Page 34

THIRTY-FOUR

LENNON

“Bullshit.” Saint’s low, gravelly voice is slightly muffled coming from beneath the car he’s working on. The sound of metal clanging together fills the air around us, but I haven’t the slightest idea of what he’s actually doing under there.

I can only see the bottom half of him, thick, powerful hockey thighs covered in the faded blue coveralls that are covered in old grease stains. Thighs that I shamelessly rode until I had my first orgasm.

God, do not start thinking about orgasms here , I tell myself, biting back the grin by biting the inside corner of my lip.

“I’m serious.” I place the pizza box onto the hood of my car and do my best to push down the dirty thoughts that were just infiltrating my mind. “Jesus, my stomach is growling so loud I can’t believe you can’t hear it.”

Suddenly, he slides out from beneath the car, stormy eyes finding me. I notice the smallest smudge of dirt on his cheek that almost matches the short stubble along his jaw.

I watch as he sets the tools he was working with down beside him, then pushes off the contraption beneath him and stands, coming to full height.

“You’re telling me that you’ve lived in NOLA your entire life and been at OU for almost two years, and you’ve never had a pizza burrito from Jack’s? No fucking way.”

“I am.” I exhale a laugh. “But… if you’re done calling me a liar, then I guess I’ll finally be able to.”

My stomach shouldn’t dip when he flashes me an ultra-rare smile, but God, does it.

It might be the fact that I’m starving to death, but I’m pretty sure it’s just the Devereaux effect.

That’s apparently a thing. That I’m clearly falling victim to.

He swipes the large pizza box off my hood and saunters toward the exit, calling back over his shoulder, “You coming or what? If not, I’m eating both of ’em.”

As if. I’d wrestle him to the ground and steal it before that happened. I’m past hungry; I’m hangry, and he does not want those problems.

I’m practically power walking to keep up with his strides, following behind him as he walks outside of the garage and over to an old vintage truck that’s covered in patches of rust and peeling paint. It’s… seen better days, but it’s also really cool.

“This is Betty.” Saint lowers the tailgate and places the box onto the back. “Tommy’s one and only love. 1957 GMC that he’s been saying at least once a day since I was fourteen that he’s going to get around to restoring.”

I run my finger over the peeling blue paint along the tailgate, trying to imagine what it might look like if it ever was restored, and also wondering if Tommy will ever get around to doing it. “I bet it was amazing back in its prime.”

“Here,” Saint murmurs from beside me, voice suddenly low near my ear. I glance up at him just as his large palms slide along my waist, gripping my hips and effortlessly lifting me onto the tailgate.

Like I weigh absolutely nothing at all.

“Thank you,” I squeak, suddenly nervous at the contact. His proximity.

I think there’s a part of me that’s still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is even happening. The hooking up, the talking that doesn’t end up in bickering.

Being here with him at all.

“Wasn’t sure if your short little legs could make it up here,” Saint teases with a smart-ass smile.

I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”

The truck takes a sudden dip when Saint’s large frame slides onto the tailgate beside me and reaches for the box, pulling out the pizza burrito.

“Alright. This is about to change your whole fucking life. Get ready.”

I take it from him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes again at the dramatics, something that he has a flair for despite the broody, asshole vibe he exudes.

At least that’s what I think until I take my first bite, the warm, savory marinara sauce flooding my tongue, along with spicy pepperoni and so. Much. Cheese.

“Oh my Gooood,” I groan. My eyes slam shut as I chew slowly, savoring every second of the bite. “This is swooooo gwwoood,” I say around a mouthful, which is hardly ladylike, but truly, I’m having an out-of-body experience. “ Howyyyy. Shit .”

Saint laughs. “I told you. Now, tell me I was right. C’mon.”

My eyes crack open, and I narrow them, shaking my head.

He reaches for the burrito and snatches it from my hand in a single breath, holding it above my head. Damnit, his arms are so freaking long there’s no way I’m getting it.

“Say it.”

I throw daggers at him with my eyes as he brings it to his mouth and takes a huge, ridiculous bite out of it, groaning loudly.

“Ew. Saint, what the hell? God, that’s worse than double-dipping!” I screech, attempting to snatch it back.

There’s a brief pause, and then his laugh spills out, the sound curling around me and causing my lower belly to tighten.

That stupid, delicious sound.

“Pretty sure we’re past that, yeah?” he rasps. “Or did I just dream about you sucking my cum off my fingers?”

I reach out, slapping a hand over his mouth, my face burning with embarrassment. I’m fairly certain I’ll never get used to his filthy mouth… nor the way it makes me throb.

I feel his teeth nip teasingly at my palm, followed by the slow swipe of his tongue, and I drop my hand away, laughing as I wrinkle my nose. “You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

All he does is smirk.

And I use the opportunity to steal my burrito back. “Fine. Maybe… you were right.”

He sucks his teeth. “Damn, I know that had to taste bitter.”

As much as I feel like throttling him the majority of the time, the back-and-forth between us feels different today. Less vitriolic and more playful? I just haven’t quite figured out why yet.

Instead of answering, I take another bite and peer up at the inky, star-scattered sky above us.

I can’t even remember the last time I sat outside and watched the stars. My life has been a constant go, go, go for so long it sometimes feels like I never take a full breath, never stopping to enjoy moments like these.

There’s never been time. Between my parents constantly adding obligation after obligation to my plate, my classes and extracurriculars, serving on the board for the Social Club, volunteering, skating—before it was taken away—there’s never really been a moment to just… be.

“You got quiet,” Saint murmurs beside me, and I look over at him, “What are you thinking about?”

I look back up, my gaze moving over the stars until I find what I think might be the Big Dipper. “Just kind of realizing that it’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

“Eat pizza in the back of a classic truck?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Yes, I only do this like twice a year, max. It’s a tragedy.” When I feel his shoulders shake with a silent chuckle, I add, “I mean, look at the stars, the quiet… all of it, I guess.”

A beat of silence hangs between us. It’s comfortable, easy.

Which surprises me.

“Earlier, what you said about your dad… he the reason you push yourself the way you do when you skate?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard, not at all something I would expect him to be curious about, or honestly even care about, but clearly, this is new, unexplored territory between us.

I swallow, pushing down the sudden bout of emotion lumping at the base of my throat.

“That’s a complicated question, with an…” I trail off, trying to find the right words. “Even more complicated answer.”

His eyes darken as he nods. “I know a thing or two about complicated.”

“No is the simple answer, but also… yes. I think that I probably push myself the way I do because of the level of perfection he expects from me. And lately… I’m realizing how unrealistic and unattainable that standard is.

But that doesn’t make his expectation any less.

” I pause before adding, “Honestly? Being perfect is fucking exhausting.”

This wound is still fresh and raw, now split open and exposed for him to see.

Being vulnerable, no matter how little, is still terrifying.

“And you know what the worst part is?”

His brow lifts. “What?”

“I was complacent in my own suffering. I’ve spent so long being the dutiful, perfect daughter who always does as she’s told that I didn’t even realize how out of control I’ve been of my own life.

I didn’t even realize anything was wrong.

” Emotion pulls my chest tight, a humorless laugh escaping from my parted lips.

Saint’s quiet as he listens to me talk, not pushing or asking questions or making stupid small talk to make me feel better, just… listening. It’s comforting.

“I think my breaking point was when he blindsided me with my ex-boyfriend, Chandler, at a fundraiser. We broke up freshman year because he cheated on me with one of my friends. I walked in on him having sex with her, and he wasn’t even sorry. Was only upset that he got caught.”

“Fucking piece of shit,” he grunts.

I nod. “Yeah, and the most fucked-up part was that my father knew that happened. I told him what Chandler did to me, how he hurt me and disrespected me, and yet he still brought him back around, all but demanding we get back together. Insisting that I ‘forgive’ Chandler’s misstep.

I told him that forgetting to buy me a birthday present was a misstep, not fucking one of my friends. ”

He chuckles, a broad grin overtaking his too-handsome face. “Thatta girl. Should’ve kicked him in the dick.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“It was just eye-opening, painfully so. I don’t care about Chandler in the slightest, and now that I look back, I’m glad that it happened so I didn’t end up with a guy who didn’t value or love me.

But my father is a different story. He’s supposed to love and protect me, but it feels like all he cares about is how I fit into his agenda.

It was like the final nail in the coffin for all of the things I had already been unhappy with.

It just really hurts to realize your parents might not care about your own happiness because they’re too focused on how you can help theirs.

So I guess now I’m just trying to take back my life, but it’s hard, you know? He’s still my dad.”

I can’t believe I just word vomited all my family trauma on him.

But honestly, it feels good to get it off my chest, to stop holding it all inside.

Outside of Maisie… I’ve never told anyone else.

I just never thought that person would be Saint Devereaux.

“That’s the long answer. The short answer is… I guess I’ve just got daddy issues,” I add with a laugh that feels a little scratchy, trying to turn the mood a little less heavy.

I’m sure the very last thing he wants to hear about is the shit with my father when most of the time I try my hardest not to even think about it myself.

That’s the cruel thing about awareness. Once it hits, you can never go back to the way it was before.

There’s only before and after.

Taking another bite of my burrito, I reach past him and set what’s left in the open box. “What about you? Are you close with your parents?”

I feel his body pull taut beside me as he reaches up and drags a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. It’s longer now, floppy and falling in his eyes, so dark that it seems to cast a shadow.

“Complicated question, complicated answer,” he finally murmurs. His voice has gone rough, and I feel the shift in him, the way that he’s tense and on edge, shutting down, reinforcing that wall he’s so expertly constructed.

“You don’t have to tell me, Saint. I know how hard it is to be vulnerable, and I know how much it sucks,” I say softly.

Silence meets what I say, and I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.

Except he breaks the silence with a deep, shaky exhale. “My old man’s a piece of shit. A waste of space that makes my life fucking difficult just by breathing.”

The sharp edge to his voice is mixed with something a lot like… anguish. His brows are cinched tight, jaw tense and working as he grits his teeth together, eyes blazing with a tortured pain.

“Looks like we’ve both got daddy issues, Golden Girl.”

My gaze drops to his hand that rests on the tailgate beside mine, and I brush my pinky against his, holding those dark, intense eyes that are a window into all of the things he tries to bury.

Except I see him more clearly than I ever have before, and it’s both terrifying and overwhelming.

I see the Saint who colored superheroes with a sick little boy in a hospital simply because he asked him to.

I see the Saint who works his ass off every week on the ice just to be the best he can be.

I see the Saint who gives his rare, real laugh when he’s ribbing the old mechanic he clearly loves and respects.

I see the version of him that he hides from the world, and I want to reach out and hold on to it.

Savor it.

Lifting my hand, I gently place it over his, and we stay that way, silence stretching between us, neither of us speaking or even moving.

Just… existing in the quiet.

Breathing beneath a starlit sky on the back of an old, rusted truck in an auto shop parking lot.

Until he turns his hand over and threads his fingers tightly through mine, holding on like he’s afraid to let go.