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Saint:A Dark Mafia Romance

By:Aubrey Irons
Chapter One


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.

Just walk away.

And I'm about to, I swear. I've turned, my hand is on the doorknob, and I've got every intention of flinging it open and storming away to get rip-roaring drunk when I hear the snicker behind me.

"Maybe try sucking his dick yourself sometime, and my man here wouldn't have to go find it somewhere else."

My hand freezes on the doorknob, and slowly, I stop caring.

Slowly, I start to smile.

The four of them look at me like I'm nuts as I turn back with the big fake grin on my face, my eyes sparkling sweetly.

Don't say it, please don't say-

"Oh, Max? Jayson? But the way." I plaster the sweetest smile I can possibly muster up across my face.

"You guys really need better smoke detectors in your practice space."

They both frown at me curiously before Jayson's eyes suddenly go wide.

"What the fuck did you do!?"

I turn, not even hearing them screaming at me, and still smiling as I walk right out the door.

It's a certain kind of smile - one I've never felt before. It's the kind of smile you get after you tell the guy who fucked you over that you just burned his shitty band's shitty little practice space along with all of their shitty gear to the fucking ground.

And I have to say, it feels great.

Chapter Two


I'm buzzing as I shove my way out of the backstage hallways of the small venue. My blood roars in my ears, the alcohol coursing through my veins as I push my way through the heavy crowd towards the bar.

The Rusty Duck is one of those shitty little dive bars that's found itself in an area on the edge of gentrification. I mean, it's still really shitty, it's just pulling hipsters willing to brave the dicey neighborhood to come see terrible bands play here.

Bands like Jayson's.

I suddenly hate how crowded the place is, disgusted with all these idiots for coming here to see that jackass play music. I ignore the voice inside that reminds me the I was one such idiot who trotted her way out to crappy little dives like this to positively moon over Jayson playing guitar up on that stage.

I scowl, shoving my way through the mass of tattooed, ironic hipsters until I can get to the bar, my pulse racing.

I need something to drink. Literally anything to drink. I'd take turpentine right now if they had it. I just need something to take me back down, to calm the roaring storm pounding through my head.

I'm practically panting as I order the shot of Jameson, wincing as I take the whiskey back and tap the bar for another.

And it's not just Jayson - or the insane bout of arson I've just committed about an hour and a half ago.

Well, okay, it's partially Jayson. But if it were just him that'd provoked me to light the fire, well, that'd make me a bit of a psychopath. And I don't care enough about him to be that girl.

It's more than him.

And it's not just finding myself aimless and on the brink of flunking out of grad school because I stopped going to classes - the grad school I worked my ass off to get into, I should add.

It's not just that suddenly, I have no idea what I've been doing with my life. It's not just the feeling that the rest of my friends and my family have and are moving on with their lives. I mean, shit, at least I used to have Rowan, my oldest brother and the resident family fuck up. But he's married now for Christ's sake, with a baby on the way and his life in order.

So really, it's not just one thing at all. It's everything, and finding that fucking text message with a picture of that girl's fucking tits with her mouth hanging open asking to swallow my boyfriend's jizz was the breaking point.

One last bit of someone screwing with me.

I'd gone to their practice space - this shitty free-standing garage out in Allston - to corner him. I'd gone there to make him fess up to being a piece of shit to my face. But the place had been empty, of course, because they were at the show here tonight.

At the show and getting his cock sucked, apparently.

But the rest of their gear was there. So was the bottle of vodka. So was the pack of cigarettes - Joey's, their drummer, judging from the brand, with his little black plastic zippo lighter sitting next to it.

And so was the old gas tank off to one dusty corner.

I swear, I'm not that girl.

I'm not a psycho.

I'm not that crazy bitch who does crazy shit like this.

But you can only take so much. You can only get so deep into that quarter-life-crisis that when the snap comes, it comes hard. And when it does, you break.   


And that's how you find yourself pouring gasoline all over a drum kit, four basses, ten guitars, a sound system and a bunch of amplifiers.

I'm not saying it was rational, but there you have it.

And now I need another drink.

Yoko much?

You're just so wrapped up in your fucking books and your fucking classes that you just don't know what it means to be spontaneous.

I scowl into the beer in my hands, my face scrunched up and my brow furrowed as those two assholes' words tumble through my head.