by Violet Blaze
Other than that, the day is blessedly normal, and although Loren isn't quite himself yet, he makes an effort to respond when I talk to him. That's at least something, right?
After school, Lyric picks me up yet again and I work my butt off for her, basically dragging stacks of papers around the office and wondering why everything isn't digital already. But then, politics aim to be as crappy and inefficient as possible, right? Throughout everything—Nevaeh's bitchy stares, Loren's closemouthed attitude, Royal stopping by the office and making Lyric grin from ear to ear—all I can think about is Saint, Saint, Saint. I have Glacier on the brain—and bad.
My heart breaks for him every time I think of that story, and my body aches for him every time I sit down and feel this comforting sort of soreness between my thighs. Even my mouth is a little sore, but I don't care. It's this constant reminder that we're together, that I get to have him like I always wanted, that he's giving me something he's never wanted to give to anyone else.
The day is fine and kind of awesome in its normality until Mom picks me up and looks at me like I'm stupid.
“I called you six times last night, Ren,” she snaps as I lean back in the passenger seat of her car and stare up at the ceiling. “If you can't be bothered to answer your phone, maybe you shouldn't be allowed to stay out on a school night?”
I glance over at her, at the pink streak in her hair and the frown on her face.
“Why did you call me six times?” I ask as she literally drives right next to my bike and gives it a funny look out the window. My heart skips and jumps in my chest, but I guess she decides one of the boys must've sold a Hot Rod to some rich idiot and keeps going without commenting on it. Glacier and I discussed it and he said as long as I locked it up properly, I should be able to leave it there overnight. Since tomorrow's a half-day and I'm supposed to catch a ride with Rayna anyway, I'll drive it back to his place for my little painting party.
“Something's been off with you since the night of the shooting,” she says and I have to fight the urge to fidget a little. Yeah. Something has been off since that night—or at least it was off. Now it's better. All I wanted was Glacier and now I've got him, so …
“Okay?” I ask and she sighs, shaking her head at me.
“Never mind. Just, if you're out and I call you, answer your damn phone, Serenity.”
She ignores me the rest of the way home where Dad, Dober, Janae, Mick and Glinda are all waiting with dinner on the table. The girls must've cooked. God forbid the men ever step foot in the fucking kitchen.
“You didn't invite Royal and Lyric?” I ask with a crooked brow to which Mom shushes me and tells me to put the dinner rolls on the table. Huh. Interesting. I thought Mom and the girls were starting to like Lyric? Then again, it could very well be Royal that they don't want to invite. My dad isn't exactly the president's biggest fan. He calls him that dumb young idiot most of the time when we're at home.
I eat as quickly as I can, feeling my shoulders stiffen every time they bring Glacier's name up in conversation—something that also happens quite frequently. I don't know if the Alpha Wolves as a whole are aware of it, but they rely on Saint Nordin for pretty much everything requiring blood, death, chase, capture, torture, or information. Saint's like a Swiss fucking army knife for the club or something, a multi-tool.
That makes me sad for him, makes me remember his words from the other day.
'That life, the one where you're nothing but somebody else's … tool … That life of being a pet or a piece of property, it isn't a life I'd wish on someone like you, Serenity.'
“Can I go upstairs now?” I ask a few minutes later, when I don't think I can listen to another word of idle chatter. Yet again, club business gets discussed in front of me like I don't even exist, like the fact that I know pretty much everything there is to know about the club doesn't matter at all. If I wanted to, I could bring the whole house of cards crashing to the floor.
Dad sighs and gives me this look, running his hand down his beard slowly, thoughtfully, like he can sense something is about to break. But then he just waves me away and I dart up the steps to my room, locking both locks and barricading myself inside to check my phone for messages. There aren't any from Saint, but I'm not surprised. He warned me that he'd be busy tonight.
I flop down onto my bed just as a rainstorm starts up outside and then sit up again, glancing at the lock of my sliding door and making sure it's open—just in case. But then I lay back down and the sound of the rain, the warmth of my room, and the memory of Saint's body curled around mine draw me into a deep, deep sleep.
I blow through my half-day at school like it's nothing, so embroiled in my laptop and the words spilling from my fingers that I end up getting it confiscated in two different classes before the end of the day rolls around. I can't seem to help it. This story of mine, this blossoming romance between Glacier and me, it's sparked my imagination.
“You must really be on fire today,” Loren comments as we head down the hall in the throng, moving outside the doors to find Rayna already waiting for us next to her minivan. She falls in line with the two of us, our feet splashing through thin puddles across the sidewalk. Last night's rain came and went and now it's sunny again—albeit briefly.
“I couldn't stop writing today,” I explain to Rayna and she raises her red brows as we come around the corner towards my bike, exactly where I left it yesterday, just as Glacier had promised. I'd left my helmet in my locker and now I've got it tucked up under my arm protectively. “It's a romance. Really dirty. Maybe even bordering on erotica.”
“The virgin writes erotica now,” Rayna jokes and then pauses suddenly, casting me a furtive glance like she's not sure that I really am a virgin anymore. God. Not even close. I think Saint and I have ticked all of the requisite boxes: fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, anal sex. What's next? Toys maybe? I shiver, but it's not from the cool breeze that's picked up off of the sea. “So, what's the plan?” Rayna says, like she's noticed Loren's sudden discomfort and is now desperate to change the subject.
“The plan is, everyone piles into your van and you follow me over to Glacier's place. I'll order the pizza and while we're waiting for it to be delivered, you and me'll pop over to the hardware store and grab the paint. I already called ahead so the cans should be ready; I knew exactly what color I wanted.”
“Baby poop yellow, right?” Rayna asks, because I texted her some samples last night and she seriously reamed them all.
“I went with a glorious butter yellow,” I tell her, thinking of Saint's barren white walls and how much cozier it'll be in his room once the color's up. “It's classic, warm, inviting.”
“So you went with mellow yellow piss, gotcha,” she says and I shove my shoulder into her arm, knocking her off balance for a minute as she laughs and Loren stays deadly silent next to me.
“Well, here she is,” I say, gesturing at the bike and feeling my heart soar inside my chest. Every time I look at it, I think of Saint and the big, open heart inside of himself that he discovered last night. My guess is that because he's been shut off from the world for so long, his heart is actually purer and more genuine than anyone else's I know; Saint hasn't had a chance for that heart to be jaded or broken. His trauma early in life coated it in a sheet of impenetrable ice and protected it, saved it pure and untouched just for me.
I suck in a deep breath as Nevaeh and Bristol saunter past, their arms linked, Cooper trailing behind them like the square-headed jock a-hole he is, all sloppy and cocky and full of shit. He smirks when he sees me looking at him and flips me off. Nevaeh just gives me—and my bike—a really dirty once-over that makes me grit my teeth. I swear to god, if she lays a fucking hand on my Hot Rod …
“Ren,” Rayna says, poking me in the arm and drawing my attention back around. “Ignore them. The last thing you need is to get suspended again. I hear third time's a charm, and they might just send you to that adult reform school in Eureka.”
&
nbsp; I sigh and run my fingers through my hair, wishing I could sic Glacier on those assholes. I get the eerie feeling that he'd do it, too, whatever I asked of him. I'm giving you the leash to my monster. I'm yours; just tell me what you want.
“You're right,” I tell her, putting a fake smile on my face. But I'm in such a good mood that it only takes it a few seconds to become real. “Let me hop on and I'll circle around, meet up with the others at the van and then, just follow me.”
I slip the helmet on my head, swing my leg over the bike and kick-start the engine.
The only thing I'd rather be riding in that moment … is Glacier himself.
At first, everyone's totally weirded out being at some dude's house from the club. But then Rayna produces some beer from her trunk and we end up drinking and shoving all the furniture into the center of the room. Painting tarps go on the floor, trays get filled with paint, rollers are soaked in yellow.
“I take it back,” Rayna says as she rollers the span of white wall between the two windows. I've taken the curtains down and opened them wide, letting in the sweet warm-cool scent of a spring breeze off the sea. I close my eyes for a moment and tilt my head back, letting the draft tickle some loose strands of hair around my face. “This color is not as ugly as I first thought. Now that I see it going up, I like it. What's its name again?”
“Cheerful Glory,” I say and I like the symbolism of the paint's title. Admittedly, it's one of the reasons I picked it. “So splatter that Cheerful Glory all over the walls!”
“The dirtiest thing you've ever said to me,” Otto chuckles, pressing a sloppy kiss to my face as I flick paint onto his sleeve. He doesn't mind. In fact, when the rare occasion strikes where Otto does purchase new pants, the first thing he does is drag some of his dad's paints outside and spatter them.
“Did you even ask your boyfriend if you could paint his room?” Loren asks quietly, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he edges above the white baseboards. I pause for a moment because no, I didn't ask. And I didn't ask if I could order pizza or let my underage friends drink in here or … holy shit. I feel this wave of guilt wash over me and a frown takes over my face. What if Glacier had some sensitive club stuff going on and needed his house?
But then I think even harder about that and know he'd have told me if he wanted me to ask before coming over, would've warned me ahead of time. I gave myself to him and he, he gave himself to me. Our relationship, it doesn't follow normal rules or timelines.
“It's fine,” I say, but then the room gets quiet for several minutes as we paint in tense contemplation. After a while, Aletha gets sick of the silence and grabs her iPhone, turning on some rock music—I think it's Crown the Empire—and Otto starts doing some ridiculous air guitar moves with his paintbrush.
We're all dancing around like idiots, singing the lyrics to a song called “Zero” when I feel this … this sense of being watched. I spin around, spattering paint across the back of Rayna's hair, and find Glacier leaning casually in the doorway to his bedroom.
“Saint,” I say and my voice comes out in this weird breathy cadence, drawing everyone's attention over to my lover's smiling face. He's looking right at me, of course, and he's smiling pretty broadly. This is the Saint Nordin he always presents to the boys at the club.
“Well, what have we got here?” he asks, his voice cool but not cold, an amiable lilt to his words. “Looks like I'm missing out on a party.”
“Um.” I jam some hair behind my ear and glance around at my friends, all of whom are staring at Saint in his leather Alpha Wolves cut, black jeans, and boots like he's some sort of terrifying fairytale villain or something—scary but not entirely real either. “Guys, this is Saint Elias Nordin,” I breathe, holding out a hand towards the imposing figure cut in the doorway. “My … boyfriend.” Not exactly the right word for Glacier. I mean, come on, boyfriend? But what else can I call him? Most of the club wives call their husbands old man, but considering the age difference between us, that's totally creepy. “But everyone in the club calls him Glacier.” I breathe out suddenly and kneel down, depositing my brush into a tray as I step forward and move around the cluster of furniture in the center of the room, resting my left hand on the back of the dresser. “Saint, this is Rayna, Tom, Otto, Aletha, and you remember Loren, right?” I point back at my oldest friend last as he rises to his feet and turns a spicy hot glare on Glacier's face.
“Oh, I remember Loren,” Saint says, leaning his blonde head against the wall, still smiling.
“Nordin,” Rayna says, swiping her fingers through her hair and rubbing yellow paint off on her faded overalls. “Is that …?”
“My mother's last name,” he says as he stands up and tucks his fingers in his front pockets. “She came over from Sweden with my grandparents when she was six; it's a common surname back in the home country.” He says this almost like it's one big joke. “What a mistake that was, coming over here like that.”
My skin chills, but nobody else seems to notice the slight thread of ice in his voice.
“Saint, I—” I start to say, but he's stepping forward, onto the paint smattered tarp and sliding a hand around the back of my neck, pressing the hot heat of his mouth to mine. He tastes like mint again, and he smells like pine and spruce, like the forest and the night sky. Whoa. Glacier parts my mouth with his tongue, teasing me with just enough heat that my cunt turns to liquid between my legs. When he pulls back, he's smiling even more broadly. “I didn't realize you'd be stopping by.”
“Oh, you know,” he says as he shrugs out of his cut and opens the closet, hanging it up and pushing the sliding door closed. “I have a sense for when I'm missing out. Guess I was right.” He turns around, dressed in a dark gray wifebeater that clings to the hard expanse of his pecs and the hills and valleys of his belly. He moves back over to me, reaching around my body and plucking a cold piece of pizza from the box, reminding me so sharply of Monday night that I have a near physical reaction.
“You have a beautiful home,” Aletha says, trying to be respectful, blushing like crazy as she stares up at Saint like he's some kind of Swedish god or something. I smile as Otto bristles and runs his fingers over his purple mohawk. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”
“Anytime,” Saint says as his eyes rake over my body, taking in my faded skinny jeans and an old camp t-shirt I brought over for painting. I feel young in it, too young, but Saint … the look in his eyes tells me that all he sees is a woman. “Where can I help? Believe it or not, I'm a fairly decent artist.” He runs his palm across a small space of white next to the closet. “I just don't usually make my art with paint.”
“Oh,” Tom says, trying to join in the conversation, “what's your medium? I like working with spray paint myself.” Rayna elbows him in the side and he grunts, giving her a what?! look.
“You know, this and that,” Saint says as he finishes off his slice of pizza and bends down to grab a roller, flashing a grin to my friends as his black painted fingernails curl around the wooden handle. “I do bike art and graphics, some pretty sick custom paint jobs.”
Loren isn't fooled, his eyes narrowing on Saint's broad back as my lover rises to his feet and presses the roller to the wall, his tattooed arm muscles bunching with the movement. Holy hell. I give my friend a look and we meet eyes. His face tells me all I need to know: he hates Saint. Hates him.
“You live here all by yourself?” Otto asks as some crazy bouncy pop song comes up on Aletha's 'rock 'n' roll' playlist. Figures. She can't help sneaking one or two onto every playlist she makes, regardless of theme.
“Just me, myself, and I,” Saint singsongs, covering up the last of the white with Cheerful Glory. I wonder if he likes the color? “I have this British friend that comes over occasionally, but mostly his accent just pisses me off.”
Otto, Tom, and Aletha chuckle because they all know about Royal McBride.
“Are you like, um, allowed to talk about your president that way?” Rayna asks cautiously, looking to me
for confirmation. I shrug my shoulders. She can ask whatever she wants; it's more about what Saint will be willing to answer.
“Sure I am,” Glacier says, making long, sweeping strokes across his wall with the roller and tossing a wink over his shoulder at Rayna. “He's just as scared of me as the rest of 'em.” Glacier taps the side of his nose with the small silver ring through it. “All my brothers know I am one crazy motherfucker.”
“So what is it exactly that you do for a living?” Loren asks, sounding snippy and pissed off. I watch Glacier's face as he turns back to the wall and flicks his tongue out against his lip rings. I'm used to this over the top personality, have seen it many, many times before. It's like Saint went out into the world and examined a bunch of guys, found the most over the top silly sort of dude and decided, if I act like that guy, nobody will know what I really am inside. Lately, though, he's been dropping the facade, showing the real man and the monster. This is a little disconcerting.
“I fix and paint bikes,” Glacier says which is at least partially true. If there's nothing else to do or he needs a moment to calm down, sure he heads over to Wolf Cycle Service and Repair for the afternoon. But really, he tortures and kills people for a living.
“Huh.” Loren snorts and keeps painting as I scoot up next to Saint, lifting my brush and edging along the white trim next to the closet. Every few seconds, I glance over and catch his blue eyes watching me, his face a neutral wash when he's not looking at my friends. I step a little closer, let my arm brush against his. Next time I look over, he's smiling and I'm the only one that can see it.
“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my plan,” I say, feeling guilty as the front door closes and the sound of my friends' laughter cuts off abruptly. Glacier's kneeling in front of me, pushing a metal lid into place on the top of a can. The painting is done, and the furniture is more or less back in place, with just an inch or so of space between it and the wet walls.
