No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  Families. So complicated. I guess it always is, when it comes to love and affection. I just don’t want to hurt them.

  And I guess I’m not only talking about taking off to see Ross tonight anymore, but leaving as I’ve been planning for years, to study and live elsewhere.

  Sigh. Maybe I should deal with one thing at a time. And Dena is still talking.

  “...If you’re into Ross, then maybe I could take Jenner...” I hear her say and snap back to the present.

  “Oh God, no. You serious?”

  A shrug. “He’s handsome enough.”

  “He’s a weirdo.”

  “Oh come on. You can’t keep all the hotties to yourself.”

  “A weirdo and an asshole”—Ross’s words from this morning ringing in my ears.

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” I protest.

  “Sure, you got the best one, leaving us the scraps.”

  There’s some bitterness there, and I don’t know what to tell her. That I used to hate Ross all this time, that I used to want him, that even now it’s so complicated between us, and that’s after making sure he didn’t die, a stain on the concrete yard of his garage?

  Shouldn’t it be crystal clear after that rescue, the fear, the panic, the relief and the tumble between the sheets that followed? I mean, God, I let him be my first.

  Shouldn’t I be more shocked about that, about letting him inside me, having sex for the first time ever?

  But I feel okay. Like it was the right choice, and good God, the memories of his hands on me, his mouth, his cock in me, rocking deep, it sends shivers down my spine and heat pooling between my legs. I’ve been getting flashes of what we did all day, on and off, causing me to stumble as I carried trays of food and spill drinks, garnering dark looks from Mike the owner who happened to be around.

  So what does that mean, Luna, for you? What is he to you? Is it still only lust, is sleeping with him enough?

  Crap, I don’t know anything. Except that the sex was so hot. Scorching. Incredible. Enough to blow a girl’s mind and bury the questions under the rubble...

  ***

  Dad sounds suspicious when I call to claim I’ll stay with Dena tonight, too. I think I won’t be able to keep doing this without a face-to-face talk and I suck at lying. I have no poker face to speak of.

  But who knows if I’ll need to do this again? One day—and night—at a time. Ross and I, we have a truce—well, more than that, obviously, but it still doesn’t mean that anything serious is going on between us. For my part, I’m hesitant, and as for his... well, it’s no secret he’s screwed most of the girls in this town, and that he never stays for a repeat performance.

  Last night we were still running on adrenaline when we crashed, and when he woke up from that nightmare, it started as comfort and ended as a means of letting out steam.

  Tonight, though... who knows how it’s going to be?

  So it’s with some trepidation that I leave the diner and start the trek through town. Maybe I should be more worried of running into that ass, Edward, and his friends, but Ross is occupying all of my mind right now.

  I almost shriek when he appears out of the dark, his tall, broad-shouldered figure pushing off the trellised fence of the Crichtons’ house, right after the ice cream shop.

  “Ross.” I press a hand to my thumping heart. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at home.”

  “I was waiting for you,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “to walk you there.”

  He reaches out his hand, and I take it, kind of dazed. It’s like an out of the body experience. I’m on Main street, holding Ross Jones’s hand. It swallows up mine, big and hard, and he looks down at me solemnly, his eyes like crystals in the golden afternoon light, his face, his hair so bright, and behind him... I swear I see a shadow of wings.

  Black wings, huge, torn. In shreds.

  Vanishing in the next blink, as if blown away by the light breeze.

  I blink again, wondering if I’ve had too many coffees, and he tugs on my hand, starting to walk. The town is quiet, a distant child’s shout, a distant car engine running, low voices drifting out of the houses.

  Louder than anything else is Ross’s skin against mine, the hum of his blood under my palm, the shadow he casts in front of us, his presence by my side. His choice to come accompany me, his grip on my hand, so strong but not crushing, it’s... everything.

  An answer to all those questions my mind is trying to muffle and ignore.

  Glancing sideways at him, I study the new bruises. He has the beginning of a black eye and his lip is bloody, though it looks like he cleaned it before coming to get me.

  I bump my hip against him. “What happened to you? Another fight?”

  He frowns. “I don’t pick those fights, Lu.”

  “I know,” I mutter. “I hate to see you hurt.”

  It’s not until he grins down at me, eyes shining, that I realize what I’ve said.

  And I’m not taking it back.

  “I’m alright,” he dismisses my concern, like he always does. “You should have seen the other guys.”

  “That so.” I grin back at him, unable to resist the teasing light in his eyes, that spark I’ve only glimpsed once or twice. Fighting isn’t funny, but worse yet is letting those sons of bitches get away with it. I’m glad he’s fighting back. For a while I thought... I thought he’d given up, that he’d let them beat him to death. I’ve had this fear that he’s been flirting with death while I was away.

  And why am I thinking of this now, walking down the road with his hand wrapped around mine?

  A flash of a white face looking up at me, that same hand I’m now holding wrapped around a drainpipe about to break—

  Right.

  Admit it, Luna, you thought he’d jumped off the roof on purpose, that he’d been contemplating it for quite some time. He stood on that edge time after time. Who knows how many times he came close to stepping off?

  A shiver wracks me.

  “Cold?” he asks, and before I can find my voice, he releases my hand to wrap his arm around my back. “Better?”

  I nod, at a loss for words.

  Yes, so much better. Nice. And it somehow calms my thoughts, my worries. Maybe it wasn’t like that, maybe him falling really was just an accident. I can’t pretend to know his mind after talking to him a handful of times.

  But God, it’s so weird, to be walking through town with his arm around me. But also nice. Easy. Sweet. Exciting. My face warms up when Mrs. Adams stops from sweeping her porch to stare at us, mouth open in an ‘o’ of surprise. She knows me, knows Ross, heck she knows everyone in this town, and I bet in a thousand years she wouldn’t have counted with me and Ross hanging out together.

  After all, the news of my flight to my aunt three years ago must have kept the gossip mill running—second hot topic after discovering the bodies Jasper Jones buried, I guess, and his son’s shenanigans.

  Stop thinking. Don’t think. Who cares what Mrs. Adams or anyone else thinks? You’re past that now. New Luna doesn’t give a damn about what’s being said behind her back, or even to her face, because...

  Because she’s what she is, who she is, pretty or not, thigh gap or not (still not), clever or not (still up for debate) and dating (or not?), walking Ross Jones back to his house. Where she has already had sex with him. Twice.

  Yeah, all this isn’t helping with the burning flush spreading on my cheeks at all.

  Cars drive by, and we walk past the last houses in silence, heading toward Little River. Little River isn’t a river, not really. More like a stream, a creek, meandering among reed groves and trees on relatively rocky ground, creating small pools and eddies. Mom fell in love with the area, Dad told us once, and that’s why they bought the house there. Never in a thousand years would any of us have imagined we’d be neighbors with a serial killer.

  And his hunk of a son.

  “Jenner wasn’t around today?” he asks as we appro
ach the house. It rises from among the trees like a haunted ruin, tiles missing from its sloped roof, a chimney—though I don’t remember seeing a fireplace inside—and a boarded-up window.

  “No. Few customers.”

  “Good. There’s something about him that makes me see red. I don’t give a fuck if he wants to look like me, that’s his fucking problem, but he’s a hell of a creepy fucker. I don’t want him around you.”

  “Yeah,” I gathered, I say drily, about to tell him that he doesn’t get to make such decisions about me—but then surprise myself when I stop and tug on his hand, then rise on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  He trails his fingertips on the spot my lips touched, eyes comically wide. “What was that for?”

  Something in my chest that was missing, a gap in my feelings, slides into place with a click, like a missing piece from a puzzle.

  “For worrying about me,” I reply, and smile.

  ***

  The house is dark, the smell inside musty, the furniture and curtains moth-eaten, the wooden floor creaking alarmingly in places. It’s nothing like my home with its bright-colored living room sofas and kitchen counters, the well-maintained garden outside. Dad likes to clean and took on the role of both Mom and Dad with seeming ease all those years ago, and although it’s not perfect, even now I’m here to help, it still is pretty good—unlike this place.

  I try to imagine Ross—or any kid—growing up in here and fail. Of course, I have to remind myself, the place has been all but abandoned for the past couple of years. Still, you can tell it was run down before that. The dirt on the kitchen counters and cabinets has the patina of many long years, and the sink... yuck. It looks as though something died in there.

  Ross has gone back out, mumbling something about water. He really should get it connected, electricity, too. Using the woods as toilet and the stream as bath can get old, fast.

  I’m on to perusing the few titles on the shelf above the ratty sofa when he staggers in, a bucket sloshing with water in each hand, sweat soaking into his dark blue T-shirt. A triumphant grin on his flushed, wet face, he puts one bucket down in the kitchen, then wanders off to leave the other one in the bathroom.

  “All done,” he says, returning to the living room, wiping his hands on his bedraggled jeans, grin still in place. “Hey, you know what? It’s too hot.” He grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s take a dip.”

  “What? Wait!”

  “You’re all sweaty.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Exactly my point. We both are. We’ll just jump into the river.”

  I dig my heels in a little. The thought of seeing Ross in all his buck-naked glory in the stream sure is appealing, but... “We can’t do this. We can’t just get naked. Someone will see us.”

  “Nobody will. I know a spot, with a small rock pool.”

  “That where you wash yourself?”

  “Sometimes, now in Summer.”

  I hesitate. “Are you sure nobody will see us?”

  “Boy scout’s honor.”

  Unconvinced, I follow him, liking his hand around mine way too much. “You, a boy scout?”

  “Me? Never.” He shrugs, unrepentant. “I can’t stand their little uniforms.”

  “Or rules,” I mutter.

  “Or those,” he agrees.

  Figures. The image of little Ross in khaki pants and shirt and tall socks doing treasure hunts and singing around the fire makes me giggle.

  He leads me through the scraggly trees and saplings, steadying me when my sandal slips on pebbles, shifting his hand to grip my elbow. It’s quite beautiful out here, with the stream burbling below, the smell of wet earth and rock.

  He takes off his boots, his socks and pants, leaving his boxer briefs and T-shirt on. I strip down to my undies, crossing my arms under my boobs, not even sure why I bother. He’s seen it all.

  While I haven’t seen the whole of him. In fact...

  “And your T-shirt?” I ask.

  He says nothing, doesn’t move to take it off.

  Something’s off with that. He’s not shy, quite the opposite. He’s so confident about his looks, his body, his strength, his appeal. So why won’t he take the thing off?

  Before I have a chance to say something more, though, he grabs me around the waist and drags me into the water.

  I almost scream when my feet hit the stream. “Oh-my-god, it’s so cold!”

  He snickers and hauls me deeper. The water flows around us, clear like crystal, and it actually feels good after the heat of the day. He splashes me, and I splash him back. He chases me to the bank and then I chase him back into the stream until we’re both soaking wet and laughing.

  Then a thought hits me, colder than the water. “We’re not near where the bodies... where they were buried, right?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s that way.” He points. “Past the shed, where there’s a bend in Little River, across from the Pagoda.”

  Right. I remember glimpsing it from the shed.

  “The Lesters own it,” I whisper, as if there might be someone listening in. “You think they might have seen something?”

  “Back then?” He doesn’t reply for a while. Then he says, “I bet the cops questioned everyone already. You know... I sometimes wonder if there’s any evidence in the house, or in the shed. In the garden.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Of who that other woman was.”

  “They still don’t know?”

  “Nope.”

  He stands up, dripping, that dark T-shirt molded to his powerful chest and shoulders, the boxer briefs to his muscular thighs and ass, and I all but drool.

  “Time to go back,” he announces.

  “Not yet,” I whine a little, getting up and shivering in the evening breeze. “You were right, it’s nice here. Relax, take off your T-shirt. You’d think it’s glued to you.”

  “Leave it, Lu.”

  “Why? What don’t you want me to see?” He’s still and silent, and I reach for the hem, smiling at him. “Oh come on...”

  “Goddammit, don’t.” His face when he turns to glare at me is stony.

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t. Fuck, why do you keep pushing?” He shoves past me, and storms away, leaving wet footprints on the rocks, vanishing among the trees.

  Holy crap on a stick. What just happened? Why does this keep happening with him, these flares of anger when I prod a bit too hard? It scares me.

  It intrigues me. And yeah, worries me. So much worries me about him.

  “I deserve this. It’s okay. Let me go.”

  More shivers wrack me and I make for my clothes, laid out on the pebbles. I climb out of the creek and gather them, pulling on my blouse and skirt, my sandals.

  What do I do now?

  It strikes me, after a long moment of stunned silence, that he’s left his pants, and boots by the stream. Would he be so upset he’d leave them and come for them later, after I’m gone? Or... maybe he hasn’t gone far.

  Gathering his things up in my arms, I trek up, in the direction we came from.

  I think.

  I’m embarrassed to admit that my attention was more on his hand on my elbow than the path we took to come here. The house can’t be far, though. We didn’t walk all that long. I walk ahead, glancing nervously around. It’s getting pretty dark out here, with the trees hiding the sky.

  Suddenly a hand grabs at me so suddenly I almost fall. “Not that way,” a growly voice snaps and looking up, I meet his stormy gaze.

  We’re standing under a big, gnarled old tree with a thick trunk and branches tangled over our heads like a roof. Like a temple, I think. A church.

  His grip jerks me closer to him. He looks down at me. “Why are you here?”

  “To be with you.”

  “Then leave the damn T-shirt be.”

  “I can’t. I want to know everything about you.”

  “Why would you want that? Why would you wanna dig up that... that pit of vipers?�
�

  “Because it’s part of who you are. Maybe part of what pushed you off that roof yesterday.”

  “I told you, I fell.”

  “So you keep saying. But you’ve been up there, on the edge, a few times. I saw you.”

  “What? When?”

  “Buddy brought me there. I watched and was too scared to even call out to you in case you fell.”

  “And now I did. Satisfied?”

  “God, Ross, I’m only trying to understand you.”

  “There’s nothing to understand. You couldn’t if you tried.”

  “Really? Try me.” I’m getting worked up now, my neck warm. “Maybe I’m not as stupid as you think.”

  “I don’t think... goddammit, woman. Why do you keep twisting my words? You don’t know a thing.”

  “Oh, you...”

  I stop myself. He’s always making those insulting, arrogant statements when he’s nervous or scared, I realize. Or both. Whatever it is he’s covering up with that T-shirt can’t be pretty.

  I’m starting to learn his body language, his tells. What if I went along, instead of resisting, instead of getting mad and upset and falling back into the past? Move on, right? Get over the past. Be the new me.

  Change.

  Tease him back.

  He’s glaring at me, a flush on his cheekbones, but his mouth is set in an uncertain line. He’s waiting for me to... what? Tell him what an asshole he is? Yell at him and then storm off home?

  He has to be so used to people abandoning him when he’s been bad.

  Such a bunch of weird thoughts going through my head. Still...

  “Come on, let me have a little look. Just a peek.” I reach for the hem of his T-shirt and he steps back, blindly. “It won’t hurt.”

  “How the fuck would you know?”

  “I’ll be gentle.”

  “I don’t like gentle.” Now his eyes are uncertain, too. “I don’t—”

  “But I want to see. You saw the whole of me. It’s my turn. Is it a tattoo you’re embarrassed about? A naked girl, a mermaid? A pirate? Maybe it’s a man you’ve got inked on your back? A naked sailor? A—”