Bane (Sinners of Saint)

by L.J. Shen

  My first thought seeing her was that she was nowhere near Quasimodo-ugly. She was beautiful, and that was the understatement of the fucking century.

  The second thought was that I’d already seen her. I didn’t need her to gather those inky strands of hair up to see the Pushkin tattoo. A girl like that, you don’t forget. It was years ago, on the beach, but I remember how carnal the need to conquer her had been. How pissed I’d been when I’d seen her pasty-ass teenage boyfriend fondling her as soon as she’d collapsed on the sand in her little red bikini next to him. Luckily, I’d held myself back from stealing her out from under his nose.

  Now that she was collateral, there was no way I’d ever touch her with a ten-foot pole.

  Jesse was wearing a pair of shapeless jeans in an attempt to hide her banging long legs, a tangerine shirt—long, baggy, and depressingly modest—and an open black hoodie over top. She had a ball cap on—Raiders, my kind of chick—and the shades she clutched in her fist were the size of her entire face. She clearly wanted to fly off the radar as much as possible. Unfortunately for her, for six mill, I was not only going to notice her existence, but celebrate and build a shrine to it. You know, so to speak.

  She disappeared inside the building, her head ducked down, the no-eye-contact policy in full effect. She had an hour at the therapist’s. That was plenty of time for me to saunter over, unscrew the core from the valve stem of her back tire, and watch as it slowly hissed out air. After I did that, I walked two blocks down to get my vehicle— a billion-year-old red Ford truck I’d rarely used—and parked it directly behind her Range Rover.

  As expected, Jesse reemerged from the building an hour later, powerwalking to her Range Rover. A perceptive little thing, she noticed the flat tire before she climbed into the car. She squatted, sighed, and then shook her head. I pushed my driver’s door open, hopping to the ground a few good feet from her. Darren mentioned she wasn’t hot on men getting near her. No problemo.

  “Everything good?” I asked. She snapped her head up and scowled, like my talking to her broke approximately seven hundred social rules. She didn’t answer, bringing her small hand to the tire and feeling for the valve stem frantically. She knew what she was looking for, and that surprised me. Not that it mattered. To change a tire, Jesse needed someone to grab her spare one, and not to be a sexist pig, but that shit weighed a ton. She was tiny. It was simple physics.

  Such a lucky coincidence that I was there, right?

  “Your tire is flat,” I stated the fucking obvious, taking a tentative step toward her. She nearly jumped out of her skin treading backward. The look in her eyes was of pure horror. It was my educated guess that the beard, tats, and my six-two frame didn’t help matters much.

  “Don’t,” she barked, her voice shaking.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Touch me.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” I said. And man, was that the truth. She could have paid me 5,999,999 dollars and I still wouldn’t give her a peck on the cheek. I stepped back, raising my palms in surrender.

  “Let’s try again. Can I help you change that tire? I have a jack in my truck.” I jerked my thumb behind my shoulder. “You can stand a good five feet from me. I promise not to touch you. Hell, I promise not to look at you, either. I hate orange.” I cocked my head to her shirt. Another truth. The color reminded me of that fucker, Hale, and his auburn hair.

  She stared at me long and hard, like my real intentions were going to seep from my eyes on my next blink. I gawked right back, using every ounce of my self-control not to turn around and walk away. I got it, she had her reasons, but she was goddamn strange. I didn’t do difficult, or different, or weird. I kept things simple on that front. Don’t get me wrong—she was beautiful, but she looked like a dazzling tragedy, specially designed to fuck you up.

  “My insurance covers it,” she stumbled over her own words. Like she wasn’t used to talking to strangers. I popped my cinnamon gum loudly.

  “They’re also going to take an hour. I can get you going in fifteen minutes, and spare you the paperwork and headache.”

  “I’m fine with paperwork and headaches. Leave.”

  “Fair enough. Call your insurance company.” I folded my arms over my chest.

  She could search for their number online, but it would probably take her twenty minutes. There was close to zero reception in that part of downtown Todos Santos. It was located in a valley so low, we were practically neighbors with hell. She tried searching for the number, squinting at her cell phone, huffing at the scrutiny she was under. Then she stumped her foot.

  “What’s in it for you?” Jesse tilted her chin toward me, giving up on her spotty internet. Talk about complete opposite from her stepfather. While they were both anxious, he was passive and weak. She was a spitfire, ready to claw your eyes out if you got anywhere near her.

  “A cup of coffee. Black. None of that soy shit,” I said, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows and turning my back to her to grab the toolbox from my truck. I swaggered back to find her rooted to the ground, her expression caked with distrust. I dumped the toolbox on the sidewalk and popped her trunk open, feeling her eyes on my face like the barrel of a gun.

  She didn’t want to talk to me.

  But she didn’t want to spend the afternoon baking under the SoCal sun and waiting for the tow company to arrive even more.

  “Feel free to get me that coffee any minute now.” I didn’t even spare her a look, pretending to feel the tire to see what went wrong. Did I mention I didn’t like coffee? Because that shit was poison, and I was a semi-pro surfer with very clean-eating habits. She shifted, looking around, like I was going to tackle her into an alleyway.

  “How do you take your coffee again?” With a shot of vodka. And no coffee.

  “Surprise me.”

  “Surprise you?”

  “Yeah. It’s when you do something shocking and spontaneous. Like, you know, smile.”

  “Who are you to judge me?”

  “I’m your new best friend. Now, go.”

  She shook her head gravely and started toward the Starbucks across the street. Downtown Todos Santos was dead for a Thursday evening. Another blessing for yours truly. I didn’t need people recognizing either of us. Jesse was as uptight as a tampon as it was. I did my thing, pushing to the back of my mind the fact that she was like a siren calling to my desires.

  She is also a rape victim.

  She is also a lucrative business deal.

  Oh, and she is also a fucking teenager, you twenty-five-year-old perv.

  Jesse came back with a steaming cup of coffee and held it out to me like it was a dead body.

  “Leave it on the hood.”

  My greasy hands were busy plucking the scissor jack and placing it under the frame rail. Being an only child to a single mom, I’d learned how to do everything short of performing open-heart surgery by myself. I could change all of Jesse’s tires and make okroshka soup from scratch while she filed her fucking nails. Right now, I needed her to see that she could trust me. She was still staring at me, bewildered, like she, herself, had no idea why she was letting me help her.

  Then, as if to confirm my suspicion, she blurted, “Why are you helping me, again?”

  “I wanted coffee.”

  “You can afford coffee.”

  “How do you know that? Do you have laser vision that goes straight through my pocket and into my wallet?” I grunted while lifting her spare tire. Couldn’t she have a little fuck-me-missionary-style Mini Cooper like all the other rich chicks in town?

  “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  I hope not, because it’s either from being a beach bum or the unofficial town whore.

  I looked up at her, wiping my forehead and smearing grease over it in the process. “Do you?”

  “You’re Roman Protsenko.” She rubbed her worried forehead, and there it was—the look of sheer fear and disgust.

  My heart beat faster, even though it shouldn’t hav
e. I reminded myself that I didn’t care…only I did, because I’d already spent some of Darren’s money. “So you do know who I am. What do you make of that?”

  “I make nothing of that. It doesn’t matter if you’re the pope or Justin Timberlake. I don’t date.”

  “Me neither, so stop acting like I’m hitting on you,” I said honestly. Her spine relaxed a little, and she gave me a curt nod. I had a feeling that was her version of a smile, and I didn’t hate it. California girls smiled like the whole world was watching. Jesse’s movements were private, quiet.

  “And what’s your name?” I asked, because I wasn’t really supposed to know.

  “No one. Are you done?” She nodded toward her tire.

  “Almost, No One.”

  I was, in fact, nearly done. But I wanted to prolong her departure, because she was about as compliant as a toaster. I wasn’t sure when the next time I’d see her would be. I also knew that, in some fucked-up, fate-ish way, I wanted to help her. I had a dog in this fight. I knew a thing or two about rape. Hell, maybe that’s why I was such a whore. It didn’t feel right to say no when so many women hadn’t had the choice. Then again, I couldn’t leave Jesse hanging there for hours.

  “All yours, Snowflake.” I stood up, wiping the grease on my cargo pants. She nodded, still several feet away from me, pointing at the coffee sitting on her hood, so she didn’t have to come closer.

  “Snowflake?”

  “Your name can’t be No One, so I choose Snowflake.”

  “Is that some political commentary on me?” She narrowed her eyes.

  I tried not to roll mine. “No political assumptions here. You just look like a snowflake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re pasty as fuck.”

  Because I found you in the dirt that’s called life, and you stood out. Like an opportunity I cannot miss.

  Her gaze flicked to my face for the first time. Her eyes were terrifyingly expressive. The color of the ocean. I realized how corny that sounded, but shit, it didn’t make it any less true. “I…well, thanks, I guess.”

  “Wait,” I said, dumping the toolbox to the ground with a thud. “Now I owe you a coffee.”

  She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, one that was green and had a hat in the shape of a dick. “That’s not how things work.” She frowned, incredulous.

  “Who are you to say how things work?” I parked my hip over her vehicle, squinting under the sun.

  “Who are you to say how things work?” She widened her eyes, her anger outweighing her distress.

  “I own a coffee shop. I know more about coffee etiquette than you, and I owe you a coffee. Let’s have it tomorrow.”

  She grabbed the untouched coffee from her hood, walked over to the nearest trash bin, and threw it with purpose. Then she sauntered to her SUV and yanked the driver’s door open. “There. Now you don’t owe me anything.”

  “You still paid for it,” I said, not entirely sure I wasn’t fucking it up, but not having much choice, either. She was a hard nut to crack. I was so used to charming my way into women’s panties, I forgot how to worm my way into their hearts. Normally, it was embarrassingly easy.

  I flexed my tatted arms, picking up my surfboard.

  Gathered my wild, blond hair into a bun.

  Curled my fingers and stretched on a yawn, displaying my six-pack.

  Stick a fork in them. Boom. They were fucking done.

  With her, I was off my game.

  She slid into her seat and reached to slam the door in my face. I had to do something, anything, because I was feeling less and less in control of the situation, and I hated it. Jesse Carter wasn’t responding well to my advances, and wasn’t that an ice cold bucket of shit right into my face? I slid my foot between her door and her car.

  “Wait.”

  Note to self: never put your limbs anywhere near Jesse Carter when there’s a door in the vicinity. She slammed the door on my foot. Fuck.

  I pulled my leg away at the same time she yelped in disbelief. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. Instead of jumping up and down and praying to hell she hadn’t broken any bones, I simply flashed her my cocky grin.

  “I didn’t mean to slam it that hard.” She winced, and I think she meant it. The contrast between her black hair and fair skin was shocking. She looked like a painting. Not a weird-ass, provocative painting, like a Peter Paul Rubens. Rather, like a Disney princess. One that was drawn by a horny sixteen-year-old who gave her a pair of fantastic tits.

  “Yeah? Make it up to me. Coffee. Tomorrow. Call it a job interview. I need a new barista, Snowflake,” I hissed out the words, knowing they were desperate and not giving much shit.

  “I’m not looking for a job.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “It’s not really any of your business.”

  “Good point. Let’s establish a friendship first. I’ll lure you into the position later. For now—coffee.”

  “No.”

  “What would it take for you to say yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. There’s always something.”

  “Nope. Nothing would make me have coffee with you, Bane.”

  “Think harder. You seem like a bright girl. I’m sure we can come up with an idea.”

  She sighed, staring up at the sky like the answer was there in skywriting. “Maybe if you saved my life, and I owed you in some fundamental way. Otherwise, I don’t date.”

  “You’re not listening. I want you to work for me. And to be your friend.”

  “I’ll never work for you. And why would you want to be my friend?”

  Because your daddy will pay me six million bucks for the pleasure.

  “Because you seem like a cool chick. Because you’re funny. And quick-witted. And not the worst to look at, despite that shirt. But I don’t date. And I’m not interested in sleeping with you, either.”

  Told you I was a goddamn liar.

  “Are you gay?” Her eyes lit up. I might as well have pretended to be gay. I let plenty of guys suck my cock when I was younger, to see if I liked it. Then again, there was no point in lying to her more than absolutely necessary. She looked almost hopeful, chewing on a lock of her hair nervously. Like what was standing in our way of friendship was my lack of love for dick.

  “No. But my job doesn’t allow for a girlfriend. It’s a long story.” I wiped my forehead again, knowing I was sweaty and greasy and ruggedly delicious to every single woman in the universe who wasn’t Jesse Carter.

  “So you just want to be friends?” she asked. She was sitting in her car, and I was trying hard not to look down at my foot to see if it had fallen off, and it was goddamn sweltering. I didn’t want to be her friend at that moment. I wanted to shove my foot into a bucket of ice and curse her into next week.

  “And a barista,” I added. “Two birds, one stone.”

  Jesse mulled the idea for a few seconds, worrying her lip, before saying, “No.”

  Then she threw her SUV into drive and bolted down the road, toward Main Street, probably up to El Dorado. I watched the back of her Rover in the same way I’d watched her ass all those years ago, with a mixture of longing, annoyance, and awe.

  She really did remind me of the snow.

  Just like it, she was going to melt on my tongue.

  ALWAYS PART WAYS WITH PEOPLE you love like you’ll never see them again.

  That’s the advice my dad had given me when I was nine, and I’d mulled it over in my head since. I didn’t know why his words made me think of Bane. Maybe because I remembered the last words I told my father so vividly before his death.

  I never want to see you, ever again.

  We had just found out about his affair, Pam and I. Back then, she used to let me call her Mom. His betrayal cut through every layer of confidence and happiness I’d been wrapped in throughout my life. I halfway blamed him for everything else that happened afterwards. Even Emery. After all, if it weren’t for his affair, Pam w
ouldn’t have tried to reinvent herself and found Darren. I would still call her Mom. I wouldn’t live in Todos Santos, but in Anaheim. I wouldn’t have a Range Rover, but at least I’d be happy.

  I wouldn’t have had to befriend Mrs. Belfort.

  I wouldn’t have to hide away in El Dorado.

  I would be me. Poor and content and myself.

  Stop whining, Jesse. Self-loathing isn’t so bad when you settle into it.

  “Hi, Imane! Is this a good time?” I dumped my backpack in Mrs. Belfort’s foyer.

  “In the dining room.” Imane, her housekeeper, bowed her head, clearing the way for me.

  I walked over to the royal blue dining room, complete with high golden arches, red curtains, and a bronze chandelier. A French provincial dining set that could fit no less than thirty diners graced the center of the room. I saw Mrs. Belfort sitting at the end of the table, all by herself, clad in an emerald satin dress with a gold neckline, bright red lipstick, and a hairdo from the movies. She stared at the empty chair across from her, all the way on the other side of the table, willing it to fill itself with her late husband, Fred. My heart shriveled inside its bony cage, every beat burning against my ribs.

  “Mrs. B?” I whispered, not too loud to startle her.

  She ignored me. “Fred, do try the oysters. They’re marvelous.”

  Fred didn’t respond, because he wasn’t there. For the sake of argument, the oysters weren’t there, either. Mrs. Belfort had had lunch hours ago, I’m sure. Probably in the form of a soup or casserole her cook, Ula, made for her.

  Your one and only friend is drifting, a little voice inside my head tsked. I’d like to believe that voice was the old Jesse. That she still lived somewhere inside me, and was a constant companion. Which, of course, was monumentally pathetic.

  Roman Protsenko slipped into my mind again.