Page 13

THIRTEEN

SAINT

She’s exactly right about that. The quicker I can get in, the better. That’s the thing about poison… even the smallest dose can be lethal. It may spread slowly, damaging everything in its path, but in the end, it does exactly what’s intended.

Destroy.

And I’m going to poison the Rousseau family drop by drop.

“I’ll do it.”

Her mouth falls open as her eyes widen in shock. “ Really ?”

I shrug, not wanting to seem overly eager to ruin her life. “Yep. I want the ice time—why not? I can pretend to be your boy toy for a few weeks if it means in exchange, I get peace and quiet.”

She’s eying me warily as if she can’t quite believe that I’m actually agreeing to what she’s proposing, and if what she was offering wasn’t as inciting as it is, then there would be no fucking way I’d agree to voluntarily spend more time with her. But the payoff is well worth a few bullshit events.

She stares up at me, brows arched, moving a palm to curve around her hip. “You’re really going to do it? You know it has to be fairly believable in order to fool my parents.”

There are worse ways to spend my time than rubbing elbows with rich fucks and more than likely getting a free meal out of it. Hard to come by for a guy like me. Not that she needs to know that.

“Never had a problem convincing anyone I’m an asshole, Golden Girl.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

I smirk, lifting a shoulder. “If anything, you should be worried about you. You look like you’ve sucked a fart anytime you’re within three feet of me. Kinda hard to convince people that we’re together when you look like that.”

Her eyes narrow before she rolls them. “Sorry, it’s exhausting being in your presence.”

“Yeah, I hear that a lot. Specifically, after you spend the night bouncing on my co?—”

Abruptly, she reaches out, slapping a hand over my mouth, surprising us both by cutting me off. Her fingers are soft and warm, slightly clammy pressed against my lips.

My lips part, and I nip at her finger, causing her to yelp, cutting her eyes at me.

As quickly as she placed them there, she snatches her hand back toward her, falling to her side like she’s been burned.

“I’ve heard more about your… dick than I have ever cared to learn, so please, can you stop?

” Her throat bobs, swallowing hard. When I grin, arching a brow, she just rolls her eyes.

A shitty comeback is on the tip of my tongue, but she beats me to it.

“As much as I need your crude, broody assholeness in my favor when it comes to them, I also need you to not be over-the-top to the point that my parents think I’m dropping out of college and having a shotgun wedding. ”

I shiver at the thought.

Me? Married?

Absolutely the fuck not.

I mean… I’m all for the deflowering part, so I guess I could get on board.

“I can practically read your mind right now. Stop it.”

“You said it, not me,” I grunt. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Golden Girl. Now, what else? I’ve got shit to do.”

“Ah, that’s right, can’t keep your fan club waiting.”

I nod as I pass my stick back and forth between my hands. “Hard work, but someone’s gotta do it. I take my responsibilities very seriously.” My lips curl into a crooked smile, flashing teeth.

I couldn’t bite the smile back if I tried, seeing her cheeks flush a delicious red and her head shake. I love riling her, pissing her off, getting a response out of her. It makes my fucking blood rush. It’s effortless.

Turning, I start skating away, and her voice comes from behind me. “We should probably exchange numbers so I have a way to contact you outside of the rink.”

Slowly, I turn. “Give me yours and I’ll text you later.”

“How are you going to remember it if you don’t have your phone?” she asks warily.

I tap my temple and watch her roll her eyes as she prattles the number off.

I’m sure she probably thinks that I’m nothing but a dumb athlete, but she’d be surprised as fuck to know I have a 3.7 GPA. It’s part of the reason I’m even able to attend Orleans University because I’m on a scholarship. If I weren’t, then hockey wouldn’t be enough.

“See you soon, Golden Girl.”

“Unfortunate for me, Satan.”

After stopping at Tommy’s once leaving the rink to pick up a part for my bike, I pull into the driveway of my house after dark. I’m exhausted from practice, class, and skating all in one day, but I’ve still got an assload of homework to work on and turn in before midnight.

The lights are on inside, dim and warm, shining through the windows of the old, run-down trailer I’ve grown up in. When I was younger, I was embarrassed to live here. In a metal tin can that probably should’ve been condemned years ago.

It wasn’t always in this shitty of a condition. It was never a mansion in Beverly Hills, but it at least used to look livable. Lately, it’s looking more and more dilapidated with each passing day. I keep the lawn cut and the trash taken out, but I don’t have the time or resources to keep it up.

It needs a new porch, a new roof, a fresh coat of paint, and a pressure wash. Maybe on my next day off, whenever the hell that will be, I can at least do the pressure wash so it doesn’t look so much like a fucking trap house.

I lock my bike up, pocketing the keys in my sweatpants pockets and haul myself and all of my shit through the front door, immediately assaulted by the overwhelming stench of stale beer and sweat.

Not that it’s surprising. The one and only thing my father is good at is being a drunk fuckup.

“Shut the door behind you, boy. You’re letting out all the fucking cold air,” he grunts from the recliner in front of the TV, his voice heavy, words slightly slurring.

I roll my eyes, slamming it behind me. I don’t even glance at him as I walk by because I already know exactly what I’ll find—him in an old, stained shirt that smells as bad as he does, a pair of boxers he probably hasn’t changed in days, with a twenty-four-ounce can of beer clutched in his meaty hand, watching the same reruns of WWE on the TV.

I’ve thought about this a hundred times, maybe even a thousand times in the last ten years.

How if I didn’t hate him as much as I did, I would almost feel bad for him.

For his pathetic, disgusting existence that’s been reduced to this—drinking himself to death in front of a busted-ass TV in a piece-of-shit trailer.

That’s his life. That’s the only future he’ll ever have, and it’s just… sad.

But he chose this life. He makes that decision every morning he wakes up, and I hate him for every day that my mom and I have been subjected to his selfish decisions.

For making us suffer because he’s a weak and dumb motherfucker that gets drunk and tries to use either of us as a punching bag for his anger.

He used to beat the shit out of me when I was younger. Back when I was smaller than him, but now… most of the time, he knows better. Unless he’s shit-faced and not thinking at all.

I never hit him back. I never engage in the bullshit because I know that if I did… I’m not sure I would be able to stop. Not when it all comes pouring out of me. The years of pent-up rage, hurt, fucking disappointment. I don’t know if I’m a good enough person to not let that anger take over.

I’ll never become him. Even if it fucking kills me. Even if sometimes walking away is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do when he gets drunk and tries to put his hands on my mom.

Those are the nights that I see red. That I feel out of control.

The nights that I feel like maybe I am becoming him, and panic seizes my chest.

“Saint?” My gaze swings to Mom, who appears at the end of the darkened hallway, her thin brown robe wrapped tightly around her.

I hate how the old fabric is draped over her shoulders, swallowing her, a combination of stress and not taking care of herself the way she should because she’s taking care of my father instead.

“Hey, Ma.” I open my bedroom door and set my bags down on the floor, turning back to her. “Sorry I’m late. Had to stop by Tommy’s to pick something up.”

“Don’t be sorry. I just wanted to wait up for you to make sure that you got home okay.

You know I always worry about you on that bike.

I left you a plate of red beans in the microwave,” she says as I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her to me, resting my chin on the top of her head.

She feels so small and delicate in my arms, and it makes something deep and dark in my heart twist.

“Thanks, Ma. You okay? How was your day?” I pull back and look down at her, taking in the dark bags beneath her eyes and the lines wrinkled near the corners, exhaustion evident on her face.

Her eyes are the same dark chocolate shade as mine, the one thing that I got from her.

Ma used to be different. Happier, lighter, even though I was so young I can hardly remember those days. The days before everything went to shit and my life wasn’t as fucked-up as it is now.

Back when Ma used to smile and laugh. I miss her laugh.

If there’s any good inside me… it’s because of her and only her.

We wouldn’t even have this piece-of-shit trailer if it wasn’t for her and the hours that I pull at Tommy’s when I can, but honestly, even then, we’re barely scraping by.

Most nights, it’s beans and whatever I can grab on campus for next to nothing.

It’s not my house that embarrasses me anymore; I stopped giving a shit about that long ago.

I knew better than to ever invite friends over.

If someone ever picked me up during high school, then I’d have them pick me up at the grocery store down the street.

I hated being embarrassed by where I lived and where I came from.

Turns out it’s not the house or the fact that my family’s poor that’s the embarrassing part. It’s the fact that my father is an alcoholic asshole.

I could strangle that motherfucker with my bare hands and not feel an ounce of emotion.

Maybe in a different life, I could’ve been a good guy, but with my father’s blood running through my veins, I’ve always been doomed.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m fine, Ma. I’m too stubborn to die.” I grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Thank you for dinner. I’m starving.”

She nods, and her eyes soften as she peers up at me. “Welcome, honey. Your…” She trails off, glancing down the hallway to where my father sits. “Your dad’s in a mood tonight. Best steer clear, okay?”

Yeah, I have no plans to deal with his shit tonight, so I’m grabbing my dinner and staying in my room till tomorrow with the door locked.

After hugging Ma good night and grabbing my shit, I walk through the living room, fighting the urge to kick over the recliner that my father’s passed out in, drunk or high or probably a mixture of both.

He doesn’t stir as I pass, a deep snore pushing past his lips. As fucked-up as it is, I’d rather deal with this version of him than the one where he’s just getting started or using his fists as a way to take out his anger. Starting shit with me for no reason.

The hallway that leads to my bedroom is lined with jagged, fist-sized holes. A constant reminder that my life will never be normal. Not until I get out of this place.

It wasn’t always like this.

At least the few memories I have of before. We were never rich, we didn’t have much. Secondhand shit, but at least my father wasn’t a drunk and addicted to pain pills.

That’s what I can thank Edward Rousseau for.

He’s the catalyst that set my fucked-up life into motion.

If it wasn’t for him, my dad never would’ve fallen from that scaffold. He never would’ve gotten addicted to the pain pills the doctor prescribed him, and he wouldn’t have added alcohol into it. Abuse.

None of that would have ever happened if Rousseau had taken responsibility for his company’s negligence. Instead, he falsified those accident reports, claiming my dad was already an addict and high on the job, and that’s why he fell.

All because he didn’t want his fucking company to be seen in a bad light or to shell out money to compensate his employee for a faulty fucking tie-off that the safety foreman should have checked.

My father wrongfully lost his job, and suddenly, everything happened at once. We had a mountain of medical bills that no one could afford. He couldn’t work because he was hurt, and he was denied unemployment since he technically “quit” his job.

On top of it all, he was addicted to the pain pills the doctor prescribed to help him.

None of it should have happened. Except it did.

And the millionaire got the easy way out while we’ve been living a fucking nightmare.

Now, it’s his turn.