Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(26)

He flashed me a look-at-this-little-na?ve-girl smirk. “Need I remind you that I’m young, healthy, and this town is the home of a high percentage of very dickable people?”

“So now dick is a verb, but Men in Black isn’t?”

His face transformed from patronizing to surprised, then from surprised to bemused. He shook his head, taking another step toward me.

“You should know better than anyone that words have an impact.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I turned to him fully, yelling now. My palms itched to slap him across the face. Seagulls floated above us, eavesdropping.

“It means that you’re impossible.” He finally sighed, shaking his head.

“Maybe I am. So don’t try to make me possible.” I turned back to my vehicle, yanking my door open.

“Fine. Go ahead. Hide from the world.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Snowflake.”

I don’t sleep at night. Haven’t for a long time now.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why not? It’s a perfect fit, considering you’re having a fucking meltdown.”

I was waiting for him to say something more. I swiveled to him again, not exactly sure why it was so hard to just leave. We stood in front of each other on the busy promenade, panting hard, shooting daggers at each other. We made a scene, one that attracted the eyes and ears of beachgoers. I clutched the roots of my hair, realizing that sometime during that hour, I’d removed my ball cap and hood. People could see me. My face. My vulnerability. All of me.

I turned around, jumped into the car, and took off like the devil was at my heels.

When I got to the first red light, I punched my steering wheel and let out a scream.

It felt good.

I felt alive.

I let the delicious pain and anger swirl in me like a storm, knowing I was going to regret every single word I’d told Bane that afternoon.

Knowing what he probably knew, too.

I hadn’t looked at myself in the mirror for months, maybe even years.

So much so that sometimes, I even forgot the color of my own eyes.





LIFE IS ABOUT LOOKING AT yourself in the mirror without flinching.

Five minutes.

That’s how long I stared at myself in the mirror just to make sure fucking Snowflake was wrong. And she was. I hardly even blinked.

I wasn’t butthurt over her comments at Café Diem. It just rubbed me all wrong—and not in the right places—that Jesse Carter, of all people in Todos Santos, would label someone as a whore. People were allowed to fuck whomever they wanted, as long as it was legal and consensual. She’d probably cheated on her high school sweetheart and got deflowered by another. Pot and kettle anyone?

Whatever. Fuck that, and fuck her. Also, fuck this.

“’K, Grier, thanks for a wonderful time and a lovely blowjob.” I tossed my Tuesday Girl’s dress on my bed. I lived on a houseboat in the marina. I’d bought it when I was eighteen because I’d wanted to own something—anything, really, other than a bad reputation—and never saw the point in moving anywhere else over the years. I could probably afford more than a shitty mini-yacht at this point. But I liked the houseboat fine. It was nice and cozy, and I fed the fish under it every morning, my way to say thanks for sharing the ocean with me. Plus, my bedroom was big enough for a queen-sized bed, and that’s all I really needed. A place to eat, shit, and sleep. Grier’s blonde mane spilled all over her back as she sat on the mattress, stretching lazily.

“Were you distracted today?” She yawned.

“Huh?” I kicked the door leading to the deck open. I was naked, save for my briefs. Even they were pulled half-down after a piss, my inked ass cheek on full display. Skulls with roses pouring from their eye sockets, monsters in battle, sea creatures crawling up my thigh. I looked like a human canvas, because fucking Snowflake was right. About the eyes. About the mirror. About everything, really.

Hiding made me feel like shit.

“It seemed like your mind was elsewhere.” Grier lit up a cigarette and joined me on the deck, leaning against the banisters, wrapped in nothing but my white sheet. The roar of the ocean rising made her skin blossom into goosebumps. I angled my face toward hers.

“Is this your diplomatic way of saying I sucked?” I flicked her jawline softly, and she shivered in pleasure.

“You can never suck, Bane. That’s why I keep you around.” She winked. I smacked her ass. “Tell Brian I need him to stall the health and safety inspectors. They are pushing to come check out Café Diem, but the faucets are leaking again.” Another hundred grand I spent from Darren’s advance on plumbing before fulfilling my part of the deal.

Brian Diaz was the county’s sheriff. I kept his wife happy, and he, in return, gave me access to police files and turned a blind eye to some stuff that probably didn’t put me high on the Citizen of the Year list of Todos Santos. From the outside, it looked kind of fucked-up, but it wasn’t, trust me. Brian was gay and came from a notoriously Catholic and rich family. The last thing he needed was to be disowned and stripped out of his fat inheritance and badge. No one wanted a closeted sheriff who secretly liked picking up lady boys in radioactive-colored wigs at Redondo Beach. And it wasn’t like he was a bad husband, but Grier had needs. I took care of the Diazes’ problem, and they, in return, took care of mine.