Damaged and the Saint

by Bijou Hunter

  On one balcony below mine stood Dutch. The biker didn’t understand why he was in Ellsberg. Most of the guys figured they were special to be chosen for the great Paintball Battles. Instead, they were being tested as much as Cooper Johansson. Maybe Dutch understood this fact because he gave me a knowing nod when our gazes met in the warm evening.

  Once he disappeared back inside, I sat on the balcony with my feet up. I wanted to think about Harlow. No getting round the fact that she tempted me. Tomorrow, I planned to find out if my temptation was misguided. My hope was she kept me amused during my time in this small college town.

  Leaving the balcony, I headed down to the gym where I worked out until barely able to stand. My body exhausted, yet my mind raced with the logic I refused earlier. Why did I offer to train a damaged young woman? I hadn’t been myself since returning to the job a year ago. I’d really believed I was ready to retire from killing. I was wrong. The nightmares became unbearable and I stopped eating. Finally, I accepted I wasn’t ready to play Average Joe. Maybe I’d never be capable, but I still dreamed of giving up this life of death and lies.

  A shower and sandwich later, I rested on the couch and watched a horror movie on regular cable. In my mind, I relished the cinematic suffering rather than the genuine pain awaiting me in my dreams. Years ago, a shrink I wasted a single session on claimed I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Having someone point out the obvious wasn’t worth my time or money.

  Harlow likely suffered from PTSD too and dealt with her share of nightmares. After our encounter earlier in the day, she knew once again how the world was dangerous in a way she wasn’t capable of defeating.

  Dozing off into what proved to be brutal dreams, I knew Harlow needed my help. All her rage made her sloppy. Stupid even. With my training, she had a chance to survive not only a dangerous world, but her own demons. If she distracted me from my demons, we’d both come out winners.

  Chapter Seven ~ Harlow

  Up by five, I stood in the family room and waited for Saint. Dad sat on the couch, silently giving me pep talks. Don’t let him mistreat you. No matter who he is, you can say no. Don’t let him bully you. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Be careful. Come back to me safe.

  My eleven-year-old brother Jace wandered into the room, half-asleep on a pee break, and hugged me.

  “I’ll mourn you,” he said, eliciting a frown from our dad.

  “You’re in charge of my eulogy. Be sure to cry a lot and do the crying snort thing too. Really make a show of it.”

  Staring up at me through thick black hair, he smirked. “I’m too old to cry, but I promise to snort.”

  He shuffled out of the room, leaving me alone with Dad.

  “If you need help, call,” Dad said, running a hand through his still thick red hair.

  “He won’t hurt me.”

  “No one knows anything about him. He might be crazy.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Dad grunted before focusing on the morning news. Ignoring him because he was making me tense, I planned to play cool when Saint arrived. Instead of behaving like a badass though, I nearly jumped up and down when his SUV pulled up in front of our house.

  Dad tugged me into a hug. “Don’t die.”

  “Subtle.”

  “The subtle stuff wasn’t working.”

  Hugging him back, I smiled. “I better go before he honks and wakes up the neighborhood.”

  Once Dad released me from the bear hug, I grabbed my bag and hurried outside. Saint wasn’t sitting with his hand hovering over the horn like I expected. I opened the door to find him with his head leaning back on the headrest.

  His exhausted expression startled me. I’d pictured him as a machine rather than a man needing a solid night’s sleep to function.

  “You look tired,” I said dumbly while climbing into the SUV.

  “I am. You look wired.”

  “I'm excited to learn something.”

  Saint frowned at me. “I need coffee before I can tolerate such peppiness.”

  Once he heard the click of my seatbelt, Saint hit the gas and headed for a local coffee house.

  “Starbucks would be faster.”

  “College kids live there. No way am I awake enough to deal with those punks.”

  “Did you go to college?” I asked.

  Saint gave me a grumpy side glance. “What do you think?”

  “I think you did,” I said, messing with him. “I think you were on the rugby team and in a frat. Bet you had a nickname like The Budmeister.”

  Grinning now, Saint nodded. “It’s eerie how well you read me.”

  I shared his smile, feeling amazing to have teased Saint and survived. Maybe he didn’t seem so scary when he was tired or maybe I’d built him up too much in my head. Either way, he felt warmer now, approachable even. Okay, not approachable, but I could imagine patting him on the back without him snapping me in half.

  When we arrived at the coffee shop, Saint held the door open for me. My father would definitely approve of his good manners.

  “I need caffeine and sugar,” Saint mumbled, ordering a giant coffee and two enormous cinnamon buns.

  Staring at the food, I said, “I think those are supposed to be shared.”

  “If you want something, I’ll pay for it, but I’m not sharing my food.”

  I laughed. “You growled like a bear when you said that.”

  “I’m an only child. I never share. If you accept this fact now, we’ll avoid me stabbing you in the hand with a fork in the future.”

  “I don’t think I should eat junk before working out.”

  “Carbs are good,” he grunted, buying three.

  We sat at a table away from the locals. No one gave Saint much attention which surprised me. The guy was big, exotic, and sexy as hell, yet people barely gave him a glance.

  Saint held himself differently now. At Whiskey Kirk’s, he stood taller with his shoulders flexed out. He took up more space, demanding to be noticed in a room full of large, intimidating men. In the coffee shop, Saint was like any other guy. The change was unsettling.

  When he yawned for the third time, I asked, “Late night?”

  “Bad dreams. I’m sure you know about that.”

  Hating the haunted look in his dark eyes, I lowered my gaze. “Yeah, everyone has bad dreams.”

  Saint sighed painfully. “The past refuses to be forgotten. The more you try, the more it claws to the surface.”

  “I guess.”

  “You can only face the past and stare it in the eye. Take away its power by refusing to blink.”

  “Does that really work?” I asked, hating to see him look so worn down.

  Saint downed the giant sized coffee then gave me a wink. “Most days.”

  “What do you do for the days it doesn’t work?”

  Finishing his second cinnamon roll, he wiped his mouth then stood up. “Distract myself with training. When that doesn’t work, I lie to myself. Much like you probably do in your therapy sessions.”

  “What makes you think I go to therapy?” I asked, shoving my uneaten roll in my bag for Jace to eat later.

  Saint almost laughed at my question, yet controlled himself. “Sorry, but you have therapy kid written all over you.”

  “I’m not a kid,” I grumbled, following him out of the shop.

  “True, but you’re less tempting when I think of you as a child.”

  Pausing at the passenger door, I frowned as he climbed into the SUV. Saint ignored my expression and started the car. Before he drove off without me, I climbed into the SUV and dared to ask my question.

  “Tempting how?”

  Saint gave me a little grin. “Are you so vain that you need me to spell it out?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Shaking his head, he made a U-turn and passed Judd and Vaughn on their Harleys. “I don’t want you thinking about how pretty you are. Better for you to focus on learning everything you can from me while I’m in town.”

&n
bsp; “What will I learn? I mean, I’m not your size and I can’t do what you do.”

  “Typical thinking. There’s more to being a badass than size. Most of it is mental. You fight at the Thunderdome, right? You ever beat a woman bigger than you?”

  When I nodded, Saint continued, “Size is the one thing you can’t fix. You’re a woman. Not a petite woman, but you won’t intimidate anyone unless you go buff like those girls in the muscle mags. Assuming you don’t want to go that route, your only real way to fight off a guy my size is with a weapon. Knife, stun gun, pistol. Guns are the best gender equalizers. My mom carries a .45 in her flowered purse, next to her makeup and perfume.”

  Smiling slightly at the mention of his mother, I asked, “If your advice is for me to get a gun, why do I need training?”

  Saint parked the SUV on the side of the road where my Harley sat the day before. He turned off the engine and climbed out, forcing me again to keep up.

  “Your weakness is mental,” he said, opening the trunk and retrieving a backpack he strapped on. “If you had a gun yesterday, would I be dead now simply because you got spooked?”

  I stopped in my tracks and stared at the back of Saint as he stretched. He glanced at me over his shoulder then sighed.

  “Give you a gun and someone will die. Who knows if that person will even deserve to die?”

  “You make me sound crazy.”

  “Trigger happy isn’t the same as crazy,” he explained while squatting down then leaning on one leg. “You should stretch before we run.”

  Setting down my backpack, I followed his example. Saint looked sexy flexing his muscles and I hated how I noticed this fact. My lust wasn’t really my fault. He was a gorgeous man. Other women noticed too, making my lingering gaze on his hard ass okay. I was a woman after all.

  Saint’s tanned skin looked soft and I ached to touch it. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I focused on how he thought I was unstable and weak. No way was that sexy. My anger insisted Saint wasn’t sexy. I refused to admit anything was ever sexy, even if he was bent over with his ass facing me. When did I start lusting over guys’ asses?

  Suddenly staring at me, Saint wore a dark gaze too intense for me not to look away. I had no idea what caused his expression, yet sighed in relief when it disappeared and he gestured for me to follow him.

  Jogging steadily, we followed the paths into the woods. I kept up well, but suspected Saint paced himself for my benefit. A little part of me wanted him to let loose, so I could witness him in all of his glory. He held back though and I was able to keep up all the way to the river where he slowed down.

  Saint walked along the riverbank, kicking over large rocks. Reminding me of Jace, he was like a boy looking for frogs and worms. His expression shifted when a branch snapped nearby. The look on his face was fierce, terrifying really. I stared at him, struggling with my lust. Alert killer was an amazing look on him.

  Once Saint was certain the noise came from animals, rather than a threat, he looked at me. “You have weaknesses most women don’t,” he said casually.

  “How do you figure?”

  “You were raped.”

  I felt as if he’d slapped me. No, it was more like a gut punch, choking off my breath instantly. No longer walking, I watched him keep going. When Saint noticed I’d stopped, he found my gaze.

  “Did someone tell you that?” I asked.

  “I know the basics about how you ended up here. I don’t need the details. They’re written all over your face. All of your weaknesses are here,” he said, gesturing to my face. “Anyone can see your secrets and use them against you.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “Do I look like the enemy?” he asked in a dark voice.

  Feeling exposed, I lowered my gaze. His words tore away my confidence, leaving me with the urge to hide away from the world.

  “There’s no shame to being raped,” Saint said softly. “Despite what people believe it’s like any other crime. The shame comes from thinking it means more.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’m a wise man, Harlow. Seen the world. Seen enough people doing stupid to know what not to do. Seen enough people being weak to know how to be strong. I’m trying to help you be strong too.”

  “Talking about it won’t make me strong.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, gesturing for me to follow him.

  Hiking through the woods, I waited for him to make his point.

  “There are two kinds of fears. The rational and irrational. You can’t do a whole lot about the irrational ones. Mainly because logic doesn’t tend to fight irrational thoughts. I knew a guy who feared snakes. He tried everything to get over it. Studied about snakes, spent a lot of time looking at them at the zoo. I think he even watched Anaconda and Snakes on a Plane. Really put himself through the ringer, but he never got over the fear.”

  I followed him past a downed tree resting half in the river.

  “This same guy had a fear of public speaking. As a kid, he’d embarrassed himself in front of his class. This was a rational fear that he overcame. After all, he had a real reason to fear it unlike with snakes. The guy forced himself to talk in front of groups. Got a job where he had to do it every week. He was psycho scared in the beginning. However, the more he did it, the less it bothered him. When he thought about speaking in front of crowds, he stopped remembering his embarrassment as a kid. Instead, he remembered all the times he did it successfully. With rational fears, you can train yourself to overcome them.”

  “Are you the guy in your story?”

  Saint glanced back at me and smirked. “You wish.”

  I couldn’t help sharing his grin. Every time he refused to tell me something, I only wanted to know more about the guy behind the cool exterior.

  “You have a rational fear of talking about your past. Rational means you can overcome it. If you ever plan on being a truly tough broad, you need to face your fear of talking about rape. Otherwise, you’ll leave yourself open to someone hurting you with your past. Never give people an opening. Trust me that they’ll take it.”

  “How do I get over it when I haven’t after years in therapy?”

  Saint stopped at the bank of the river and inhaled deeply. “The world has a lot of beauty in it, but people get immune to seeing it. The day I do, I’m a dead man.”

  I studied at the water rushing by. Logically, I knew the river was beautiful, yet I felt none of it. Since Saint said that ugly word, I was mostly numb.

  “You need to take the power away from your past,” he said, glancing down at me.

  I watched him remove his water bottle and drink nearly half before handing it to me. Taking the drink, I barely sipped it.

  “I don’t have germs,” he said, nearly laughing.

  “You upset me. I don’t want a drink.”

  Saint shook his head. “I didn’t upset you. You upset yourself by letting something bad from years ago still control you. The people who hurt you are dead. You survived. Why let anyone hurt you with the past?”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Sure it is,” he said, tugging off his backpack and dropping it next to an old tree. “Just say the words, ‘I was raped.’ Say it enough until the words lose their power.”

  Digging out a bag of trail mix from his pack, Saint shoved a handful into his mouth then offered it to me. I shook my head.

  “Just say them to you?”

  “Sure,” he said, chewing. “I’ll turn around, if that’ll help.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Tell you what,” he said, shoving more food into his mouth. “If you can say the words to my face, I’ll tell you something about me. I know you’re curious.”

  “Will you tell me your real name?”

  Grinning, he shook his head. “I will tell you where I got the name Saint though.”

  Saint turned his back to me, still eating his trail mix. I had a decision to make. Each option sca
red me. Since showing weakness in front of Saint terrified me more, I focused on the back of his faded blue shirt.

  “I was raped,” I whispered.

  “Louder. I’m chewing peanuts over here.”

  Glaring at him, I inhaled deeply and forced out the words again. Saint turned to me and nodded like I’d announced my favorite color or something as trivial.

  “Now say it with me looking at you.”

  “I can barely say anything while looking at you.”

  Saint lifted an eyebrow as if surprised by my confession. He was full of crap. No doubt most people had trouble looking him in the eye. The guy exuded arrogance and barely chained aggression.

  “If you want to hear my story, you need to say it.”

  Pursing my lips, I asked, “How good is your story?”

  “Epic. It’ll give you a deep insight into my amazing history of being amazing.”

  Grinning, I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”

  Saint lost his smirk and stared softly into my eyes. He waited for me to work up the nerve to own the ugly word I avoided for years. His patience gave me strength and I held his gaze while saying them.

  “I was raped.”

  Saint showed no reaction before reaching for his bottle of water.

  “My parents are the religious sort. Growing up, I had a cushy life, but we always helped those less fortunate. So after high school, when my friends were partying in college, I decided to do missionary work with our church.”

  Saint sat on an old branch and shoved the bottle into his bag. I didn’t move, afraid he might stop talking.

  “I was in Mexico for six months, digging irrigation, helping the local doctors, and other odd jobs. Even with no specific skills, I kept busy. The first week of the seventh month, I was arrested with a few local guys and jailed on possession of cocaine. It was bullshit, of course. Knowing I was an American, the cops figured my parents might pay for my freedom. In jail, they started calling me Saint. It was supposed to be an insult, as if I’d been dumb to travel to Mexico to help people. Anyway, that’s how I got the name.”