Ruckus (Sinners of Saint 2)

In all honesty, I wasn’t just turned off by how he tried to drag me into his bed, but also by his poor timing. It had been three weeks since Darren packed his things and moved out of the apartment we had shared for six months—we had been together for nine months, after a short stint I had with a greasy monkey, metal music enthusiast named Hal. Dean hadn’t wasted any time trying to accommodate the casual rebound position. The fact that Dean was essentially my landlord and that I only paid him a hundred bucks a month for legal reasons didn’t make it easier to reject him. He co-owned my apartment with Vicious, Jaime, and Trent, and while I knew he wouldn’t kick me out—Vicious would never let him—I also knew I had to play nice with him.

But the notion that he could possibly give me every STD listed on WebMD did make it easier to turn him down. A lot easier, actually.

The red numbers crept up on the display.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Come on, come on, come on.

“No,” I said flatly, when I realized he was still staring at me, waiting for my response.

“Why?” Another hiccup.

“Because you’re not my friend, and I don’t like you.”

“And why is that?” he pushed, smirking.

Because you broke my heart and I pieced it back together all wonky and wrong.

“Because you’re a hopeless manwhore.” I gave him reason number two on my ‘Why I Hate Dean’ list. That thing was long with a capital L.

Instead of feeling embarrassed or disheartened, Dean leaned in my direction again and pressed his index finger to my cheek with the hand that held the unlit blunt, his face cool and collected. He produced an eyelash he had picked from my face, his finger so close to my lips I saw the round pattern of its print swirling around my curly eyelash.

“Make a wish.” His voice was satin wrapping around my neck, squeezing softly.

Closing my eyes, I bit my lower lip. Then opened them. Then blew the eyelash, watching it rock back and forth gradually, like a feather.

“Don’t you want to know what I wished for?” My voice came out hoarse. He leaned into my body, his lips pressing against my cheek.

“Doesn’t matter what you wished for,” he slurred. “What matters is what you need. I have it, Rosie. And one day—we both know—I will give it to you. In spades.”

I was coming back from a six-hour stint volunteering at a small children’s hospital downtown, which I ran to right after finishing a full shift at the coffeehouse. I was tired, hungry, and my feet had blisters the size of my nose. I shouldn’t have felt a thousand little fingerlings swimming in my chest, but I did. I did and I hated that I did.

“Brunch,” he murmured into my face, his hot, stinking breath fanning my skin. “You’ve been living in my apartment for almost a year. It’s time to reevaluate your rent. My place. Tomorrow morning. Ready when you are, but you better be there. Capiche?”

I gulped, averting my gaze, and when I looked up again, the elevator door slid open. I leapt forward, practically sprinting out, pouring myself into the hallway, and fishing my keys from my backpack.

Space. I needed it. All of it. Now.

His laughter still carried to my door all the way from the twentieth floor, his penthouse, where he ended his journey for the night with two gorgeous women.

After I bathed, poured myself some wine, and had a healthy, balanced dinner consisting of Cheetos and an orange-colored dip with an unknown origin I’d found in the back of my fridge, I parked my ass on my couch and started flipping channels. Even though I wanted to watch Portlandia, because it made me feel a little more sophisticated than my dinner had suggested, I somehow got sucked into watching What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

Awful, and not just because it scored 22% on Rotten Tomatoes.

But because it made me think of Darren.

And thinking of Darren made me want to call and apologize to him once again.

I stared at the phone for long seconds, debating, mulling the scenario in my helplessly tired brain.

He’d pick up.

Try to tell me I made a terrible mistake.

That he doesn’t care. He still wants me anyway.

Only he does. He cares a lot.

And I’m not good enough.

Not for someone like him.

Another thing I should mention: despite my sarcastic nature and motor mouth, I was all bark and no bite. I wasn’t interested in ruining lives. I’d much rather save them. That was why I’d given up Darren.

Darren deserved a normal life, with a normal wife and an appropriate amount of kids to start a football team. He deserved long vacations and open-air activities outside the hospital walls. When he wasn’t working there, that is. In short—he deserved more than I could ever give him.