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

by Ruby Vincent

  “Thirty thousand,” she cried.

  “Thirty-five.”

  She flushed an alarming shade of purple. “Forty,” she forced through gritted teeth.

  Montecito stood on the platform. Arms folded and lips teased with amusement.

  I jumped to my feet. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  Black banged the gavel. “Sold! Bidder eighty-six.”

  My knees gave out, dropping me hard on my seat as black velvet concealed that devilish beauty.

  I won. My mind hardly made sense of the sentence. Montecito is mine. After all this time, tonight he goes home with me.

  The rest of the auction was a blur. My heart fluttered out of control. I wiped my damp palms a dozen times and finally sat on them. The parade of skin and sex had no effect on me. I got what I came here for, and knowing he was on the other side of the door waiting for me was unraveling the threads holding me together one by one.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Black. “This concludes the auction.”

  I bolted out of my seat, brushing past the woman who tried to outbid me and collecting a glare for my trouble.

  The door was opened by the man who checked me in earlier. And waiting in that darkened hallway to a soundtrack of gasps and slapping skin was him.

  Montecito glanced down as I approached. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you want to skip dinner and get straight to dessert.”

  A flush went up my neck.

  My cock strained against my lining—on display for all to see. I usually had more control over myself than this. But then again, no man had ever captivated me to the point I was driven to tap all my resources to have him.

  “Is it a problem that I’m...?”

  “A guy?” Montecito brushed my hair from my eyes. Lingering, he skated over my temple and traced my lips with his thumb.

  His mouth was on mine in a breath. Scraping my bottom lip between his teeth, he drew a groan and captured it in his kiss. A slow, gentle creation that blew apart the last of my self-control.

  I almost came on the spot.

  “Why would it be?” he whispered.

  “What’s your real name?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be.” He dropped his hand. “My place is close by. Nothing against the club, but their rooms lack privacy, space, and toys. I gotta make sure you get your fifty thousand dollars’ worth.” He cuffed my chin reminiscent of the first night we met. “Meet me outside? In the alley?”

  “Okay.”

  He disappeared into the auction room. After handing over my card to the ever-watchful guard, I hurried upstairs—mind split between Montecito below and him in his apartment spread on his sheets among the toys. Rushing upstairs would get me to the latter faster.

  A whipping wind smacked me as I stepped into the alley, playing with my collar. I turned it up to the cold and crossed to the opposite wall.

  Overhead, a lightbulb flickered its last breath. The alley wasn’t dirty per se. The only trash littering the concrete were cigarette butts, and the graffiti covering the walls bordered on artful. A dumpster backed onto the fence at one end. At the top of the street, cars streaked by, carrying the mindless inhabitants of Cinco City to their dull, pathetic lives. A life I once had until I embraced the true rule of survival.

  If you want something, take it.

  Montecito was only the beginning, and this would be far from our last night. I’d get him out of the life. Set him up in the best apartment in the city and make him mine in every way. After that, I’d buy my partner out of the business. That stupid fool has held me back for long enough. Then—

  The door opened, spilling music into the alleyway. A smile broke out as I recognized my new friend who saved me from the fight.

  “Hey,” I called.

  “Hey.” He placed a cigarette between a cut, weeping lip. His left eye was already beginning to swell. “What are you doing out here?” He closed the distance as he dug in his pockets for a lighter.

  “Waiting for someone.” I jerked my chin at his bruises. “So, I was right about you being a fighter.”

  “Retired until tonight,” he said. “A friend of mine suggested I put my skills to use. Make myself some money.”

  “Did you?”

  His grin sought me through the dark. “Cleaned up.”

  “I didn’t catch it earlier,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this.” He drew out his searching hand and the flickering light glinted off the metal.

  I had enough time to register it wasn’t a lighter before he grasped my shoulder, shoving me against the brick as he plunged the knife in my gut.

  I gasped, eyes widening as emotion leaked from his. “N-no. Plea—”

  He stabbed once, twice, and three times. Shredding my insides as pain ripped apart my soul. I tried to speak and choked. Warm, gushing blood that should have been my pleas splattered on his cheek.

  I sank onto his shoulder. Strength leeching out and loosening the grip on my life. My friend’s grip was almost gentle as he brought me to the ground. His jacket he removed, placing it under my head.

  “You know why.” Light spilled over him, mimicking a halo. My vision was going quickly. I couldn’t feel my legs to put them under me and run. It was no wonder I sought an angel. “Take comfort that your death will serve a purpose.”

  My lips parted and one final word rose to the surface.

  “Kieran.”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  The warm hand left my forehead. The last thing I heard as my lids fluttered shut on eyes that stopped seeing, was his soft footfalls fading down the alley.

  Chapter Two

  Four Years Later

  “You’re not seriously going to wear that, are you?”

  I looked down at my purple one-shoulder top and jeans. “What’s wrong with it? You ordered me to show skin and I am.”

  Gianna threw herself on my bed. “You gave me one shoulder. You’re going to have to do better than that. I want both shoulders. Cleavage. Thighs. And a little bit of ass if you’re feeling generous.”

  “I’m not,” I deadpanned.

  She laughed. “Then just the shoulder, boobs, and thighs, please.”

  Rolling my eyes, I stuck my head back in my closet, searching for my rare and well-hidden sexy clothes.

  It was amazing the dresses could hide. My closet was so small, I could barely shove myself inside. The same could be said for my room in general.

  Five strides brought you from one end of the room to the other. I squeezed in a twin bed. A dresser with a television on top, and all the paintings and photographs I could fit on the walls. Somehow all of it just made the space smaller.

  “What kind of job is this?”

  “I told you, Addy. We’re servers.” Gianna turned the television on low. “We carry a tray of canapés around in a tight dress and walk away with five hundreds at the end of the night. I couldn’t think of an easier way to make money than if I got paid to flick my bean.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Why do you say these things to me? You know I’m an innocent, delicate flower.”

  Her guffaw was followed by a soft missile striking my back. “You’re innocent like I’m a virgin.”

  “Seriously,” I said, abandoning my clothes. I picked my pillow off the floor and threw it, and myself, down next to her. “If we’re just passing out the cheese and crackers, why are boobs, thighs, and skin required?”

  “Kayla said we have to dress up. That’s all I know.” She nudged my shoulder. “I know you need the money. Salvatore’s been cutting shifts on you, or we wouldn’t be lying here chatting.”

  I groaned. “Ryan had me covering for him so often, I was racking up too much overtime pay. Salvatore put a quick stop to that. Striking off two of my regular shifts. I’m barely part-time now.”

  “Cheap ass,” she spat. “Why haven’t you quit that job? With your skills, you could work for any resta
urant in the city.”

  “Yes, but those restaurants won’t be two blocks from the home or have Ryan Sinclair in the kitchen. The man’s earned three Michelin stars,” I said. “Learning to cook from him is like being taught to swim by Michael Phelps. Did I tell you he invented a new way of making aspic? What you do is—”

  Gianna’s head fell back. A loud snore ripped from her body.

  “Jerk.” It was my turn to smash her with a pillow. “Get out.”

  “Nope,” she said, sienna eyes dancing. “Not until you slut up, my friend.”

  Gianna was already dressed in a sleeveless sequin romper that looked amazing on her. Her mane of wavy locks was piled on top of her head in an effortless bun, and just a swipe of glittery lip gloss adorned her full lips. Gianna Cross was the kind of girl that turned every outfit into a fashion statement. Even ripped sweats and holey t-shirts with Cheeto stains.

  I, on the other hand, managed to look like a little kid playing dress-up every time I attempted an outfit fancier than jeans and a plain blouse. Twenty-three years old and I hadn’t yet shed that fresh bloom of youth for the mature lines and full figure age promised me.

  “I do need the money,” I admitted. “Dad cut open his mattress to hide his poker winnings inside. The director says I have to pay for a new one.”

  “Daddy Red is incorrigible.” You know you’ve been friends for a long time when your bestie calls your father Dad too. “How did he get something sharp?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He made a shiv out of a toothbrush.”

  “I’ve got nothing for that.”

  I heaved myself off the bed, making another attempt to find an outfit Gianna approved of. My dad and his incorrigibleness aside, I hadn’t let on just how much I needed this money. But seeing how Gianna and I had been best friends since we were thirteen. We went to middle school, high school, and Cinco University together. She lived with me for a year when we were fifteen, and I’ve been telling her everything since then, she likely knew how close I was dancing to disaster.

  Overtime was barely covering my share of the rent, utilities, and bills from the nursing home. Part-time had me straight-up looking at eviction. And I had three other roommates who would be happy to help pack my bags with how often I asked them to turn their music down, or take the fun to their friends’ places, so I could get some sleep before work. They were twenty-three and looking to party. I was twenty-three and looking for a nap.

  I pulled a cute sweater dress off the hanger. It was snow white and lovingly fuzzy. The V-neck offered a little collarbone action and the hem didn’t make it past mid-thigh. This would have to do.

  “G, toss me the black boots under the bed.”

  “Addy, look at this.” Something in her voice stopped me with my shirt half over my head. “They struck again.”

  “The Merchants?” Yanking my clothes down, I tripped rushing to see.

  “They hit a jewelry store a few days ago.”

  Sure enough, “Jewelry Story Robbery” scrolled along the bottom of the news report in big, bold letters. A grainy video accompanied it. Huddled figures dotted the floor, cowering in the face of masked men brandishing shotguns. That in and of itself did not separate them from run-of-the-mill robbers. I gave that honor to the “M” stamped on the side of each mask.

  “How much did they get away with?” I asked.

  “Half a mill worth of gems.”

  I whistled. “I swear these guys didn’t exist a year ago and now they’re everywhere.”

  “Like Cinco City doesn’t have enough problems,” she mumbled.

  Cinco City.

  I loved this place. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, but remove the “-co” from the name, and you knew what our little slice of earth truly was. Forget Las Vegas.

  Cinco was so named for a quirk we mirrored from New York City. Five distinct boroughs that were like their own mini-cities. Hundreds of cultures. Thousands of people. A multitude of foods, museums, theaters, and clubs.

  A beautiful façade concealing the highest number of fatal overdoses in the nation. Rampant illegal gambling. Underground fight rings. Corruption that made House of Cards look like child’s play.

  We had enough gangs and crime families running through the neighborhoods. Who asked for another one?

  “The masked part I get,” I said. “But why do they call themselves the Merchants?”

  “I heard they trade or sell everything they steal. Not exactly Robin Hoods, but a few of the paintings they knocked off from the Aurora Gallery ended up in a private home. They found out when they arrested the guy for tax evasion. They get their hands on the merchandise and peddle it to whoever is buying. Merchants.”

  I nodded. “You get into that kind of business, the masks are necessary.”

  “No one knows who runs their crew. Or even how many there are.” She gestured at the screen. “This store was in Harlow. Whoever these guys are, they have a death wish. Harlow is the Kings’ territory.”

  “If the Kings want to kill them, they’ll have to find them first. The Merchants aren’t making that easy.” I turned off the television. “Enough about them. Where is this party?”

  “Leighbridge. East side.”

  I whistled. “Are we talking penthouse?”

  “You know we are.”

  “Are we talking rich, hairy creep who’s used money to get what they want for so long, they can just demand a bunch of scantily clad women traipse through their living room for a couple of hundreds?”

  “The rich, hairy creep in question is Raiden Spencer.”

  “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  I ignored her knowing look on the way to the bathroom.

  Raiden Spencer was rich, and naturally he was used to using his millions to get what he wanted. But the young, full-bearded former model was no hairier than the average guy. In every other respect—including his extensive catalog of tight, white briefs shots—he was far from average. The best part, the only woman he was creeping on these days was the famously infamous Hazel O’Hare. Daughter of Leonidas O’Hare. The man who owned half the city.

  Her wild child days of table-dancing, boob slips, coke nose rings, and the boot from every prestigious boarding school in North America was well-documented in the media. The story they were running these days was of Hazel and Raiden’s impending wedding, and their attempts to woo Ryan Sinclair into catering their event.

  If Ryan took the job, I could weasel my way onto his staff telling stories of the night I wowed the future Mr. and Mrs. Spencer with my ability to smile and carry a tray at the same time.

  “You should’ve led with that,” I called to Gianna.

  “You should’ve known I had your back.”

  Fair point.

  I rinsed off in my minuscule box shower, pasted on a little eye shadow and amber lipstick, and then I blew the female-version of my father a kiss in the mirror. Despite the man’s many jokes that he should’ve gotten a paternity test, I resembled him down to the plump lips, cleft chin, and desert-sand eyes. My mother’s only contribution was to burnish strands of red in my brown locks, round my nose, and leech enough melanin from my skin that people have been asking “What are you?” my whole life.

  Dear old Mom.

  But let’s not ruin a perfectly good mood by thinking of her.

  I left the bathroom, wiggled into my fluffy white sweater dress, and tugged on my boots. Gianna fussed with my hair while I dug into my jewelry box for earrings.

  “Are we just handing out drinks and mini quiches?” I asked. “Any chance I can get in the kitchen and put my stamp on those trays?”

  She chuckled. “That’s another reason why your roommates want rid of you. You’re on this one-track mission to feed everyone around you until they burst out of their clothes.”

  “A healthy goal for a chef.”

  “I’m sure they’ve got the menu and caterer sewn up by now, Addy.”

  “Might try anyway.”

  Gianna f
inished wrangling my hair into two messy buns. I reached for my purse on the nightstand and slipped my pepper spray from the top drawer inside.

  My roommates were spread out on the mismatched threadbare couches passing a bowl of popcorn back and forth. They forgot about their movie when we stepped out.

  “Are you going out, Addy?”

  Corinne’s surprise was deserved. I rarely walked past them out the door in anything but my work clothes.

  “Yes. We’re going to a party in Leighbridge.”

  Corinne snapped her fingers over her shoulder, signaling for Alisha to get on her phone. “Are you staying out all night?”

  I quirked a brow. “Do you want me to?”

  She shrugged delicately. “We just want you to have fun. You’re always working. You’ve got like one friend.”

  I noted she didn’t include herself, or Alisha and Sage in my circle of friends.

  “Stay out all night. Meet someone. Let them fuck the stress out of you. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks, roomie,” I said with an eyeroll. “Is Alisha calling up everyone so that you three can do the same?”

  “Hmm.” She was barely listening. Her phone was out and fingers tapping away too. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Don’t let anyone in my room, and you can eat the last of my fried apple pies.”

  “Oooh. Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”

  I’m pretty sure she only heard the last half of that sentence, but Gianna was already dragging me out.

  “You need to move out of this dump,” Gianna said. “They’re the main reason you’ve got stress.”

  “This dump charges me next to nothing in rent, and it’s right on my bus line to work and the home.”

  I had no issues calling my home a dump. Between the worn, stained hallway carpets, cracks in the ceiling, peeling brown wallpaper, and the clinging odor permeating the entire building—calling it a dump was being kind.

  “I keep telling you to move in with me.”

  “Can’t.” Our heels stomped down the wooden staircase. “You’ve got a Raul problem.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Isn’t there some kind of rule that the best friend has to pretend to like the boyfriend? Being supportive and all that.”