No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  A sudden urge grips me to change everything. Getting up, I tear the old posters down, bunch them up and throw them into a corner. I peel the sparkly comforter off my bed, throw the pink and silver pillows to the floor. I stop short of pulling down the curtains and trashing the room completely.

  Breathing hard, I throw myself on my bed and stare up at the ceiling.

  There. Done. The change is complete now, right? I want to laugh at myself for thinking that redecorating my room would make any difference in how I feel—but somehow it does.

  I’m not a pink and glitter girl anymore. I can face reality and not flinch. The school counsellor told me many times that if inside I believe in myself, hard words can slide off me like water on glass. I am not glass, though, I am steel. I’ve forged myself anew when I left. And if there’s a glass heart inside that armor, I’ll protect it.

  Ross had looked made of glass this morning when I entered his room, fear stark in his eyes, in his pale face, his harsh breathing. And then relief at seeing me, so easy to read in the relaxing of his powerful shoulders, his jaw, his mouth.

  Pleasure at having me beside him, at my touch. It was as if all his defenses were down, the fortress laid open, inviting me to look inside.

  But Ross isn’t made of glass. He’s... solid. Warm. Tall. Those shoulders, those thick biceps, the hard stomach, the inked pecs and then... his cock. Thick, long, flushed. Pierced. Burning hot. He’s flesh and blood and sexy bad boy. How could any girl resist the combo?

  Yep, good old-fashioned lust, that’s my problem, tempered with a dash of worry and sadness, and thinking of him on the porch, his cock so hard, remembering how he sounded, how he jerked as he came...

  Heat washes through me, pooling in my belly. Oh God, that was so sexy. Never thought I’d find a man’s cock so exciting, so powerful. That I’d willingly touch it, lick it, that I’d want to play with it. That I’d want to pleasure Ross and that it would get me so horny in turn.

  And I am. So horny. For him.

  I lean back, slip my hand under my skirt, into my panties. I haven’t touched myself like that in what feels like ages. I remember how his fingers stroked me, parting me and shoving deep inside, and I do the same, whimpering.

  What would it feel to have his cock inside me? Dangerous, tempting thoughts.

  I feel like I’m about to self-combust. Never mind that I’ve never done it before. The image in my mind, Ross moving above me, fucking me, is so scorching hot I hiss. I’m about to come, Ross on my mind, a fantasy image of him over me, pushing into me, kissing me hard—and I shatter, biting my lip hard not to make a noise as I clench deep inside, writhing in pleasure.

  What in God’s name am I doing?

  ***

  It’s almost dark by the time I manage to slip out of the house. Dad’s busy watching his favorite TV show and Josh... yeah, avoiding me.

  Good, at least in this instance. I don’t need either of them asking where I’m going and why. I make a quick sandwich in the kitchen, wrap it up and move through the dusk like a shadow, between the scraggly trees and the humid heat, with the buzzing of mosquitos and fluttering of wings on the branches.

  The proximity of his house to mine was one of the reasons I left town. I never told anyone, but even though I wasn’t afraid Ross might assault me physically, I wanted to be away. Away from the confusion he brought into my life, that mixture of apprehension and attraction.

  The attraction is winning out. That’s my main thought, the main thought filling my head as I approach his house and find him standing, smoking on the porch. It’s a shock to my system, seeing him, and I tell myself that’s because this morning he was in bed, looking sick and pale, and now he’s right there, in all his hunky Ross-ness—long legs and tight ass encased in worn jeans, feet bare, a threadbare black T-shirt stretched over his wide shoulders and broad back, his short hair glinting like a silver helmet in the dimming light.

  The embers of his cigarette burn red, and smoke swirls in the air. He turns toward my approaching steps.

  “Luna.” Just my name, but I imagine I hear pleasure in his voice. “You’re here.”

  “Said I’d come over.”

  “Yeah.” He flicks the ash off his cigarette. “That’s why I took down the curtains, vacuumed, put fresh flowers in the vase... you know. The works. Left the pie cooling on the window sill.”

  I laugh. “Your house could sure use some cleaning.”

  “Not my house.” But he doesn’t say it with as much vehemence as he did other times. “Anyway, I wasn’t sure you were coming, just...” His voice grows uncertain. He stubs his cigarette on the porch rail, putting it out. “Fuck.”

  He’s cute when he’s nervous. He is, isn’t he? And since when is Ross Jones nervous around me?

  I bet I’m imagining it, wanting him to feel like I do when I’m around him, palms slick with sweat, heart palpitating, torn between pleasure at this nearness and fear that I’m the only one feeling this way.

  Get your head on straight, Luna. You’re here to check on him, see how he’s doing. And in fact, taking a closer look as I go up the porch steps, he looks... well, hot. Though the side of his head is still crusted with dried blood and I remember he doesn’t have water at home.

  “Are you okay now? You’re looking better. Did the fever drop?”

  “Honey, this man in front of you has cauterized his wounds with a hot iron stake,” he drawls, “poured Scotch over them, then drunk the bottle dry. Disaster has been averted.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He grins at me. His incisors are slightly pointed. It gives him a wild look. “It always seems easy in the movies. Ya know. How real men treat their wounds in the wilderness.”

  “Real men.” My disbelief is evident in my voice. “What, in Westerns?”

  “Dad liked watching them.” His voice goes grim. “And survival shows. I bet he’d have approved of his son searing his infected flesh off and then applying maggots, or some such shit.”

  But his dad didn’t approve of him, the implication goes. He beat him, called him a retard...tried to kill him. Suddenly I wonder what else he’s done to Ross.

  I walk up to him, really looking, past the handsome face and the attitude he likes to wear like armor, and notice he still is pale, his cheeks thin and hollow.

  “Brought you something.” I present the sandwich with a flourish, then feel foolish as he stares at it in seeming incomprehension.

  Did I make a mistake? Is this Florence Nightingale syndrome? Maybe I just want to feel useful. But the way my heart is racing, it’s never happened to me with anyone before. I was telling the truth when I told Ross I like looking after the people I care for.

  Oh God...

  “I thought, you know. You don’t have a working kitchen yet, and you’ve been feeling off, and you should eat with those pills...” I trail off, starting to feel uncomfortable since he’s not saying anything yet.

  He finally reaches for it, and I brace for some snide comment.

  I guess I’m still a little unsure about him. He’s been acting nice mostly, but occasionally he bites, like a pet tiger you think is tamed but sometimes discover is still feral. I haven’t figured out the pattern yet, if there is one, to predict when one of those moods will hit him. Why does he lash out like that sometimes when I least expect it, hitting me with his words, flustering me and leaving me to flounder and sink into the past?

  Vowing to pay more attention to what makes Ross Jones tick, I watch him take the wrapped-up sandwich. He’s still quiet, and I can’t read his face.

  Eventually, as the silence stretches uncomfortably long, he pulls in a long and strangely shaky breath.

  “I’m not used to—” He breaks off, starts again. “You know, you can pet my snake anytime. No need for bribes.”

  “Shut up,” I mutter, torn between laughing, or slapping him.

  Or maybe kissing him.

  Really, it’s a toss-up.

  It’s so weird to realize I l
ike him. His dry sense of humor, his stubbornness. Bastard. He’s making me care. I bet he doesn’t realize that either, and it’s... endearing.

  “Thank you,” he says, and this time he sort of looks away, and something in his gaze, in those precious moments I catch it, tears at me like a thorn. I can’t name the emotion—not disdain, not insolence, not scorn, none of that.

  No, it’s something else, softer and deeper, like a cross between pleasure and pain. Why would he look at me like that? What does it mean?

  I don’t know what to do with my hands. I wring them together. God, who’s nervous now, huh? How could it get so weird between us after this morning’s easy connection?

  “I can’t stay long. I haven’t told anyone I’m going out, and Dad chewed me out about leaving home without telling him where I’m going.”

  He nods, the sandwich clutched in his hand so hard I’m afraid he’ll squeeze it into a mash. It’s not like I put hours into it, it’s not a gourmet meal, but I’d hoped he’d like it. I want him to feel better, and try not to examine my feelings for him too closely.

  I’m backing away, convinced he won’t say anything else, when I see something glint on the floor.

  I bend and pick it up. It’s a silver chain with a delicate pendant. A swan? “What is this?”

  I must have looked accusing because he glares at me. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean. I told you, it was my mom’s. They found it with her bones.”

  Oh God. I’m so sorry. “Ross...”

  He shakes his head. I hand over the pendant and he closes his fingers around it.

  “Where is...?” I swallow. “Where is she buried?”

  “She’s not. She’s evidence. I think her bones are in a morgue drawer somewhere.”

  “I thought the case was closed.”

  “They’re still looking into it, especially the other skeleton. They’re afraid...” He draws a shallow breath. “Afraid there might be more.”

  “More bodies?”

  He winces. “Yeah.” His voice is low and bitter, rasping like he’s smoked too much. He probably has. “The cops are still searching.”

  Dear God. I don’t know what to say to that, what to feel. Horror at having lived so close to a disturbed, sick mind. Sorrow for Ross who was raised by the monster, by a man who took his mother away from him and tried to turn him into his own image.

  He’s quiet too. When he shoves his hands into his pockets, something else falls out. He frowns down at it as if he doesn’t know what it is.

  It’s a photo. Before he bends over to take it and thrust it back into his pocket, I get a brief impression of a woman with a child. His mouth seems to tremble.

  “Who is that?” I whisper.

  “None of your business,” he mutters, and I wince as if he’s pushed a rusty knife into my chest.

  “Ross...”

  “What else do you wanna see? Tell me. Wanna see where he kept his ax, the one he used to kill them?”

  Is he serious?

  He doesn’t wait for me to decide. He starts down the porch steps and cuts across the front garden.

  I hurry after him. “Ross—”

  “Wanted to see, huh? Maybe you wanna see the ax?” he asks roughly. “Maybe see the bones? Still thinking I stole that pendant?”

  What’s gotten into him now? “I never thought you stole it. I didn’t know—”

  “And now that you do know, what’s changed, huh? Once you’ve made up your mind about something, once you’ve believed it. Knowing the truth, can it change the past?”

  The question throws me. It has so many layers. Is he asking me about our shared past, about himself? About his dad? Or am I reading too much into his words?

  “Nothing to say?” He sneers a little, and I frown. He’s flushed, white lines of pain around his mouth. Why is he so angry?

  I swallow hard as the shed comes into view. Evening is falling but it’s warm and sticky, insects buzzing in the rushes, mosquitos biting my bare shins. We’re at a bend of the Little River. In the distance, across the river, you can dimly see the Pagoda, a half-ruined mansion owned by a wealthy family who’s left it to fall apart, the Lesters.

  Ross throws the door of the wooden shed open and I take a step back. No way am I going in there.

  “Listen—” I start.

  “Or maybe you wanna see where they found the skeletons? Take the grand tour? Maybe I should start charging for it.”

  “What the hell?” I whisper, my patience wearing thin.

  “Isn’t this why you’re here? What, you want me to believe you suddenly like me and forgive me or something? You’re here for the thrill. Meet the murderer’s son. See as he weeps at his mother’s killing spot. Convince him to sleep in the house where his father beat him up every day. Snatch a look at the pendant found with the bones, or pictures from his past. Sordid. Exciting.”

  I can feel my heart slamming against my ribs. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Are you really asking me that?” He staggers and for a second my heart lodges in my throat, thinking he’ll fall. But he doesn’t. “Everything’s wrong with me. Which is why you shouldn’t be here.” He kicks at the shed, kicks at a loose rock. He looks livid. “Just go. Get the hell out of my sight.”

  “You serious?”

  “You tell me.” He throws the sandwich away. It rolls in the dirt, and my hope fades. Heat pours in my chest, my face.

  Really? He’s trying to hurt me again?

  “Screw you, Ross. I’m not here for the thrill, as you call it. I’m here to check on you, make sure you’re okay. Take those pills. And don’t expect me to come back.”

  Blinded by furious tears, I turn and walk away, stumbling through the bushes and grass, through the gathering darkness, eventually taking out my phone and using it to light my path. The way back feels endless.

  Where’s the boy I lay beside this morning? The fragile connection I’d felt is crumbling to pieces.

  My anger fades into sadness. I think about what he said as I trudge back home, my heart heavy. Knowing the truth can’t change the past. But it can change you, how you think, how you feel... It can reel back your memories and shoot them from a different angle.

  He’s angry with me.

  Why would I think I’m the only one with the right to feel anger? I begrudge Josh his anger when he’s suffered from my going away. I missed him growing up into a young man. And I can’t accept that Ross could be angry because I have so much to reproach him about.

  His life wasn’t easy. The more I learn about it, about him, the more I realize how tough it must have been. Apart from the obvious, the living with a murderer thing, I wonder how it was on an everyday basis. How the mornings were. The evenings. The nights. The weekends. Summer vacation. Christmas and birthdays.

  What happened back there? Why did he think I was lying to him, using him for a cheap thrill? When did he go from a quiet, teasing guy to a snarling animal trying to scare me off?

  I come to a halt before I reach home.

  Was he trying to scare me off?

  Come on, Luna. You know more about him now. You should understand him better. He tends to do that, when he feels cornered, doesn’t he? Snarl and mock and go all nasty. But you’ve seen his better side.

  Something happened, didn’t it? Something got his defenses up, his spikes, his walls.

  Once I stop thinking of him as a criminal, as an asshole, I can look deeper, peel back the layers at the top, find the core, find a real reason. He’d been fine at first. What did I say or do to cause that reaction? Was it me?

  Did I prod at a sore spot? He’s torn up over his mom. Was asking about the pendant and the picture too much?

  He’s still not recovered, I remind myself. He was laid out with that fever only this morning. His head must hurt from that rock Josh threw at him. He’s bruised from all the beatings he’s taken to save my ass, and maybe others I don’t know about. Cut him some slack.

  I need to sleep on it. Maybe talk
to someone. To Dena. Someone who’s on his side. Because he acted like a little kid, throwing his anger at me, throwing the sandwich I made for him to the ground. A symbolic gesture. He threw it away like he’s throwing me away, rejecting me.

  And didn’t you say you’ll teach him how to react? Help him understand? You’ve seen how he grew up. No wonder he acts like a feral animal at times. That house is like a zoo cage, and in the bathroom, I swear I saw old blood stains on the wall. In Ross’s bedroom floor, too. A cage with a crazy zoo keeper.

  Sleeping on it is just words. I can’t sleep, tossing and turning all night. Am I stupid, considering all this? Is it enough to rescind my declaration not to go back to him? To forgive this new outburst? To keep trying?

  Or am I sliding back into old patterns, making myself the victim, believing it’s all my fault?

  Chapter Twenty

  Ross

  Standing frozen in front of the shed, I watch her go into the night. A wave of dizziness hits me. I feel like my fucking knees are cut out from under me.

  What have I done? The echo of my cruel words fills my ears, almost lost in the rushing of blood, deafening. What the fuck have I done?

  Son of a bitch. Rage fills me, exploding through my chest, and growl as I tear into the shed, throw things off the shelves, off the bench where I found the ax. A howl is building in my chest. I break everything I touch. I hurt everyone I care for.

  Something crashes. A metal box, spilling a pair of green earrings and some yellowed papers. Jesus Christ. I leave them gleaming in the murkiness and stagger outside, down to the river.

  On the ground, I see the sandwich she prepared for me that I threw away, and that howl finally breaks out of me. Why did I throw away the one good thing that’s ever happened to me? This girl. Every little gesture she makes for me, every word she says is a lifeline, and I kicked her out of my life.

  She said she worries about me. I don’t get it. Guess I never believed it, even though I wanted to. Me, I’m not worth worrying about. Never was and never will be.

  As she’s probably already figured out by now.