No Saint (Wild Men 6)

“Or maybe you wanna see where they found the skeletons? Take the grand tour? Maybe I should start charging for it.”

“What the hell?” I whisper, my patience wearing thin.

“Isn’t this why you’re here? What, you want me to believe you suddenly like me and forgive me or something? You’re here for the thrill. Meet the murderer’s son. See as he weeps at his mother’s killing spot. Convince him to sleep in the house where his father beat him up every day. Snatch a look at the pendant found with the bones, or pictures from his past. Sordid. Exciting.”

I can feel my heart slamming against my ribs. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Are you really asking me that?” He staggers and for a second my heart lodges in my throat, thinking he’ll fall. But he doesn’t. “Everything’s wrong with me. Which is why you shouldn’t be here.” He kicks at the shed, kicks at a loose rock. He looks livid. “Just go. Get the hell out of my sight.”

“You serious?”

“You tell me.” He throws the sandwich away. It rolls in the dirt, and my hope fades. Heat pours in my chest, my face.

Really? He’s trying to hurt me again?

“Screw you, Ross. I’m not here for the thrill, as you call it. I’m here to check on you, make sure you’re okay. Take those pills. And don’t expect me to come back.”

Blinded by furious tears, I turn and walk away, stumbling through the bushes and grass, through the gathering darkness, eventually taking out my phone and using it to light my path. The way back feels endless.

Where’s the boy I lay beside this morning? The fragile connection I’d felt is crumbling to pieces.

My anger fades into sadness. I think about what he said as I trudge back home, my heart heavy. Knowing the truth can’t change the past. But it can change you, how you think, how you feel... It can reel back your memories and shoot them from a different angle.

He’s angry with me.

Why would I think I’m the only one with the right to feel anger? I begrudge Josh his anger when he’s suffered from my going away. I missed him growing up into a young man. And I can’t accept that Ross could be angry because I have so much to reproach him about.

His life wasn’t easy. The more I learn about it, about him, the more I realize how tough it must have been. Apart from the obvious, the living with a murderer thing, I wonder how it was on an everyday basis. How the mornings were. The evenings. The nights. The weekends. Summer vacation. Christmas and birthdays.

What happened back there? Why did he think I was lying to him, using him for a cheap thrill? When did he go from a quiet, teasing guy to a snarling animal trying to scare me off?

I come to a halt before I reach home.

Was he trying to scare me off?

Come on, Luna. You know more about him now. You should understand him better. He tends to do that, when he feels cornered, doesn’t he? Snarl and mock and go all nasty. But you’ve seen his better side.

Something happened, didn’t it? Something got his defenses up, his spikes, his walls.

Once I stop thinking of him as a criminal, as an asshole, I can look deeper, peel back the layers at the top, find the core, find a real reason. He’d been fine at first. What did I say or do to cause that reaction? Was it me?

Did I prod at a sore spot? He’s torn up over his mom. Was asking about the pendant and the picture too much?

He’s still not recovered, I remind myself. He was laid out with that fever only this morning. His head must hurt from that rock Josh threw at him. He’s bruised from all the beatings he’s taken to save my ass, and maybe others I don’t know about. Cut him some slack.

I need to sleep on it. Maybe talk

to someone. To Dena. Someone who’s on his side. Because he acted like a little kid, throwing his anger at me, throwing the sandwich I made for him to the ground. A symbolic gesture. He threw it away like he’s throwing me away, rejecting me.

And didn’t you say you’ll teach him how to react? Help him understand? You’ve seen how he grew up. No wonder he acts like a feral animal at times. That house is like a zoo cage, and in the bathroom, I swear I saw old blood stains on the wall. In Ross’s bedroom floor, too. A cage with a crazy zoo keeper.

Sleeping on it is just words. I can’t sleep, tossing and turning all night. Am I stupid, considering all this? Is it enough to rescind my declaration not to go back to him? To forgive this new outburst? To keep trying?

Or am I sliding back into old patterns, making myself the victim, believing it’s all my fault?

Chapter Twenty

Ross