No Saint

by Jo Raven

“Nothing.” I give a slight shrug.

  “But which one do you want?”

  “I don’t want...” I draw a breath and try again. “I don’t want either of them, all right?”

  She doesn’t believe me. I can tell from her expression. Not surprising, since I don’t believe me, either.

  Ross. It’s Ross I want, and that’s the last thing I’m telling Dena. The last thing I need.

  Throwing myself into work seems like the only sensible thing to do. Pasting on a smile for the customers, I put all my focus into carrying those plates back and forth without breaking them or spilling leftover sauce on everyone.

  I tell myself it’s for the best that Ross isn’t around, that it’s my chance to set my head and my heart straight, see what’s important, think ahead.

  As the days pass, I almost manage to convince myself that I don’t need him—almost, almost there—when I find him right in front of me once more, outside his dad’s garage, and the world falls still.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ross

  Fucking Conrad. Acting all great and mighty because he owns the only grocery store in town. Like I can’t hop on a bus and go buy what I need elsewhere.

  I rub at the healing cuts under my T-shirt and wince. I can’t get Luna’s face out of my mind. Her wide eyes, full of goddamn pity.

  Fuck.

  I just needed some basics, and some dogfood for Buddy. What am I supposed to do now, huh?

  Get by until Stacy’s back, duh. She never kicked me out of the store. God knows why she hasn’t been there lately.

  Even if Conrad was right...

  Damn him. And Luna. Fuck, why did she have to be there, of all places, of all times, see me like that? It strips me of my pride. Stings my mind. How many times will she see me at an all-time fucking low?

  I unlock the garage gate and slip inside, kicking at a pile of scrap as I go, then the wall, too, for good measure, and still my anger burns like acid in my blood.

  I shouldn’t care if Luna saw me, though, fuck... I snapped at her, didn’t I? Let my fury get the better of me. And why should I care? Who’s ever given a fuck about me, about... anything.

  Cursing alone, I make my way to my motorcycle, whisk off the cloth covering it and grab my tools. Working on the bike clears my mind, makes me feel peaceful. I’ve been working on the piece of junk for more than a year now, replacing everything. One day soon the engine will purr like a kitten and then...

  Then maybe I’ll ride this baby away from here.

  A fucking pipedream but it’s all that’s keeping me from jumping off the garage roof these days. That, and Buddy, and the memory of stolen kisses from a green-eyed girl who then pushed me away.

  She liked it, though, before she let her rational mind take over. She was into it. Both times I kissed her, she kissed me back, and it had felt so damn good.

  No, the kiss wasn’t the issue. It’s me she objects to. Who I am. Who I used to be. And it’s not like I don’t give her good reason to hate me.

  I stroke my hand over the bike’s flank. Cool, smooth.

  Know what the best punishment of them all is? It’s showing you what you most desire, then yanking it away. Dad had elevated the theory to fucking science, taking away every toy and every book I liked. Pushing away my half-siblings and making me hate them.

  Taking away Mom, even if I hadn’t known it then.

  I’m used to losses, to having what I want slip through my fingers. By now, I shouldn’t feel anything. I shouldn’t give a damn. Shouldn’t miss that girl, a girl I barely know.

  Shouldn’t miss Luna, the feel of her fingertips on my face, the sound of her voice, the things she said. The way she asked if I was okay.

  It makes my chest hurt, just remembering, it makes my throat close. I dunno this feeling, this sense of needing someone. And fuck, I wished for her so many times over the past week, it almost broke me.

  I never needed anyone. Such weakness wasn’t tolerated. If you felt something, you took it out on the walls, the furniture, or other people. Dad taught me that, his way of coping.

  Which leaves me defenseless now.

  Now that she’s standing in front of me, outside the garage where I’ve gone to smoke, and this need wells up inside of me, drowning me in her scent of flowers and sugar.

  “Hey.” I take in her bouncy curls and big eyes, her soft cheeks and that mouth I remember so well, that sexy body I’ve pressed against, and it feels like I’m breathing again after being underwater for days. “Whatcha doing?”

  Her eyes widen when she sees me, and she stops so suddenly she almost falls over, almost drops the plastic bag she’s carrying. A dark flush rises to her cheeks. “Ross?”

  I’m goddamn tired, after the shitty week I’ve had, but her reaction makes me grin. “Yeah, last time I checked that was my name.” I point up at the rusty sign. “Jones. Ross Jones.”

  “Don’t be a smartass.” But she doesn’t sound upset, and doesn’t move to get away, as if she’s rooted in place.

  “Can’t help it,” I breathe and straightening from my slouch against the wall, I start after her, wincing when the healing cuts in my side sting, old and new bruises slowing me down. I tuck my unsmoked cigarette behind my ear. “Hey, wanna see my bike?”

  “A bike?” She nods at the garage behind me. “Dena did say you were working on something.”

  Dena. Is that the girl working with her, who’s been ogling me for some time? I can never remember her name, or her face.

  “Well, she’s right,” I say. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  Truth is, I hadn’t planned on showing the bike to anyone. Then again, who would I show it to? Who would care to see?

  She does, though, and when she follows me back to the garage, a thrill goes through me, like a fucking bell, tolling in my blood, each peal echoing through my bones, in my head.

  I open the side door with a creak of the hinges, and make a mental note to oil them, something I haven’t bothered doing since the garage closed down.

  “This way.” I keep the door open for her and reach for her bag. “Let me help you with that.”

  Wordlessly, her eyes shining with suspicion, she lets me take it and enters the mostly empty car bay. One car wreck still rests, rusty and falling apart, in one corner, leftover from the past.

  Light filters through the high-placed windows, rivers of gold pouring into the bay, spotlighting the one project, the one love I have in my life.

  My Harley.

  A jumble of rusty pipes and worn plastic. It’s an old one, a Nineties Sturgis machine that I bought with the money I’d saved from small extra jobs I did at the shop when I had the time—it was a given that Dad wouldn’t give me a single penny for the long hours I spent working for him.

  This is the only thing I really own. It’s so broken down and trashed that the guy who sold it to me couldn’t believe his good luck, that some stupid boy would pay actual money for it.

  For this bike that’s broken down and worthless, like me.

  “So this is the bike,” she says, her voice quiet, and I can’t tell whether she’s amused or bored or in awe.

  “That’s the one. Been working on it for years, on and off, whenever I get the time. I thought I’d have it all fixed and ready by now.” I walk around the bike to stroke the handles, then the old saddle I still haven’t managed to swap for a new one. “Some things got in the way.”

  Things like murder attempts by my own dad, and discovering my mom’s bones. Uncovering a side door to my past I’m still not ready to walk through.

  “You spend a lot of time here.”

  I nod. Here, or on the roof, getting shitfaced. I slept here last week, but it was a one-off thing. Just like at the house, there are too many ghosts in here—of the other mechanics, of Dad, of myself, echoes of yelling, and cursing, and anger, and resentment.

  For the longest time, I thought I’d end up a mechanic, like Dad. Work in this garage, maybe inherit it someday. I’d be in charge of this pla
ce, of the other mechanics. I’d be fair to them, I’d decided early on. I wouldn’t yell at them like dad did. I’d be different.

  Yet somehow, I’m not.

  Shaking off that thought, schooling my face into a blank mask, I prop the plastic bag by the bike, sit on the ripped seat and fold my arms over my chest. “I grew up in here, more than at that house. And now you know more about me than any other girl in town.”

  Her brows go up, and the flush on her cheeks deepens. She’s so damn pretty it chokes me up, and then what I said sinks in.

  Fuck, why did I open my big mouth? To cover it up, I grin at her widely, all teeth and attitude and pat my lap. “Come, sit on papa’s lap.”

  “No, thanks. Why don’t you go find all those other girls, see if they’re interested.”

  Annoyed at me.

  As she should be, after the way I talked to her last time I saw her. Relieved, I let my grin fade—but the next moment she’s grabbing her plastic bag and turning her back on me, heading out.

  Whoa, wait a minute. “Luna.” I almost fall on my face getting off the bike, the low-level dizziness that’s been plaguing me for the better part of the past two weeks doing a number on me. I press a hand to my burning ribs. “Don’t go yet.”

  I don’t expect her to listen to me, to give a damn, so I’m startled to look up and find her right there, the anger gone from her eyes.

  “What is it? You sound...bad.”

  Bad? I sound terrible, I look worse, and I almost laugh at how fucked-up this is. “I’ll live.”

  I thought I was okay today. After all, I’ve been going to work for the past couple of days and didn’t fall on my face or drop a ton of bricks on anyone.

  Win.

  Not that I had a choice. Headman threatened to let me go if I didn’t show up. He also demanded a doctor’s slip, and lacking that, he said he’d cut my wages.

  “You’ll live? What does that mean?” That cute frown again. I fight the urge to smooth my thumb between her slender brows. “Why were you at the drugstore the other day? Are you okay?”

  I shrug. “Were you worried?”

  “No...?” Her voice lilts at the end, like a question, like she’s unsure.

  But that’s what wishful thinking does for you. Leads you astray. Betrays your weaknesses. I want her to care, to worry. Isn’t that fucked? My head is screwed on wrong.

  “Yeah, well, I was holed up here. Working on some things.” I avoid looking at her face, not to feed said wishful thinking.

  “You stayed here, didn’t go home at all?”

  Why is she asking me this? “That house isn’t my fucking home.”

  “Ross...”

  “I just went to buy some painkillers, okay? But they won’t sell to me. Told ya.”

  “And that’s why you made me feel like I offended you by existing?”

  I shrug again, turning away to hide a frown, my unease at how sorry I am about that—and a wince on its heels when it pulls on the cuts under my ribs. “I’m an ass.”

  “That you are. Let me see.” She waves at my T-shirt. “Pull it up.”

  Is that a good idea?

  Probably not, but I’m beyond caring. I want her to touch me. I’m dying to feel her hands on me.

  “What do I get in return?” I wink at her. “Showing you this hot bod costs good bucks, you know?”

  “Oh screw you, Ross.” She says it mildly, though. Plus, she doesn’t sound put out, and doesn’t walk away. Her bag thumping to the concrete floor, she lifts my T-shirt, starts tugging on the gauze I clumsily taped over the cuts. “Let me see.”

  I hiss and stop her. “I’m all right. Told you.”

  “Why are you so stubborn?”

  “Is this a trick question?” I snort. “Lemme think... It keeps the girls interested.”

  “You really are an ass.”

  “And well you know it, sweet cheeks.” It comes out more bitter than I’d intended. It’s familiar, expected banter. It should make me relax. No idea why it’s twisting my guts up even more. She’ll run. She should, if she knows what’s good for her.

  But again she doesn’t move away. Why doesn’t she leave?

  I want her close, closer—and yet I’m trying to push her away. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. It’s like I keep pushing her buttons just to see if she will give up on me and leave. That would be familiar, known terrain, would feel safe.

  She’s still here.

  Her hands wander up my chest, lifting my T-shirt out of the way, and shivers go through me. How can her light touch feel so damn good? It warms me through, fires me up, cranks up the pressure with every slight movement. Makes my dick hard, so hard I can’t stand it.

  I want more. So much more.

  But her fingertips pause on top of the gauze. “Ross...” Her brow creases. “Good Lord. How did you get this?”

  It takes me a long moment to gather my scattered thoughts, pull my mind out of the gutter. What the hell is she looking at?

  Ah fuck, it’s the scar. The goddamn scar. “My dad.”

  She tries to lift my T-shirt more but I stop her. Nevertheless, her fingertips follow the ugly raised tissue up underneath the fabric, up to my shoulder, making me shiver. “Is it true, then?”

  “What is? You’ll have to be more specific.” I’m breathless. Why the fuck am I breathless? Every brush of her fingers on my chest sends bolts of lust through me, tightening my pants until I’m in real pain. I’ve wanted her for so damn long, and she’s so damn close.

  “That your dad tried... that he tried to kill you.”

  “Yeah.” I drag my tongue over dried lips. “He tried alright. But he missed.” I’m looking down, trying to see where she’s touching me, going practically cross-eyed, until my gaze snags on her cleavage and I have to swallow a groan. This girl will be the death of me.

  Death by arousal. Won’t that look good on my tombstone?

  “Missed, how? Looks like he got you good.”

  “He was going for the heart. But he forgot I don’t have one. So I’m still alive.”

  Why am I telling her all this? I’m so fucking distracted. Last thing I want is her pity, or her thinking I’m trying to manipulate her into anything again.

  I don’t want her to think that of me, and fuck me if I know why. I never cared what anyone made of me, how they hated me, how they feared me, loathed me, despised me.

  “Ross...” Her voice is soft, wounded. Why does she sound so hurt? I only told her the truth, the truth because I can’t lie to her.

  I don’t want to see what’s in her eyes, on her face, what emotions are written there. I take her hand off my chest, press it to my face, then lean in and kiss her. Just a brush of my lips over hers, a taste of her sweetness, and I’m gone. Done for.

  It feels so right. So fucking right. She tastes like lost dreams, half-forgotten memories of sunny days and laughter. She tastes like sex and pleasure.

  And this time she doesn’t push me away.

  The garage is gone, the walls, the floor, the Harley, the people outside, the things that happened before. The constant, crushing weight.

  Just her, her mouth, her breath on my lips. I haul her to me, on me, and she straddles my thighs, her short skirt pulling up as she winds her arms around my neck. Her lashes sweep low, hiding her eyes. She licks her lips, and it snaps something inside me. The last of my control, most probably.

  With a groan, I cup the back of her head and pull her down to me, crushing our lips together, licking at her mouth, unable to stop a moan from spilling out when her tongue touches mine. Her hands are on my face, cool on my hot skin, but I’m burning all over, her every touch trailing sparks and fire.

  Wrapping an arm around her, securing her against me, to deepen the kiss, our tongues moving together like our bodies, obliterating any rational thought. I’m too damn hard to care about consequences, about this being a bad idea, my straining dick pressing into the softness between her legs. Despite the layers of fabric, her heat is drivin
g me crazy.

  The need to bury myself inside her is killing me. Every muscle in my body is straining, taut and trembling, the wounds in my side blinding bursts of agony, but the relief of having her so close is greater. Immeasurable. Fucking huge.

  A strange urge hits me to bury my face in her hair, against her neck, rest on her soft tits and close my eyes, safe. How can I feel safe with this pretty girl, the girl I wronged, when the whole world is a trap waiting to close around me, snap at me and trip me up?

  It’s a mindfuck, a trick. I can’t let myself fall for it. Fall for her.

  No weakness. You can’t depend on anyone, can’t need anyone, can’t let your guard down. All my life I lived by these tenets.

  As if hearing my thoughts, tasting the doubt rushing through me, she breaks the kiss. Looks into my eyes, hers dark and unfocused.

  And kisses me again, this time her tongue pushing into my mouth, tasting me, sending a jolt through my body, to my balls, jerking my cock to diamond-hardness.

  Holy shit, I want her, I fucking need her now. I kiss her, touch her, shove my hand under her blouse to cup one round tit, find her hardened nipple and stroke it until she whimpers. Sweet. So damn sweet it’s blowing my mind.

  Fuck logic. Fuck rational thought. Fuck the tenets. Can’t fight it anymore. I’m in the river, gone with the undertow, letting it carry me away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Luna

  Ross is touching me, holding me, kissing me, and I can almost let myself believe it, believe he really wants me, that he’s attracted to me. To me, someone he mocked for years, he and his buddies, bodyshamed me, made me feel ugly. Calling me Fat Slut, Ugly Rolls, Buttface.

  I shiver.

  Could it be he changed? Really changed? Or that I changed, like Cinderella transforming into the princess of his dreams... It sounds like so much wishful thinking.

  Maybe he’s only doing this to play on my weakness for him—the worry, the pull, this stupid infatuation of mine with a maddening, handsome boy—so that he can crush me later under his heel and walk away laughing.

  But it’s not the first time he’s kissed me, talked to me, touched me. He keeps kissing me, hauling me against him, and I feel him, rock hard inside his worn jeans, the hard rod of his cock pressing between us.