably, “Ross Jones, where the hell are you? Get your pansy ass over here.”

  He can wait another minute. Asshole never lets us have our full break.

  I throw my cigarette butt to the ground and step on it, then light another smoke and inhale, letting one poison counteract another, bitter smoke against pain, darkness, anger, the weight that’s been pressing on my chest and shoulders for years now. All my life.

  My body aches, too. Sticking the cigarette in the corner of my mouth, I lift my T-shirt up and wince at the sight of all the bruises. My ribs are a lovely black and blue, and my back burns like fire when I move. Some bruises are from last night, some from the previous days and weeks.

  Motherfuck.

  I let the hem of my T-shirt fall, covering it all up. It’s okay, I think. That’s life for ya. Shut up and suck it up, Ross, like you’ve always done with dear old Dad.

  Frowning—because this is different, right? It’s gotta be fucking different—I suck on my cigarette and almost choke on it when Hudson yells my name again.

  Not surprised he’s got it in for me like everyone else, I take one last drag, throw the cigarette away and make my way to him, see what’s gotten his lacy panties in a twist.

  “Where do you want me?” I ask, taking the helmet off and ramming it back on my head, hoping to distract him enough to get out of this and get back to work.

  “Get to work or I’ll have you fired!” he yells at me, red in the face, tendons in his neck bulging. “Your days of glorified laziness are over. Get it? You think you’re better than everyone else? That you deserve extra break time? Is that it?”

  Damn, it didn’t work. “No, boss. Look, I’m coming—”

  “You ignore me one more time and your ass is out on the street.”

  Fucker. Not something I can afford. “I was just finishing my smoke.”

  “One more word from your punk-ass mouth, I swear, and you’re done.”

  I’m done anyway, I wanna tell him but swallow my bitter words, my bitter smoke, and haul my ass back to work. Maybe there’s an escape now—fix my bike, get on the road and ride away into the sunset.

  Really, Ross, an irritating little voice whispers in the back of my mind as I stomp through the construction site. You sure you’re gonna leave? Leave and go where? What is escape for you exactly? Escaping the ghosts of the past? Don’t you know you can’t, no matter how far and fast you run?

  Besides, Luna is here.

  And where nothing else was convincing, for some reason this last stupid argument is. Luna is here, in this town, and I can’t just take off. Not when I can see her, and hear her, and maybe touch her.

  I’m so damn fucked.

  ***

  “Coffee?” a girl’s lilting voice asks and my head snaps up.

  It’s her, that girl, the girl haunting my thoughts. She’s right here, close enough to touch. I smirk up at her. “You offering?”

  Her mouth tightens. “All customers get coffee. Don’t flatter yourself. And I work here, so you know... You’re the one who got in my way this time.”

  I lift my brows at her. “I see.”

  Guess my parting comment to her hit a nerve—as I intended it to. I wanted it to sting her, hurt her, keep her away from me.

  I’m not so sure what I was thinking. Not sure I want that now.

  She’s wearing the diner’s uniform—white apron, dark skirt and shirt, and I can’t help the way my eyes stray to her tits.

  Those damn curves. They got my attention years back, and now they’re a serious threat to my self-control.

  She shifts her weight on her other foot. “I guess that’s a no to coffee. Did you want anything else? You know you can’t stay unless you order something. Boss's orders.”

  My stomach is growling with hunger, but I’m too damn distracted, by her, by everything. “Pancakes.”

  “Always the same thing,” she mutters, pulling out a notepad she had clipped on her apron strap and scribbles my order down. Or maybe she just wrote “jerk” to get it off her chest. “Anything else?”

  Then something else strikes me. “Wait... you know what I normally order?”

  This time she rolls her eyes. “Did someone drop you on your head as a baby? I don’t care what you normally order, Ross. You want pancakes, I’ll get them for you.”

  But she somehow knew I always get pancakes. She fucking knew, and I have no damn clue why the thought makes me grin so wide.

  I’m about to open my big mouth and spew some smartass comment, when her attention wanders from me.

  Someone has walked in. He goes and sits at a table to our left, and her gaze strays there, her frown fading.

  Well, I’ll be damned. Jenner Hawkins. Did you know he dyes his hair blond? Fucker always tried to be me. Even imitates my hairstyle and clothes, or used to, back when I gave a fuck about that shit.

  And she’s staring at him like he’s the second coming.

  The flare of anger coming back to warm the blood in my veins catches me by surprise and the words falling out of my stupid mouth are not the ones I intended.

  Whatever those were. I’m not even sure.

  “Jenner, huh? Going for my lookalikes doesn’t look good on you, sweet cheeks,” I drawl as I lean back in my chair. I wave a hand down at myself. “You really should try the original. Brand new, one hundred percent reliable awesome sex machine.”

  Now she’s gaping at me. Well,
at least I got her attention back. I watch the emotions play on her face, in those green eyes with the long lashes, see the flash of shock, the hook of old pain, and burning fury that finally swallows up all the rest.

  “Really, Ross.” Her voice has gone colder than Satan’s tits. “I tried you, years ago, remember? Tried to live alongside you, but you shit all over that.”

  The kitten has grown claws. “Maybe you should try getting naked with me.”

  “I don’t think so. See, tiny brains and even tinier dicks just don’t do it for me.”

  Score for Luna. I chuckle, the sound startling me. “No girl has ever complained about my dick, just so you know. In fact, they all come back for more.”

  She takes a step forward, glaring, lifting the coffee pot in one hand as if she wants to hit me with it, wipe the smile off my face. “I mean it. You don’t do it for me, Ross Jones. You’re an asshole, and you belong in the hole you crawled out of. You should crawl right back inside. Make the world a better place.”

  “Ouch,” I mutter, my laughter dying. “Harsh.”

  But just. This girl’s on fire. And I deserve it all.

  She turns her back to me and I watch her saunter away, that short skirt, those shapely legs, those hips. That girl. Truth is, I have no reply to what she said. She’s right. Right about me. Right to be damn mad at me.

  There’s a tightness in my fucking chest I don’t understand. Strangely, I’m caught between smiling and scowling at her retreating back.

  Respect. That’s what I feel. She called me out on my bullshit. I’m not used to that. Nowadays guys beat me up and call me unimaginative names. Nobody has ever put me in my place like she has.

  I mean, chicks dig me. They like my eyes, they say, my jaw, my mouth, my body. But this girl is immune to my charms.

  She hates my guts. She won’t forget the past. She knows exactly who I am, what I am.

  Girl has brains. Always did. She won’t ever forgive me. I watched her at school, back then. Her future will be bright. A good student, with her cute nose always buried in books, an anger in her pretty eyes to match mine.

  But whenever I see her, mine vanishes, fades, and something else warms me up inside, something I can’t understand.