Saint: A Dark Romance (Saint and Sinners Book 1)

by Ruby Vincent

  Saint

  Saint and Sinners

  Ruby Vincent

  Published by Ruby Vincent, 2021.

  Copyright © 2020 by Ruby Vincent

  Cover Design: Cover By Combs

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two | Four Years Later

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Cash

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Bodies crushed in on me. Pushing, shoving, and chancing a crafty grind to entice me to dance.

  The speakers thrummed, vibrating to the beat of an unfamiliar song. I felt it as I slipped away.

  Felt sound.

  Battering my eardrums. Thumping in my chest. Silencing everyone and reducing us to flirty glances and gyrating hips.

  This is what I loved about clubs. We humans were as we were supposed to be when the lights went down and the music turned up.

  No awkward conversations about our plans for the future. Or dancing around an attraction for nigh on months waiting for one of us to make a damn move.

  Inhibitions were shed at the door, and we finally gave in to acting on impulse. Eyes meeting across the bar. Hands roaming free on the dance floor, and then stifled giggles and racing hearts as we escaped to the bathrooms.

  I headed for the vaulted velvet rope, passing by more grasping hands, and snagging some sap’s cocktail off a server’s tray. The guy whipped around, searching for the thief in the crush of bodies.

  Roddy, the bouncer, eyed me as I approached. I said nothing, simply padded my jacket pocket, and he lifted the VIP rope for me to pass—as he did the night before. The night before that. Three nights before that. And as he would the following nights to come.

  Opium was the best club in Cinco City. I logged more hours here than I did at work.

  Darkness swallowed me as I stepped through the curtains. In the gloom, a shadow moved and someone brushed against me. My eyes adjusted to the sight of brown hair and a Cartier watch slipping through the door at the end.

  I loved the pounding music. The crush of people on the dance floor. The tipsy hands groping me as I danced.

  Loved it all, but the real party wasn’t inside Opium. It was beneath it.

  The footfalls of me and my silent friend reverberated through the staircase, leading down, down, and down.

  Music leaked under the double doors at the foot of the stairs. Not as loud as what we left behind, but dancing wasn’t the particular activity of choice for those of us on the bottom floor.

  The man pulled open the door and swept to the side, pausing to hold it open for me. He looked up, locking eyes, and the breath was snatched from my lungs.

  Sooty black pools sought me under thick lashes and sprung the trap. Fixed on them, I tripped off the final step, earning a grin that revealed a dimple among that scruffy cheek.

  “You okay?” The voice was thick, rich, and smooth like a river of dark chocolate.

  “Fine.” I righted myself, clearing my throat.

  “First time here?” he guessed.

  You’d have to think so from the tripping-over-my-feet and flashing moon eyes like I’d never seen a handsome man before.

  I raked him up and down. Though I haven’t seen this brand of ropey muscles, thick, autumn-brown hair, and cupid lips before to be fair.

  “No,” I said aloud. “I’m a regular.”

  “After you.”

  Murmuring thank you, I passed through the final set of curtains and stepped into the heady embrace of cigarette smoke, mingled laughs, and clinking poker chips.

  I turned back to my new friend and caught his back as he strode off, making for a side hallway leading out of the main room.

  I let him go and took in the true club.

  The place had high ceilings for an underground casino. Chandeliers threw soft light on the black tuxedos and sparkly gowned revelers playing their odds at blackjack, roulette, poker, and craps.

  Women strode around the felt tables wearing dresses cut down to their areolas and hems flashing thongs as they bent over patrons, serving drinks, or multitasking flirting with keeping an eye out for cheaters. Written on their name tags were undoubtedly fake monikers and three gold words.

  The Pleasure Center.

  To be honest, I thought they could have gotten more creative with the name, but it did the trick.

  The bar took up the entire opposite wall of the room. I crossed the reddish-gold carpet, practically tasting the whiskey sour on my lips.

  “The fuck!”

  A crash sounded to my right.

  “You’re cheating!”

  I didn’t have a chance to turn as a body slammed into me, knocking me into a passing worker and their loaded tray.

  We went down in a shower of alcohol and shattered glass. I gasped, air punched out of me, and flailed on top of the poor woman who cushioned my fall.

  “Dozy prick! How do you cheat at roulette?!”

  Eyes flashing, the hulking mass of greasy hair and bulging muscle who attacked, seized the man on top of me and slammed his head on my collarbone.

  “Get off!” I screamed.

  Hands grabbed under my arms, tugging me and the server free. I fell onto a warm, hard chest, secured by a hand wearing a familiar watch. I tilted my head to my new friend.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I snagged his arm. “Neither one of us will be if we don’t move.”

  “What—”

  Shoving him back, we scurried behind the players and servers clearing the space, giving the fighters a wide berth.

  “I didn’t cheat!”

  The shorter, blond man punched his accuser across the jaw. They rolled over the carpet, knocking into a table and tipping it and another shower of drinks onto the floor.

  “Someone should stop them,” he cried.

  “Someone”—the back door flew open—“will,” I finished.

  Three men in suits even nicer than the one against my cheek, streamed out of the door. Two laid hands on the men scrapping on the floor and pulled them apart. I winced as the first gut-punch doubled the blond man in half. Security swept his leg, dropping him in a groaning heap on his ass, and joined his partner in beating the guy who started it.

  The final man stood apart from them. Still, silent, and blank-faced as Greasy Hair went from blustering to pleading.

  “Stop,” he shrieked. “It w-was him! He called it every time. He’s a fucking cheat.”

  Angelo flicked to the supposed cheater currently trying to crawl away.

  Angelo Castillo wasn’t as pretty as the man whose arm I held. His voice scraped hard and guttural out of his throat. His hair w
as shaved close to the scalp. And a web of tattoos running down the left side of his face covered the jagged scar that marred his cheek. All the same, Angelo didn’t need looks to strike the room speechless.

  He didn’t react as another punch dealt by his enforcer splattered blood on his white coat. “Is this true, Mr. Jensen?”

  Jensen snapped his neck shaking his head. “I got lucky. I swear, I wasn’t cheating. I wasn’t!” His voice went up in pitch as the guys stopped their beating to drag his fleeing ass back.

  “Gentlemen,” Angelo began. “The first rule of TPC is do not cause trouble. The second rule is do not break the first rule.” He shook his head like a disappointed parent. “You fight in my club. Disturb my guests. Spill my alcohol. Knock down one of my girls. I’d say that’s causing trouble, wouldn’t you?”

  “It was his fault,” Jensen pleaded. “Please, Angelo—”

  “Get them out,” he ordered. “Break something, but don’t kill them.”

  The men were hauled shouting out of the door and carried up the same staircase we came through.

  Angelo swept a smile over the watching crowd. “I’m sorry you had to witness that unpleasant business. Please, friends. Sit, drink, play, and enjoy yourselves. It’s what we’re here for.”

  Only when he disappeared into the back room did anyone actually move.

  “I see it’s actually your first time here,” I murmured.

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Does this happen a lot?”

  “Rarely ever for the reason you just saw. Angelo doesn’t stand for people making trouble down here.” It suddenly occurred to me that I was holding on to him longer than I needed to. I quickly stepped back, smoothing down my clothes and hair. “I should get going. The auction is about to start.”

  “Watch out for yourself.”

  “I will,” I said. “Wait, what’s your...?” I trailed off. He was already walking toward the hallway he went down earlier.

  It figured he was here for the fights. Strong, quick-thinking guy like him was probably one of the underground fighters—though that perfect face didn’t look like it met with too many punches.

  Enough with him, a voice reminded. He’s not who you came here for.

  I rubbed my jacket pocket again, riding a triumphant thrill to the bar. After receiving my drink, I made for the opposite hallway leading off the main floor.

  I wasn’t interested in the cage matches. Two half-naked people stepping into the hold to beat the shit out of each other until one went down and didn’t get up. All the while howling hyenas urging them on and placing bets faster than their bank accounts could keep up. Fun, but not my vice.

  In this world, our base desires were catered to excess. The lust for brutality, riches, and wine. But all I was after—

  Fevered moans blanketed the casino music. This hall was a museum of glass doors, showcasing the activities inside.

  —was lust itself.

  Pert, round breasts flattened on the glass, slicked by sweat and the condensation of her hot breath. Her screams bordered on overenthusiastic as a portly man who was thinning on top pounded her from behind.

  Nearly every room was filled with adults engaging in good, clean fun. Place a single full bed in the midst of three walls and a pane of glass, and the Pleasure clubbers took over from there.

  I paid them minimal attention, even to the few flashes of interest that came my way.

  A black velvet-covered door waited for me at the end of the hall. A man emerged from the shadows as I reached for the handle.

  “Name?”

  “Winter Phoenix.” An obvious alias.

  He consulted his phone, and nodded at my name on the list. “Do you know the rules of the auction?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know the consequences for breaking the rules?”

  I shuffled from foot to foot, hand tightening on the handle. “I do.”

  “Minimum bids are three thousand dollars US. Payment is to be transferred immediately upon conclusion of the auction. If you cannot cover your bid, you will be asked to leave The Pleasure Club.”

  By way of a broken jaw and carried feet-first out of the door.

  “I understand,” I replied.

  He opened the door for me. “Take any seat. Your bidder card is eighty-six.”

  The room that greeted me was the high-class scene Angelo worked to maintain.

  Antique, upholstered chairs formed neat rows in front of the stage. Gold damask wallpaper stretched up to a ceiling that was painted to envy the night sky, and a young man stood behind a large ornate podium, watching the hands as they ticked the final seconds to eleven o’clock.

  I was one of the last to arrive. Men and women in their jewels, silk, and finery spread through the space. And now I’m one of them.

  I claimed a seat toward the front, heart thumping loudly in my ear. I’d been waiting two months to be let into this room. I wasn’t leaving without my prize.

  “Welcome, everyone,” the auctioneer began. “I’m Mr. Black. We’ll begin in just a few moments. If you’d like to order a drink or take care of other business, do so now. Once the auction begins, the door will remain sealed.”

  No one moved.

  “Excellent. Let’s begin.” Mr. Black swept out his hand and the curtains behind him parted like his long, tapered fingers conducted magic. A raven-haired, jewel-eyed vision revealed before us, clad only in a lace bustier and matching black thong. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the lovely Champagne.”

  Polite applause broke out, and Champagne did a little shimmy and twirl, showing off all her assets.

  “Champagne is new to TPC, and joins us for the first time tonight. She enjoys double penetration, being tied up, and spanked.” Mr. Black rattled this off with no inflection. He could’ve been talking about what she liked on her pizza. “We’ll start the bidding at five thousand. Do I have five thousand for a night with Champagne?”

  Bidding cards shot in the air.

  My tongue darted out, tasting pure carnal lust in the air, and I held back a grin. Beneath the layer of wealth and civility, we were not better than the rutting, grinding clubbers above our heads—eager for a night of no-holds-barred, wild sex with a complete stranger. We just left nothing to chance.

  While what we were doing wasn’t strictly legal, it was a less risky and exceedingly lucrative arrangement compared to the potential hook-ups that pawed me on the dance floor.

  Angelo only brought in escorts from the best services. All clean—drug- and STD-wise—and all wanting to be here even more than we did. These auction spots were highly sought after by those in the know. One night with a TPCer could clear you six months’ worth of rent payments.

  “Ten thousand,” Mr. Black announced. “Ten thousand going once. Twice.” He banged his gavel. “That’s ten thousand to bidder fifty-two. Thank you, Champagne.”

  The curtains whisked shut with another wave of his hands. Behind them, I heard movement as someone else took Champagne’s place.

  I leaned forward in my chair, visions of the man I came for dancing in my mind. I recalled every second of the first time I saw him. The spotlight illuminating the stage of the male strip club. The scent of sweat and lavender rolling off him as he thrust his scantily covered crotch in my face. I remembered searching for him after his dance, and the weight of my frustration when he cuffed my chin, chuckling as he said I couldn’t afford him.

  I rubbed my pocket and the new bank card within. He won’t be saying that to me tonight. Thanks to my new friends, there’s nothing I can’t afford.

  “Next up.” Mr. Black cut into my runaway fantasy. “We have Candy.”

  Another whoosh of the curtains and the blonde, ruby-lipped incarnation of Aphrodite winked at us in a see-through bra and panties that left nothing to the imagination.

  “Candy is another new addition to the club.” I listened with half an ear as he listed her skills and preferences. Why didn’t they list the order of escorts coming out? How long would it
be until we finally got to him?

  “Let’s begin the bidding at three thousand. Do I have three thousand for a night with Candy?”

  A paddle went up.

  Then two. Then three.

  “That’s five thousand,” said Mr. Black. “Do I have six?”

  Candy shimmied on the platform. She gave her best come hither grin as she swept her bra strap off her shoulder.

  No bid cards went up in the air.

  “Five thousand going once. Twice—”

  Twisting, Candy gave the audience her back and bent at the waist. Bold as ever, she pulled her underwear aside and plunged two fingers past her folds. Half a dozen cards flew in the air as she licked her fingers clean, grinning with thinly disguised triumph.

  “Eleven thousand. Twelve. Thir— That’s fourteen thousand.” Mr. Black was keeping up without a hitch. “Seventeen.”

  An older man with silver hair and a suit to match raised his card. “Twenty thousand.”

  Black banged the gavel. “Twenty thousand to bidder seventeen.”

  The curtains closed once more. I gathered my jacket tighter around me. My pocket’s contents dug into my side, reassuring me. If twenty thousand was the going price around here, I was secure. My bank account was freshly topped up with three times that amount, and more was only a text away.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a club favorite.” I moved with the curtains, rising out of my seat as inch by agonizing inch obsidian locks... jasper-green eyes... russet-brown skin... and that grin was unmasked.

  “Montecito.

  “Of course you know the minimum bid for a club favorite is fifteen thousand,” Mr. Black continued. “As he needs no introduction, let’s start the bidding.”

  My paddle shot in the air.

  Montecito flicked to me, and I swore recognition lit in his eyes. He tossed me a wink that burned a fire from my roots to my toes.

  “I have fifteen,” Black announced, gesturing to me. “Do I have sixteen?”

  On and on we went.

  I trounced every bidder until it was me and a regal brunette woman left in the bidding war—though the glares she was throwing me had me thinking the wealthy noble act was just that.