Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(14)

I don’t date.

I don’t do boys.

I’m The Untouchable.

And Mrs. B would always reply—stop being so afraid of love. It can’t kill you!

Only it had.

“Is it okay if I wait until you guys are finished?” I mustered a weak smile, inwardly begging for her company. She shrugged, sipping tea from the fine china next to her. “Suit yourself.”

I returned to the foyer and plopped on an upholstered bench, digging out a book from my backpack and riffling through the free hugs pamphlet some girl handed me on the street last time I visited Mayra. I smiled at the irony as I stared at the words, not really deciphering any of them.

Why did Bane want to hire me? I was about as customer friendly as pneumonia.

Had he heard about my story?

Stupid question. Of course he had. Everyone in town heard a version or two of my story. I was the town’s slut. Jezebel. The whore of Babylon. I’d asked for it, so they’d given it to me.

Emery Wallace was the poor victim. And I was the leg-spreading witch.

Maybe Bane thought I was going to put out easily.

Or perhaps he really did pity me.

It made little to no difference. The only thing I had going for me was that, despite everything I’d been through, I wasn’t the charity case he tried to make me. I didn’t need his mercy, or job, or affection. I didn’t.

Crap, I hope Mrs. B will spend some time with me today.

I read a few pages, willing Bane out of my mind. Sometimes Mrs. B was clear as the August sky. I confided in her, more often than I’d like to admit. It was easier than talking to Mayra, my therapist, because Mayra always took notes and made suggestions. Mrs. Belfort very rarely remembered our conversations.

Twenty minutes after I walked in, Imane stepped out of the dining room with her arms behind her back, her expression downcast.

“I’m sorry, Jesse. Not today. Fred wasn’t…” Her throat bobbed. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek, unable to look me in the eye. “Fred wasn’t feeling well.”

I stood up, heading for the door when Mrs. Belfort came out of the dining room, hugging the doorframe to support herself. She looked like a stranger, her eyes wearing an expression I’d never seen before. Clarity. “You can’t be afraid of love, my dear. It’s like being afraid of death. It is inevitable.”




Love is like death. It’s inevitable.

The words chased my thoughts long after I’d left Mrs. B’s house. It was a good thing I was going for a run, because I needed to declutter my head after the weird day I’d had.

Anything north of the witching hour was my favorite.

Time soaked into your skin like a kiss at three o’clock in the morning, slow and seductive. I was always awake at night—that’s when the nightmares crept in. They were so bad that at some point, I stopped falling asleep. Catnaps during the day kept me going. But sleeping through a whole night? Yeah. No, thanks. That was practically inviting a rerun of The Incident. In loop.

I must have been under some kind of a spell tonight. I felt brave from talking to a stranger—to a male stranger—and the limitations and red lines I’d made for myself faded to the background. I shoved my earbuds into my ears. “Time to Dance” by Panic! At The Disco blasted in my ears as I headed toward El Dorado’s track at 3:00 a.m. I had a finger Taser and a little Swiss Army knife shoved inside my sock. Plus, it was a gated neighborhood, with patrols driving around in carts every hour. I took my Labrador, Shadow, with me because he practically begged when I was at the door. He was probably the only creature alive I still cared about pleasing.

The Untouchable, I thought as my feet hit the concrete trail, Shadow on a leash, lagging behind me like the fourteen-year-old veteran that he was. It had a nice ring to it. Even I had to admit it.

Only it wasn’t a compliment. I’d gotten the nickname because I wouldn’t allow anyone to touch me. Ever. At all. Thwack, thwack, thwack. I ran like my life depended on it. Three years ago, it had. And I’d failed. They’d caught me.

I’d been running ever since, twice a day. Five miles on the edges of the gated neighborhood I’d lived in.

Running to exhaust myself, physically and mentally, so I could sleep.

Running so I wouldn’t have to stand still, and ponder, and think, and crumble.

Running from my problems, and my reality, and the emptiness that nibbled at the edges of my gut, like acid. Burning, eating, destroying.

My routine had somewhat put me in an oxygen-thief status. Even I had to admit that my life was aimless. I slept during the days and lived in the dead of the night. I worked out obsessively in the basement and got out of Pam and Darren’s hair as much as humanly possible. They begged for me to come back to the world, but I never did. Then they took my treadmill, so I started running outside. They threatened to cut my allowance if I didn’t get a job, so I simply stopped spending money. I read books instead, took Shadow on long strolls, and lived off the odd Kit Kat bar, mainly to keep myself alive. Sometimes I paid Mrs. B a visit. I never left El Dorado with the exception of weekly visits to my therapist, Mayra.

I’d been with Mayra ever since I was twelve, and can honestly say she hadn’t contributed in making me feel better or reach a fundamental conclusion even once. The only reason I kept going was because Pam had threatened to kick me out if I stopped, and I actually believed her.