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ONE

SAINT

“God, you are such a motherfucker , Saint Devereaux.”

Apparently, this is only a revelation to the naked blonde standing in front of me, who’s still wiping my cum off her face.

She knew exactly what this was, or what it wasn’t. It’s not my fault she didn’t listen when I told her.

It’s simple.

I don’t do sleepovers, I don’t kiss, I don’t cuddle.

I’m not the guy who’s going to tell you everything you wanna hear, the one you take home to your parents or tell all your girlfriends about.

I’m the guy who fucks you better than you’ve ever been fucked.

I’m the guy you’ll think about months later when you’re taking it missionary from a finance bro that lasts three minutes and couldn’t make you come even if his trust fund depended on it.

I leave a lasting impression, and it’s in the shape of my cock.

That’s the one and only promise you’ll get from me. “Damn,” I tut as I slide off her bed onto the furry pink rug on the dorm room floor. “That’s the thanks I get for making you come two, no… three times?”

I swipe my T-shirt off the floor and drag it over my head. Everything in this room is so goddamn pink that it’s giving me a headache, so the sooner I can get out of here, the better.

“You literally just came on my face, and now you’re… leaving. Just like that?” she mumbles with a furrowed brow.

If I wasn’t an asshole and I hadn’t told her the score before sticking my dick in her, I might feel bad.

But unfortunately for her, I am , in fact, an asshole, and I am , in fact, leaving.

I quickly drag my sweatpants up my hips, grab my phone off the nightstand along with my keys before shoving them in my pocket, then turning back to her. “Just like that. I thought you understood what this was. Sorry that you didn’t. Was fun though, yeah?”

Tossing her a smirk and taking one last look at her perky, full tits that undoubtedly are what got me into this shit in the first place, I brush past her toward the door.

“I should have listened to everything they said about you.” Her words are thrown at me, dripping with venom, like they’re meant to wound, but they fall flat.

Because I don’t give a fuck what she or anyone thinks about me, and I never have.

I jerk my gaze back over my shoulder at her, the corner of my lip curving into a half grin, half sneer that makes her eyes burn even brighter with anger. “Yeah, probably should have. But whatever they said? I’m so much fucking worse.”

I don’t wait for her to respond before wrenching the door open and slipping outside. The second that I shut it behind me, there’s a loud thud of something heavy slamming against it and a high-pitched screech from the other side.

Yeah, I’ve gotta chill with the hookups for a while because as much as I love getting my dick sucked, this shit has been a headache, and I’ve got enough headache-worthy shit in my life as it is.

And then some.

Speaking of headaches, I pull my phone out of my pocket, glancing down at the screen and seeing the time.

Goddamnit.

Now I’m going to be late, and I can’t be late.

I can’t afford to.

It takes thirty minutes to get through campus traffic to the other side of town, and I’m late as fuck. I pull my bike into the last open bay of Tommy’s Garage and cut the engine.

Generally, I’d leave it parked outside, but I know better. Growing up here, I learned quickly that this isn’t the part of NOLA where you leave your shit outside at night and expect it to still be there in the morning.

So, when I work late at the shop, I park it inside with me so I can keep an eye on it because outside of hockey, my bike is what I’m most proud of.

A ’53 Indian that I found with Tommy in a junkyard one day when I was fourteen.

He wanted to pull old parts for a rebuild he was working on, and since I was working at the shop that day, he let me tag along.

The bike wasn’t shit to look at back then, an old heap of rusted metal, a battered relic from a time that no longer existed.

But I saw past the rust and mangled, wrecked pieces of metal. I saw the potential. I saw what it used to be and knew that I wanted to be the one to bring it back to its former glory.

I used every penny I had saved to buy it as it was, and I spent the next four years restoring and rebuilding it until it was no longer a shell of its former self but something I was proud as fuck of.

I learned everything I could from Tommy and the other guys so that I could save money on labor and do the work myself. I didn’t have two pennies to rub together back then, so it was either that or I wasn’t ever going to restore it.

Yeah, it might not be the fastest bike, but it’s a fucking classic.

Timeless.

They don’t make machines like this anymore.

This bike is the one thing in the world that’s mine. The one thing my father can’t fucking touch, and good thing because everything he touches turns to shit. Like a disease, infecting everything he comes in contact with.

“You’re late,” Tommy grunts without looking up from the Mustang transmission he’s bent over. His voice is gravelly from the two packs a day he’s smoked since he was younger than me.

I’ve got no idea how old he actually is, but if I had to guess, he’s somewhere in his late sixties and still working at the shop daily, putting in more hours than most guys half his age.

He probably won’t quit coming in until he’s dead.

His dad opened this shop when he was a kid and named it after him so when he was too old to take care of it, it could be passed down to him. Only the legacy will end with Tommy because he’s got no biological children of his own.

Just a few guys working here that give him more shit than his own kids ever would.

“Yeah, sorry,” I mutter as I grab my old, grease-stained jumpsuit off the hook near the office and step into the legs.

I hate being late, and it’s not something that happens often, especially for… extracurricular activities. I just lost track of time, and that’s on me.

Finally, he looks up from the transmission and catches my gaze.

The skin on his face is weathered, like it’s been left in the sun for too long, and there’s a thick streak of grease over his brow, smeared into a nearly perfect line.

“Thought we weren’t going to make it a habit? ” His brushy gray brow arches.

He’s referring to last week when I was an hour late because I was dealing with shit at home, and I didn’t want to leave Mom, but of course, he doesn’t know that’s the reason behind it.

I don’t tell anyone the personal shit in my life, but if I did, it would be Tommy. He’s an observant old fuck, and truthfully probably one of the only people in the world outside of Ma who gives a shit about me.

“We’re not. Sorry, old man, won’t happen again.”

He hums but doesn’t respond, instead looks back down at the socket connected to the transmission and continues working. He’s never been a man of many words, but when he does speak? You listen.

“You should head to bed. I’ve got this. It’s late.” I walk over to the Mustang, pulling out the black bandana that I left in the pocket of my jumpsuit during my last shift and tying it at my nape to keep my hair out of my face.

It’s too fucking long, but I haven’t had the time or the extra money to worry about getting it cut. I’ve thought about buzzing it all off a hundred times with how hot it’s been this summer but just haven’t gotten around to it.

“Don’t tell me what to do, boy,” he grunts but still sets the wrench down on the engine and straightens. His back isn’t what it used to be, and when he spends hours bent over the inside of a car, he’s even more of a dick because he’s hurting and would never admit it to any of us.

Pride’s a funny thing.

“I’m not, but if you do everything, then what’s left for me to do?” I ask, my shoulder lifting in a shrug, playing it off. “I need the work.”

I’m not lying; I need the money. Even if my dad somehow manages to keep this job for longer than a month, it’s inevitable he’ll do something to fuck it, get fired, and everything I’ve saved will go to making sure rent is paid.

Which isn’t as much as I want right now.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. How’s your ma doing?” His gaze finds mine as he reaches for his rag, cleaning up some of the oil from his hands. “She doing okay?”

“She’s good.”

Even though he doesn’t really know the full extent of the shit that’s going on, I think he suspects, and this is his way of asking without really asking.

He’s likely suspected since the day I stumbled into the shop at fourteen with two black eyes and a busted lip, asking for a job when I didn’t know the first fucking thing about cars.

It’s probably the reason that he allows me to work the schedule I do, primarily at night, unless it’s during the off-season and I don’t have any classes scheduled.

Any work he doesn’t get done with the guys during the day is what I handle at night.

We’ve made it work, and I like it this way.

The quiet.

The solace I get from the chaos at home.

And one day, I’ll find a way to repay Tommy for doing this for me.

For offering me a place to sleep in the apartment above the shop whenever I need. For never asking questions that I don’t want to answer and probably never will.

He’s given me so much over the last six years, and I’m not sure if he really even realizes. He’s saved my life more than once.

Tommy nods, his sharp eyes crinkling in the corners. “That’s good. Had a few cars come in earlier, hoping to get ’em out by the end of this week if we can. Damn electric car with a battery issue. Fucking shocker.”

He hates electric cars, and if he didn’t need the business, he’d probably turn them away at the door. Says America was better when it was muscle and not electric bullshit.

“Got it. I’ll get it done. See you tomorrow,” I respond, lifting my fingers in a salute.

For a second, he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, hesitating like he might say more, but after a beat, he nods, muttering a goodbye.

Thankfully, it only takes me a few hours to work my way through the cars, so I make it home just after 2:00 a.m.

I’m so fucking tired that I nearly fell asleep driving home, and I desperately need to catch up on sleep.

I’m just gonna take a quick shower, scarf down some food, and hit the sack in the next thirty minutes, which means I should be able to get roughly six hours of sleep before my business economics class.

Now that classes have started again, I’ve got to cut back my hours at Tommy’s. Hockey season is about to start, so between managing to keep my grades passing and the grueling practice, conditioning, and games schedule, I’ll barely have time to sleep, let alone pick up any shifts.

I’m just going to have to rely on my savings to get me by.

Get us by.

Dropping my bag by the front door, I quietly kick off my shoes. My gaze bounces around the living room, landing on Ma curled up on the couch, sound asleep.

She looks so serene that it makes a space somewhere in my chest begin to ache. I wish that her life was easier and that she could have the peace she deserves.

But she never will. Not when she stays in this house with him.

I’ve tried to convince her to leave, begged her more times than I can count to let me find us both an apartment, but she refuses. She says that he’s her husband and that she’s not going to leave him, even when it’s rough, that they made vows and she can’t abandon them.

Like him trying to beat the shit out of her is a rough spot.

That’s why I still live at home and not on campus in the dorms. Because I’m not leaving her here with him.

I can’t. I’m fucking terrified of the thought of not being here to protect her.

There aren’t many things that make me weak. Not when I’ve spent a lifetime building a wall around anything that could hurt me.

But Ma?

She’s the softest spot I have.

I’d burn down the world for her.

Starting with my father , if that’s what it took.