No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  But the kicks stop.

  “Get off him,” Luna shouts, “get off him or I’m calling the cops, I swear I will.”

  She’s trying to drag them off me, and I blink at her, stunned. Why is she still here? What is she doing?

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Looney,” Ed mutters, stepping back. “We’re done here today.”

  “Don’t you call her that,” I spit at him, though that’s what I used to call her at school. Yeah, the irony isn’t lost on me. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

  Lifting my aching head, I watch their boots walking away, then turn to see Luna’s sandals. Her toes are painted dark blue.

  It’s cute.

  And I’m fucked in the head. Not because I caught the edge of Ed’s boot earlier, but because I want her, I still want her, and I’m acting like an idiot for her. I should have stayed away. They used her as bait to get me here, but I couldn’t risk her getting hurt.

  What does that tell you? Brain damage, for damn sure. I hawk a gob of bloody spit, wipe at my split lip with the back of my hand, waiting for her steps to lead her away, to her house that looms farther down the road. Chocolate roof, trees around the front, a swing hanging from a branch. A fairytale home for a girl like her.

  Unlike the nightmare home I come from.

  But her sandaled feet don’t move away.

  Instead they move closer. Bare shins and knees lower until she’s kneeling in front of me. Cool skin touches my face and I flinch, then curse myself. Her touch is so soft. Unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

  I want to touch her back so badly, make sure she’s okay, but I’m still bent over, trying to breathe through the pain of my ribs and back.

  I want her to keep touching me, that cool glide of her palm and fingertips on my heated skin. Her scent, like flowers and sunlight. The tickle of her hair as it swings forward to brush my cheek.

  I want to stay here, locked in this moment, forever. It’s the best, the gentlest I can remember having in years.

  And it’s about to break me to pieces.

  Chapter Eleven

  Luna

  Life has a strange sense of humor, sending Ross to save my ass yet again, just when I’d decided to keep as far away from him as humanly possible, when I just told him to stay away from me. I decided to keep a clear mind, not to let him affect me in any way.

  But how can I, when he waded into the fray without hesitation to make sure I was okay, when he berated the other guys for calling me names? He’s my prince in dusty armor, whether I like it or not.

  And he’s hurt because of me, and I can’t leave him here, because... because I just can’t. I’m not that person. I’m grateful for his intervention, even if I’m starting to think Edward and his coward friends are using me to get to Ross.

  Why that would be, though... no idea. It makes no sense. It’s not like Ross ever cared about what happened to me.

  Until now, that is. This is the second time he comes to my rescue, and I wish someone could explain to me what’s going on here.

  I could ask Ross, of course. But I’m scared of his answers.

  “Are you okay?” I ask instead.

  “I told you not to expect me to protect you. Didn’t you hear me?”

  See? “Ross...”

  “If you wanted to see me, you only had to say so. No need for games.”

  The unreality of today increases. “Let me get this straight. You think I let them jump me on purpose just to have you come over?”

  He finally looks up from under pale lashes, eyes wicked, his bloodied mouth tilting into a crooked smirk. “Didn’t you?”

  “You’re an ass,” I mutter, somehow amused through my anger. “I was going to thank you for helping me, but now, well, I don’t know.”

  “I only take thanks in kind, anyway,” he says and wipes again at his mouth. His eyes dip to my lips. “That’s my rule.”

  “Rule, what rule? What do you mean?”

  “A kiss,” he says, and there’s a buzzing in my ears.

  A kiss? No frigging way. No way, I’m not getting any closer to him, but my mind, my body are betraying me, acutely aware of his good looks, his sexy scruff, his powerful build. My heart’s still pounding with adrenaline, with fear, with gratitude, and his spicy male scent wraps around me like a curtain, cutting off the world—and rational thought.

  Somehow my hand drops to his shoulder, feeling the powerful muscles shift underneath my palm, and he lifts both hands to cup my face, and he’s leaning in, gaze still locked on my mouth, eyes gone dark like the night.

  This boy, who’s haunted my dreams in all the bad and good ways, the boy I’d dreamed about kissing for so long, until he broke my heart to pieces and sent me running... he tastes sweet, of blood and man, a little bitter, a little salty, but sweet above all.

  Blood, I think, as if in a dream still. He’s bleeding, and I’m tasting his pain, and it’s rusty-sweet.

  When his tongue touches mine, I think I’ll lose my mind from needing him. The feel of his big, rough hands on my cheeks, his soft moan as he deepens the kiss, the sudden bruising force as he devours my mouth, eating at me like he’s hungry.

  For me.

  It’s taking my breath away, while setting my body on fire. My hand slips from his shoulder to the back of his neck, anchoring me, the other finding its way to his thick, silky hair, my fingers burrowing in the tangled mess. Lightning sparks of pleasure race down my back, pressure mounting between my legs, starting a second heartbeat inside me.

  I want him. I want him over me, inside me, I want him everywhere, and is it that bad? Just lust, Dena said, just a one-night stand. Why not? Why not find a quiet place and let him do to me all the things I fantasized? Let him be my real first lover, get that itch out of my skin, my bones.

  He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, his kiss gentling, and when I open my eyes, I find his lashes lifting, too. He draws back, his lips brushing over mine as our lips part.

  Oh God, what have I done? Have I gone crazy? He’ll use this to tease me mercilessly. I showed him a weakness, something I should never have done. Have I learned nothing?

  I stumble to my feet, afraid and furious. “There’s your payment, and screw you, Ross Jones. How are you gonna repay me for mocking me for so long, for breaking me—”

  Clapping a hand over my mouth, horrified that I let that slip out, let him know how badly he hurt me, how weak I am, I was, I scramble to my feet and all but run home, not looking behind.

  ***

  “How are you gonna repay me.”

  Am I really looking for payback? When will I get over it? Does he really have to apologize for me to turn a corner and leave the past in the rearview mirror?

  A day passes without seeing him again, and another, more days with long nights in between where I stare at the ceiling, counting cracks and stains and trying not to remember that kiss, his taste, his lips, his low moans. The way his hands held my face, strong but gentle. The way he took the brunt of the violence to keep me safe, that he sent me away and stayed to fight.

  Trying to forget his face, those long-lashed, blue eyes, and the way they made my heart race.

  Whoever said love is blind is an idiot.

  Love isn’t blind, it’s just stupid.

  Anyhow, this isn’t love. Duh. It’s lust, pure and simple. Chemistry. Desire, with a light dose of gratitude and confusion thrown into the mix. How’s a girl to think straight and keep a cool head like that? I cling to that excuse for the kiss, for my wayward thoughts and the hum in my veins, the dreams that leave me with an ache inside I don’t want to think too hard about.

  Confusion. That’s all.

  And Ross is still a no show and I can’t help wondering if it was my ultimatum about talking to Mike that is the reason.

  Then one day I see him.

  Boom, there he is in the flesh. I stumble to a halt, both physically and mentally. Funny how my mind empties, thoughts and doubts and questions snuffed out just at the
sight of him.

  It’s enough. Seeing Ross is always a blow to my senses, a punch in the heart.

  He’s sitting on the front steps of the only drugstore in town, blond head down, ever-present cigarette in hand. He’s dressed like usual in worn jeans and a T-shirt, heavy work boots on his feet, pale hair glinting like silver in the glare of the sun. The black lines of a tattoo slither around one corded arm. I itch to know what it is.

  Yes, I’m staring. Can’t help it, and I tell myself that it’s because I’ve been worried, feeling guilty for not checking on him after that fight in the street. I stomped off, righteously angry, and didn’t even ask if he was okay. After all that kicking he took...

  As if called forth by my thoughts, bruises seem to materialize on his arms and his face when he lifts his face to take a drag from his cigarette. His jaw is swollen, and he has one black eye.

  I wince, and wonder if it is from that afternoon near my house.

  The guilt punches me again in the stomach. When it shouldn’t. I paid him back what he asked for, didn’t I? He used my worry and gratitude to cop a feel and...

  That kiss was hot.

  I tell myself I didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it, didn’t fall in it. Didn’t dream about it every night. That it wasn’t something I’d imagined a million times before, even when I hated him.

  I still hate him, I tell myself.

  But do I believe it?

  Quickly I cross the street, to avoid passing in front of him, keeping my head down, my bags of groceries firmly held close to my chest. Dad will cook his world-famous beef stew and I got him everything he put on my shopping list from our one and only grocery store. We’re running low on provisions, and should soon drive out of town to the big Walmart, but for now this will do.

  As long as I don’t have to face Ross and the memory of his mouth on mine.

  “Luna!”

  His deep voice jerks me, and I glance over my shoulder to see him surging to his feet and starting toward me, flicking his cigarette away. His black T-shirt molds to his chest, his shoulders and muscular arms. This boy’s beauty makes me stupid.

  I resist as best I can. “I can’t,” I tell him, opening my stride to put distance between us. “I have to go.”

  “Wait. Hey, just wait!”

  “What is it?”

  “Just wait, goddammit.” His footsteps halt. “You dropped something.”

  “What?” I stop and turn around as he bends with a grunt to scoop something up. “Crap.”

  “Here.” He lifts the offending item—a thankfully plastic bottle of apple cider vinegar Dad insists makes all the difference in his stew and miraculously can be found in our grocery store—and I reach for it. “Luna—”

  A grimace interrupts him, and he presses a hand to his side, over his T-shirt.

  The guilt, the worry from before returns full-force. “What is it? You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He nods, but it strikes me how pale his face looks, white around the lips, tight with lines of pain. “Just scrapes and bruises.”

  “Good, okay.” I stare at him. I want to believe it, but I don’t. I should be running the other way, but I’m not. I’ll probably regret this, won’t I? “Listen, Ross—”

  “Can you do something for me?”

  “You got your kiss,” I say automatically, heat spreading on my face, on my neck, and my mouth keeps going, on autopilot. “I don’t owe you.”

  I haven’t been daydreaming about that kiss. Definitely not.

  Nope.

  “Goddammit,” he growls softly, “I know that.” Pink splotches his cheekbones, stark on his pale face. “Shit, it’s okay. Forget it.”

  That’s it? I wait for more, for some smartass comment, and when it doesn’t come, I get uneasy. Curious. Concerned. From up close he doesn’t look like he’s playing a game with me. Instead he looks pale, and tired, and sad.

  “Ross, what do you need?”

  He looks like he’s about to keep his silence, refuse to reply, pale brows drawing together in a frown. But then he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the shop behind us. “Can you get something for me from the drugstore?”

  “No money?”

  “What? No, I have the money. They just... they won’t sell it to me.”

  My turn to frown. “Why not?”

  “Why do you think, genius?”

  I ignore that. Obnoxious Ross won’t get to me, no way, and besides he looks even worse than before somehow, his face sweaty and going gray. “They don’t want to sell to you? Is that it?”

  He glares at the ground, mouth pressed flat.

  Holy crap. “Tell me. What do you want me to get you?”

  A broad shoulder rolls in a shrug. “Band-Aids. Or gauze. Some antiseptic.”

  “Shit, you’re hurt, aren’t you?” I put down the grocery bags, grip the hem of his T-shirt. What would he need gauze and antiseptic for, otherwise? “Let me see.”

  “It’s nothing.” His hand closes over mine, keeping the T-shirt down.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Now, let me.”

  He releases my hand, and I lift the soft cotton fabric only to wince in sympathy at the angry cuts bleeding under his ribs, long bloody trails seeping into his jeans, some old and dry, some fresh and bright red.

  “Holy crap, Ross.” I can’t take my eyes off the wounds, horrified. “Who did this? How? Is this from fighting Ed and his cronies?”

  Again he presses his mouth into a thin line. He tugs his T-shirt down, and from up close I can see that the black cotton is wet with blood.

  “I should call the cops. The sheriff—”

  He laughs, while the rest of the color drains from his face. “The sheriff? Are you out of your fucking mind? He’s been looking for an excuse to lock me back up. I’m not going back there.”

  “A doctor then. To take a look at this.”

  God. I’m still staring.

  “Whatever,” he mutters. “Forget it. I’ll be okay. I normally do this shit on my own anyway, I just ran out of fucking gauze and—”

  “No, wait.” A split-second decision, a worry that digs teeth so deep inside me I wouldn’t be surprised if I bled, too. No way am I leaving him like this. “Keep an eye on the grocery bags. I’ll be right back.”

  ***

  It’s strangely surreal, leading a quiet, pale Ross down the main street by the hand. He’s carrying one of my bags, and randomly I wonder how I’ll explain the blood on the brown paper to my dad, though mainly I wonder why Ross lets me pull him after me.

  Why I decided that I needed to hold his hand. As if he’d run away, from me, this tall muscular wall of a man with the pretty ice-blue eyes and cruel mouth.

  As if that’s not the guy I swore just a few days ago I’d stay away from.

  I don’t even know where we’re going. My house is out of the question, and his is far, even farther than mine. I’ve never been there, though I’ve seen it from a distance many times. Dad always told me to stay clear of the Joneses. It’s as if he’d known that Jasper Jones was a psycho killer before any of us did, or maybe he was just naturally paranoid, like any good parent.

  Ross being the horrible little shit that he was, staying away wasn’t a hardship. Even before I was a blip on his radar, I tended to avoid him. Observe him sometimes from afar, as I played in the woods around our houses with Josh. In the town. I always thought something was off about him, the way he hid his arms even in Summer, the way sometimes bruises showed on his neck or legs or his face. The coldness in his eyes that had nothing to do with their pale hue and more with a reflection of his thoughts.

  But he covered that up well, was mean enough to distract anyone from asking, from wondering what was going on. Everyone assuming he just got into plenty of fights, earning those bruises like badges of honor. Nobody ever asking. I never cared to ask, hating him as I did, never considered what it must have been like growing up with Jasper the Psycho, until Dad told me when I returned home.

  About beatings.
About killings.

  I chance a glance at his face and find I don’t like his color at all. Too ashen. Too closed off and blank. His bruise-mottled chest replays in my mind—memory snagging on those perfect, hard muscles enveloping strong bones and sinew, maybe a bit too tightly. He’s strong, but kind of thin, and beaten to hell and back.

  How to help him?

  Why would I even want to?

  Moot question at this point. I just do. And I don’t know what possesses me to tug him toward Mike’s Diner. It’s my day off, but Dena will be there, which might complicate things. I need a place to patch him up, though, out of the street and I can’t think of another off the top of my head.

  I don’t have any friends. I haven’t reconnected since I came back. I’m a tourist in my own town.

  Ross seems to snap out of the funk as we approach the diner’s back entrance, digging in his heels. “Luna—”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “You said I shouldn’t come back here.”

  “Because you’re not paying.”

  “Mike is lying,” Ross says, eyes flashing, resisting my pull. “I told you. I always pay my credit at the end of the month.”

  Huh. I stare at him, and his gaze is fierce, like I’ve stung his pride again. He seems to be telling the truth.

  I tug on his hand. “Mike doesn’t have to know. We’ll be quick.”

  “Do it here.”

  “No. Come on.”

  “Dammit.” With a sigh, he unlocks his knees and we’re moving again. the door is half-open, the kitchen aromas wafting out to the street, mingling with a sourness of the trash stashed right outside and a fainter whiff of petrol fumes.

  Yet as we enter and I pull him toward a stool by the counter to sit, all I can smell is him. Dropping the bag I’m carrying on a stretch of free counter, I wrestle the other bag from his hold, and I’m close, so close, wrapped up in the spice of male sweat and that undercurrent of sweetness that’s not all blood, as I’m starting to realize, but part of him. A touch of sugar. An unexpected thread of gold.

  “So...” I lift up his T-shirt again and almost hiss at the angry cuts—then try not to get distracted by a set of impressive, hard abs—and the tattoos. A swan on a river, wings like sails, a moon behind. I hadn’t paid so much attention before, shocked by the blood, but good Lord, the boy’s ripped. “Will you tell me who did this to you?”