Saint (A Dark Mafia Romance)(24)

“Yeah, totally.” Jayson smiles. “Can I still play you this thing?”

“Sure.”

He beams, reaching for the acoustic guitar leaning against the television and throwing the strap over his neck. He strums, and the chords tumble out as he starts to sing.

And I’m so tired.

Jayson’s still singing, and I can tell it’s about me because I keep hearing my name in the lyrics, but I’m having a hard time focusing on anything else as the exhaustion of the night starts to hit me. I take another few sips of the beer in my hand, and my eyelids start to get heavier and heavier.

Fuck, why am I so tired?

The room suddenly starts to get fuzzy and spin a little, and suddenly, a horrible feeling starts to claw up inside of my chest.

No, not tired.

Something’s wrong.

The room spins a little more, the walls pulsing as if they have a heartbeat.

It’s hot in here, and suddenly my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.

I’m aware of the song stopping, and Jayson putting the guitar down.

“Jayson?”

He walks toward where I’m starting to slump over on the couch, my pulse beating faster and faster even as my body becomes less and less responsive.

The beer falls from my hand.

“Something’s wrong, Jayson.”

He chuckles, and suddenly, my heart lurches.

“Why are you taking your shirt off?” I mumble.

He shushes me.

Oh my God.

I’m aware of his hands dropping to his belt and loosening it, but I’m powerless to move at all.

And then there’s another voice in the room.

“You fuckin’ bitch.”

Max - Jayson’s terrible friend and bandmate Max, who’s stepping into the room behind Jayson and grinning wickedly at me. He starts to pull his t-shirt off too.

“Please,” I whisper, the room starting to fade at the edges and my body going completely numb. “Please, don’t do this.”

I’m falling, my head hitting the couch.

“Torch our fuckin’ practice space, huh?” Max laughs. “This is gonna teach you, you bitch.”

I can’t breathe, and I can’t move, and I can’t even scream as it all goes black.





Chapter Thirteen





Connor




The pounding of my fist on the front door sends lightning through my head.

Tasers fucking suck, for the record.

My head’s still roaring, but my blood is on fire, the scowl that’s been etched on my face ever since I woke up on the floor of my loft with blood crusted over one eye only making the pain worse. But I swallow it down.

I pound again, and I hear a lock click open. The door opens a crack and this skinny hipster fucker peeks out.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Sierra. I know she’s here.”

Well, I know her phone’s here, at least. Call it insurance, or at least proof that I’m not fucking everything up these days, but I stuck a tracker in the back of her phone case the first night I took her to my place.

It’s coming in handy right now.

“She ain’t here, bro.”

“Really,” I growl.

The kid swallows, nodding, but there’s a hint of something on his face I don’t like.

Smugness, that’s what it is.

“You sure about that?”

I notice he’s shirtless, his pasty, toneless body inked up with these fucking terrible tattoos like the “don’t tread on me” snake inked across his heart.

I sincerely doubt this kid was in the Marines.

I look past him and see another face peep out from a dark room down the hall.

Something’s not right here.

“Why don’t we check and make sure, yeah?”

The kid frowns. “Hey, what the fuck do you-”

I shove the door open and push right past pasty-face as I step into the apartment. I feel his weak hand grab my arm as I push past him.

“Listen, bro.”

I whirl and shove him back hard against the wall, making him whimper.

“Don’t touch me again,” I say evenly, my hand tightening for a second on his neck.

I turn, my eyes narrowing. “Sierra?”

I stick my head into a grimy kitchen and scowl. This place is an absolute hole - guitars hanging from hooks on the walls, shit everywhere, and a kitchen full of old take-out containers.

It’s got college flop-house written all over it.

“Sier-”

“Fuck you, man!!”

I grunt as something slams across my back, my head clanging like bells all over again.

Yeah, I am done getting whacked with shit tonight.

I whirl with an animalistic snarl on my lips, yanking the fucking baseball bat out of the kid’s hand and hurling it into the kitchen, shattering everything. I sweep his legs as I shove him back with one hand, dropping him onto his ass.