Defy (Sinners of Saint 0.5)

I exhaled, climbing down the stairs. “Just to give you a heads-up—I’m on my period.”

“You don’t say. You hid it so well.” He threw the box into the back of his SUV like it was feather-light. “Like I said, I’m here to hang out.” He speared me with his scowl.

I guess we were hanging out.

We finished moving (and unpacking) everything by seven that night, and Jaime made a quick run to the nearest Wendy’s. He asked if he should pick up beer too, and after I said sure, I nearly bit off my tongue, realizing what I’d done. It was easy to forget he wasn’t my age. Funny thing was, he did bring beer. When I asked him if he had a fake ID, he chuckled and mussed my hair like I was an adorable kid, explaining that the HotHoles never got carded in Todos Santos. I shook my head and cracked open my beer.

Jaime hooked up my TV and dragged the coffee table to the middle of the room. We watched a shitty game show from the 80s. His feet were on the table, while I curled up on the sofa. We looked like a couple. What’s more—we acted like one.

It felt natural. And scary. For a moment, just a brief, crazy, I-obviously-need-help moment, I imagined that we were moving into this apartment together, me and him.

“How did we get to this point? Holy shit, I’m fucking my student,” I mumbled out of nowhere, my eyes still glued to the TV.

“Well…” Jaime stretched, downing what was left of his beer in one swig and slamming it against the table. “I blackmailed you into it. That’s how.”

His sarcasm held a lie I wanted to believe. We both knew he hadn’t forced me. I fucked him by choice. I put the beer to my lips, stalling.

“Okay.” He licked his lips and turned off the TV, rubbing his thighs. “Let’s play Truth or Dare.”

I was tempted to remind him I wasn’t twelve but didn’t want to be even more of a grouch. So, I batted my eyelashes innocently. “Are you going to milk my secrets out of me?”

“Might as well since you aren’t going to milk the jizz out of me tonight.” He got up from the couch, disappeared into my tiny new kitchen, and returned with a bottle of Jose Cuervo. Holding the bottle of tequila by its neck, he slouched back down beside me. Now we were both sitting cross-legged on the sofa, facing each other. A fan hummed above us, and if we were really silent—which we were—we could hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, their rhythm systematic, like a sweet lullaby.

“This conversation needs booze, so a shot for every time we choose a truth over a dare.” Jaime rested the bottle between us, his voice clipped. He was looking at me funny.

Jaime was normally impossible to read. A hot, carefree jock with darkness behind his light eyes, but the expression he wore…it was borderline pained.

“I don’t want you drinking under my roof. You’re under twenty-one.”

“I’m eighteen. Any other place in the world—virtually all over Europe—I’d be allowed to get shitfaced wherever I want.”

“We’re not in Europe,” I deadpanned.

“We will be, one day. Together,” his bizarre statement came out so confident. I almost doubled over. Okay, then. Back to the subject, I guess.

“I’m a daredevil.” I cocked a brow, laughing mainly to hide my embarrassment at how nervous I was.

“Real daredevils choose the truth. It’s always more challenging than a dare.” His right eye ticked. “So…truth or dare?”

“Dare,” I teased, hoping to lighten the tension. Wherever this conversation was leading, it was going to be a raw, dangerous place for the both of us.

Jaime dipped his chin down and ran his thumb over his lower lip, his playful-self peeking from the wall of graveness he had built around him tonight. “I dare you to look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have feelings for me.”

His words were simple, yet his request—impossible.

I blinked, realizing for the first time that the answer to his question was something I wasn’t ready to face. “Truth,” I said and swallowed painfully.

Jaime tipped his head back and laughed. It sounded gruff and unhappy.

I looked away, feeling my face whitening. “What? I’m allowed to change my mind.”

“You’re not.” He reached for me, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Tell me what you feel.” His tone had changed to cushion-soft.

“Why?” I whispered, resisting the urge to close my eyes. If I did, a tear would escape. I never cried. Not since the accident in NY. I dealt. Damn you, Jaime Followhill. I dealt.

Jaime thumbed my chin, tilting my face to meet his gaze. Slowly, he brought his forehead to mine and closed his eyes, releasing a defeated breath. “Because I feel it, too.”