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Saint: A Dark Mafia Romance
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I’m supposed to take her life. I’m going to take her body instead.
Ruthless. Coldhearted. Killer. I was young when my parents took off and left me alone to fend for my two younger brothers. I learned to survive. I learned to fix problems, by any means necessary.
Which is exactly what I do for the Dark Saints – the Irish crime family that raised me as their own. I make the secrets stay in the shadows. I make the bodies disappear. I make the problems go away. I owe them that much.
That is, until she walks in and sees me with a smoking gun in my fist and blood on my hands.
Sierra Hammond – the kind of good girl who wants to pretend she’s bad by hanging out in the rough parts of town. But this time, she stepped into the wrong bar and ran into the wrong man.
I know the rules, and I know letting her walk out of there alive breaks every single one of them. But one look into those big brown eyes, and one touch of those sweet curves writhing and fighting against me, and I know I’m done.
I’ll start a war.
I’ll break every vow.
I’ll move heaven and hell to make her mine.
F**k the rules, I’m taking her instead.
**This is a standalone book with a HEA and NO CLIFFHANGER!**
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The girl chokes, slurping loudly as she sucks on his cock buried in her mouth.
Neither of them hears me walk in until the door to the shitty little dressing room slams shut behind me.
The girl jumps and sputters, and Jayson groans, doubling over and wincing, from what I can only hope is her teeth closing on his pathetic excuse for a dick.
“You son of a bitch.”
The girl scrambles up from her knees, whirling, gaping at me, and yanking her tank top up to cover her bare tits. He looks white.
“Shit, Sierra, baby-”
The girl’s jaw drops, a huffing sound coming from her lips as she whirls and shoots him a look.
I want to roll my eyes, but I can only imagine what he told her, and I can’t believe Jayson’s bullshit is something I once fell for. The “rough and tumble” rock-n-roller thing. Jayson — spelled with a fucking y for God’s sake – the brooding guitarist playing shitty little dive bars like this crap-hole in Southie Boston.
I can’t believe I fell for this bullshit, and I can only imagine what he’s going to say.
It’s not what it looks like.
“It’s not what it looks like,” despite the girl putting her tits away as she gets up from her knees while he tucks his half-limp dick into skinny black jeans.
“Sierra, how’d you- I mean, I didn’t know you were coming to the show tonight.”
The room spins a little as I reach out and grab ahold of the shelf stacked with old rock posters to my right. I’m drunk, have I mentioned that? Not like falling down blasted, but beyond buzzed. I can smell the vodka I knocked back earlier on my breath, even though I’ve gone through half a pack of gum since then.
And even though I’ve washed my hands four times, I can also still smell the gasoline and a twinge of smoke.
The thing is, I’ve known this was going on. Maybe not exactly “her”, but I’m not an idiot. And this morning, when I realized Jayson was still signed onto my laptop, my hunches were confirmed by the string of text messages that popped up across the messenger app on my screen.
Text message from, I’m presuming, the very same girl standing behind him now – the one that said she wanted to “swallow his cum again” before the show tonight, followed by a picture of her fucking tits and her mouth wide open, as if the message wasn’t clear enough without a visual aid.
There’s that saying, about the straw and the camel’s back? Well, this camel just broke.
Jayson swallows, his eyes darting everywhere around the room but at me. “Shit, Sierra.”
“Jayson who is this?” the girl huffs, giving me a stink eye.
“His ex-girlfriend,” I hiss.
Jayson sighs loudly like I’m being dramatic. “We had that fight. Shit, Sierra, I thought were on a break, baby.”
“Since last night?”
The fight, as in the one where he told me he thought we should have an “open relationship” while he goes on tour next month.
Like I said, I’m not a fucking idiot.
“It’s all part of the creative process,” he’d said, going on to say some shit about “being inspired by muses of every sort.”
Apparently, getting a blow job from a groupie skank creates great music these days.
“Jesus, Yoko much?”
I whirl at Max’s voice, narrowing my eyes at Jayson’s asshole friend as he steps out of the dressing room bathroom. A blushing, messy-haired girl buttoning her jeans up follows him out.
“I said Yoko much?” He sneers at me. “The Beatles? Dude, you are the fucking Yoko Ono to this band. You’re the chick that dragged John Lennon away and broke up the-”
“No, I know who she is, asshole.”
I snap my mouth shut and turn away, shaking my head.
“It’s just – fuck, Sierra.” Jayson shakes his head. “What we talked about last night- I mean, maybe we should be on a break.”
I bark out a laugh. “Jayson, trust me, consider us on a break. A very permanent one.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, what. Now I’m the bad guy for being an artist? That’s it, right? You’re just so wrapped up in your fucking books and your fucking classes and being busy all the time that you just don’t know what it means to be spontaneous!”
“Spontaneous like giving blow jobs to hipster wannabe rock stars in dressing rooms like a bad groupie cliché?” I say it directly to the girl, smiling slightly as I see her jaw drop.
God, why am I even having this conversation? I should just go, and I know it. I’m not heartbroken or anything like that, I’m just pissed for being such a wimp and letting Jayson walk all over me.
Just go. Don’t say it.
Because I’m no lawyer, but I know that actually saying half of what I came over here to say is admitting guilt.