PAST
Three Years Prior…
Paisley is 15. Saint is 33.
“He did it again! He put his big ol’ feet all over my lilies!” I grit, stepping closer to my house’s front-facing window to witness the devil at work. My fists clench until my nails threaten to puncture the thick skin. Damn him!
“Just let it go, Paisley.” My father sighs from the couch. He’s typing away on his phone with zero to no interest in my preoccupation. “Besides, you can barely see that the lilies are there.”
“But they’re in bloom! They’ll never grow now!”
“Let it go, sweetheart.”
Let it go.
Let it go.
Let it go.
No, I can’t let it go! I can’t just stand here and do nothing! I need to do something. Run out and tell him to be a little more careful at least. Nana would want me to say something…
Yes, that’s it.
Nana. I’m going to go outside and do this for her.
I stare through the shutters a little longer, observing the three men unloading various furniture items from a white hire truck. Due to the shiny black metal Harley Davidson parked in front of the new house next door, the truck is parked in front of mine.
The men bypass one another with little conversation, each effortlessly carrying items diagonally across the parking strip into the house on my left. My heart thumps to the untuned rhythm of their leather boots violently stomping all over my rare blue tiger lilies, crushing them to get through.
How RUDE!
Two of the men work around the delicate flowers, but not this one particular guy. He’s the tallest and most handsomely mysterious of them all. It’s almost as if he’s doing it on purpose. Darn it! My gaze stays on his six-foot-two frame, taking in his beautifully tousled dark hair and perfectly chiseled jaw. He’s easily the most attractive man I’ve seen in my fifteen years of living. But there’s something about him—almost a glowing dangerous aura—that has me staring longer, deeper, harder. And that lethal crooked smirk he flashes one of the men he bypasses after saying something only confirms it.
He sports a leather jacket, except he’s shirtless underneath, wearing nothing but black jeans and a fancy chestnut belt. As he pulls a walnut bookshelf from the truck—not that he looks like someone who would read—the hot summer Californian sun illumines his naturally tanned olive skin, bronzing his glistering washboard abdominal muscles and vaunted V-line. I’m almost certain that leather jacket is hiding some ink.
I’m so blinded by the godly sight, my cheeks flush, and for a moment I forget about the lilies… until he sets the bookshelf right on top of them and finishes massacring them all!
It’s as if he doesn’t notice or care. I hear shouting from a blind spot to the left and he looks up, nods, and proceeds to leave the bookshelf right there on the parking strip. Then, he jogs out of sight.
“Oh my God! Dad, come look at this!”
“It’s your summer break, sweetie, enjoy it instead of stalking the new neighbors!”
“It’s not stalking if it’s looking out for what’s mine.”
“Yeah, that’s what Ted Bundy said, and we all know how that ended up.”
Dramatically rolling my eyes, I ignore my father completely and hurry to the hallway. I don’t bother announcing my plans or kicking off my fluffy pink slippers before I rush to unlock the front door.
I’m out of the house in seconds, bolting to the parking strip in an attempt to pull the bookshelf away. But after countless efforts, it’s no use. I don’t have muscles, not like him.
“Hands off what’s not yours, kiddo.”
My body tenses at the harsh voice and I glance up, raising a hand to my brow to shield the sun’s glare, but find myself squinting just the same. There’s a man standing beside the truck with his arms crossed over his chest. Cocking his head to the side, his brows rise in challenge at my lack of response.
While the other two men looked in their early to mid-thirties, this man seems older but intimidating just the same with a lethal stare, perfectly styled hair, and a white scar just above his upper lip.
“Lost something, kiddo?”
“No.” I gulp, taking a step back when the corners of his lips rise in a cold, sly smirk.
“Then get outta here. This ain’t the place for little kids.”
“But I live right next door and saw that my lilies are getting ruined!”
The man scoffs and gestures toward the house to my left—the new house. “From now on, that’s where my good friend lives. Don’t like something he does? Learn to live with it.”
And then, just like that, the man rounds the truck, gets in the driver’s side, and takes off down the street. My mouth remains hung open, left to simply witness the truck get smaller and smaller until it transforms into a distant shape of white nothingness.
“So rude!” I utter under my breath, glaring at the ultra-modern home beside mine. Its exterior slaughters every chance of brightness with its dark color palettes of black, Pietra gray, and midnight blue… the devil’s colors.
That’s it. I’m not giving up.
I’m doing this.
The house was only listed for a few weeks before it was sold. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins were the best kind of neighbors. Always remembering birthdays with apple pies, treating the lilies with kindness, and after Nana June passed always looked out for me while my father worked shifts at the hospital as a doctor.
My mom left my dad and me when I was one. It’s crazy… the fact that I haven’t seen her since and don’t even know what she looks like. My father ripped up every single photograph of her in a fit of rage one night when I was too young to comprehend what was happening. He doesn’t like to talk about her, so I never push it. I know he’s been hurt by her—deeply—and I don’t want to cause any more pain. My mother wasn’t happy with us—that’s what she apparently told him. She hated routine. Hated Sacramento. Hated the prospect of revolving her entire life around me, especially because my parents were only twenty-two when I was born.
There’s a gaping hole in my heart, an unfilled void from missing out on what most people are too fortunate to realize. I don’t blame my mother for leaving. I blame her for the cracks she left behind. I blame her for my inability to contact her because it’s as if she’s vanished without a trace. I blame her for the darkness clouding me, that same darkness that remains with me no matter where I go after my father spilled what exactly she thought of me.
My mom doesn’t care for me. I’m convinced she never will, and I’ll never know her face. I can be the perfect daughter for however long I like. She isn’t coming back to Sacramento. Her story with my father and me is done. It was a long time ago when I was too young to both remember and understand what it felt like to be held by her. I’ve come to accept it, but it still hurts to comprehend I’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins more times than my actual mother.
Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins’ house has always comforted me… Now it’s home to hell.
My Nana always used to say, those who fear the devil’s home fear freedom itself. The words are a metaphor to life, a testament to follow your gut, no matter how daunting or risky, which is why I’m going to go ahead with my plan.
Gravel crushes loudly underneath my feet as I power walk past the neighbor’s gate and through the short maze of vibrant green short hedges, before climbing up the wooden porch steps. Two knocks on the black heritage door—the only vintage element—and it swings open ajar on its own.
“Hello?” My voice lowers, giving up on me as the whisper escapes my lips.
No answer.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Curiosity gets the better of me as I peer my head through the large gap between the door and the doorframe but see nobody.
Do it.
As I step inside, a mixture of leather, tobacco, and musky sandalwood flood my lungs. Massaging the nape of my neck, I step through the gap and glance down the never-ending hallway. While the plain entryway in my house is straight and leads to the living room—so you can see exactly who’s stepping in—this one is different. It has a huge floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall on the right-hand side, which ends just before the hallway curls to the right, leading to the kitchen, living room and beyond.
The silence accompanying my every step has me thinking that perhaps the men are in the backyard. It would be the only logical answer as to why they haven’t heard me. And then I hear it, the sound of the backyard door sliding open, followed by a few heavy foot thuds before the crashing of glass. Men exchange streams of curse words.
“I said they’re fragile, you bastard!”
“Do you think I meant to break them? Plates are the least of your problems now, Saint.”
Saint?
I halt in my position in the hall, my back pressed against the wall. Maybe this isn’t the best idea. I don’t know who these men are, but I’ve come too far to back out now.
Think of Nana. Save her lilies.
“You walked straight into the fucking glass door. I was right behind you,” Saint grits.
“Yeah, okay, fine, I wasn’t thinking. That any better?”
“Much better.”
“Jesus. Focus on your final fight tonight instead, will you?”
Fight?
“Already am.” Saint chuckles, his voice a hot, gravelly tone.
“Yeah, you’ll have the fucker knocked out in the first round for a three-time streak, you watch. I’ve learned that from… well, let’s say experience.”
“Didn’t mean to knock you out that time, man.”
“Bullshit.”
The previous bickering turns into full-blown laughter.
The back of the house. They’re in the back of the house near the kitchen. Slowly, I walk closer along the hall to hear them clearer, my hands pressing against the cold wall to steady myself from making a sound. My heart pounds wildly at every step. I have no game plan from here. I didn’t think any of this through, but I can’t leave now…
I settle by the edge of the hallway, inches from where the wall curves, and listen on.
“All right, I’m going to head out and see if Nico is still there or went for another load.”
Oh no.
Just like a moth drawn to a flame, my mind begins to burn at how my curiosity triumphed over any minimal thought of an escape plan before I stepped inside. Because now as heavy footsteps speed toward me, my body freezes up when I finally process what Saint said; I’m going to head out and see if Nico is still there.
Crap.
He’s going to see me!
All of a sudden, my confidence from a few moments ago falls down a never-ending rabbit hole. I glance toward the front door to my left, knowing that if I make a run for it down the hallway now, someone is bound to hear me. My only option is to crouch down into a little ball and pray Saint changes his mind or passes without seeing me.
What false hope considering I’m adjacent to a mirrored wall… but I do it anyway.
The thumps get louder.
My palms begin to sweat.
My heart rate exceeds normality.
I shove my head into my knees and hug them to my chest. Please don’t see me.
Please don’t see me.
Please don’t see me.
Please. Please. Please.
Black leather boots round the hallway and the supply of air to my lungs cuts short.
He hasn’t seen me yet. Thank God.
I’ve never held my breath for this long before and while I may die in this very spot from it, at least it’s better to go out this way rather than him seeing me first. Yes, I’ll still be their problem, sure, but at least I’ll already be their dead problem. And besides, they can’t bring me back to life just to kill me again… right?
Oh, God. Where did my young woman pride go?
“Owww, my feet!” I scream out as the man’s heavy boots step on me, crushing my toes in my flimsy slippers. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
“Shit. Where the fuck did you come from, kid?”
Oh no!
I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a frustrated breath at myself for getting caught so easily. It was going so well until I stuffed it all up for myself and screamed. Now it’s all going to blow up in my face. Just great.
I remain quiet, not glancing up a single inch as I clutch my throbbing feet in agony.
“Kid, I asked you a damn question.”
“Don’t you ever look down?” I murmur to myself.
“If you’re going to act all smart and talk into your knees, you and I are going to have a problem, not that we don’t already.”
Slowly, I lift my gaze up and my eyes widen in shock. Him. My lips part to no words. It all just stockpiles in my brain. It’s him—the mystery man I saw outside who crushed all my lilies. I also recognized the man’s voice as… Saint. How ironic that the most devilish man on my street has a name that kisses the gates of heaven.
Damn this guy and his habit of stepping on every damn thing in his way without looking down for one split second. First my lilies and now ME.
Saint stares down at me, his piercing ocean blue eyes narrowing at my every breath. He’s even more attractive up close, but it all doesn’t matter after everything he’s done today.
“I said, don’t you ever look down?” I hiss, balling my fists as I rise to my aching feet.
Saint’s extended stare is beyond intimidating, but I give in to the fading sensation in my heart and stare right back. My five-foot-three frame beside his tall one gives him the upper hand. Well… it’s not just that. He’s taller, sure, but he’s perfectly built with just the right amount of toned muscle, and not only do his broad shoulders and narrow waist reveal God’s unexpected favoritism in sweet sin, but I’m one thousand percent sure he’s strong enough to throw me out of his house with his pinkie finger.
Not today.
Yes, I’m fearful, but I’m not leaving without an apology from him.
“What did you just say to me?” he growls.
Sure, let me repeat this to you for the third time, why don’t I…
“I said don’t you ever look down?”
“What on earth are you on about, kid?” Saint hisses, stepping so close into my personal space that my back hits the wall. My jaw ticks at the whiff of his masculine, musky cologne. So hot.
“The flowers!” I explain. “You stepped on my flowers outside and then proceeded to put a bookshelf on top of them! There’s even a sign I made out there that clearly says, ‘no walking’ for a reason!”
“Rules suck, kid.”
My nose scrunches up in fury. “No, you suck! They were rare. My nana gave them to me to grow before she passed away last year.”
“Still don’t know what you’re talking about, kid, and guess what? I don’t want to know.” Saint confidently snarls. He continues to look at me for the longest time, so long those light eyes burn deep into my soul, destined to steal anything he likes. He dusts off his leather jacket before crouching down to my level and wags his pointer finger at me. “Get the hell out of here, kid. Don’t know how your parents raised you, but entering a stranger’s house unannounced is a big no in my book.”
My eyes narrow. “But my lilies—”
“Forget the damn flowers, kid. Nobody cares.”
“I care!”
“And who exactly are you?” He smirks, rising to his full height, and begins to take smooth, long strides toward the front door. He oozes dominance in his fierce walk, as if he’s some type of supermodel with that head held up so high and those relaxed shoulders pulled down and back at every step.
“I bet if my father were the one to tell you all this, you’d listen!”
Saint pauses in his stance and I witness those shoulders tense up, a tall devil ready for the burning flames.
“No, kid. That’s where you’re wrong,” he says without turning back. “I don’t listen to anybody. I do everything on my own terms.”
“Fine, but how’d you feel if somebody ripped out your flowers?”
“Never ask that to a man whose heart has been ripped out of their fuckin’ chest.”
“Makes sense. No wonder I couldn’t find it.”
That has Saint turning around and lowering his gaze on me. Although I take a step back, I keep my head high and poised just like his moments ago. This man… he scares and frustrates me all at the same time. He’s wrapped in fury, a fury begging to be unraveled and challenged, and that’s exactly what I plan to do whether he likes it or not.
“Say that again,” Saint deadpans. “I. Dare. You.”
My lips press shut.
“No, don’t lose that mouth of yours now.” He clicks his tongue with a mocking chuckle, his dimples the most perfect I’ve ever seen. So deep and long, even under all his stubble. “You definitely said something. Spill it. I don’t like being lied to.”
“I alluded you have no heart.”
“No heart?” Saint scoffs at my comment, shaking his head as his hands rest by his waist. It draws my attention there for a little too long. I’ve never seen a man so perfectly up close like this before, but the scarlet flush on my cheeks and pitter-patter of my heart don’t come close to my disdain for him. Such a coldhearted, cruel, rebellious outlaw.
“Yeah, no heart,” I confidently nod.
Ha!
“Get the fuck out of my house!” he roars. “And while you’re at it, that sign of yours—wherever it may be—I want it removed too. Never wanna see your face again, kid. If I do, so God help you for what will happen, got it?”
“But the lilies—”
“I said fucking run, kid.” Saint widens his hands on his waist to reveal a red Swiss Army Knife tucked into the right side of his waistband. “This isn’t the place for you. Wanna know why?”
I bolt past Saint, darting out of the house before getting to know the reason. Outside his gate, I give in to my blurry vision and tears burn down my cheeks. Standing up for myself has never burned this badly. Any second now and my heart will beat out of my chest, never to be found.
I hate him.
Hate him.
Hate him.
Crouching down beside the patch of my damaged lilies, in all my anger, I manage to finally push the bookshelf away. The damage is already done. The flowers are flattened, dead.
My nana wouldn’t want this.
More tears fall as I work to get rid of the sign, trying my best to repatch all the dirt, but again it’s no use. They’re all gone. Just like Nana June.
I feel a presence beside me and turn to my left to find Saint feet away, leaning against a sidewalk tree. His soul-piercing stare remains on me all while he locks his ankles, pulls out a cigarette from his back pocket, and lights it. The burning orange tip distracts me for a second before the toxic nicotine smell has me scrunching up my nose.
“Smoking is bad for you,” I whisper under my breath and wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. But this man must have some super-hearing because he seems to hear my every breath.
Saint smirks, pulling out the death stick for a moment to blow out a large cloud of white smoke. It obstructs his entire face before clearing up again. “Concerned about me, kid?”
“No. Just saying it kills over eight million people each year. That’s one every five seconds and equals just under five hundred thousand people here in America.”
Saint looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Where’d you come up with that statistic?”
“The news.”
“The fuckin’ news. Doesn’t faze me that you watch that shit.”
The second he continues smoking with that big smug smirk, something inside me snaps. My young woman pride can’t have it any longer. I stand up, brush the dirt from my knees, and storm up to him. It takes rising on my tippy toes to reach for the death stick and crush it underneath my slippers to finally feel satisfied.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the switch to coldness in Saint’s expression or how his narrowed eyes darken in havoc as he towers over me like roaring thunder. His jaw clenches so tightly I think it may explode right here on our tree-lined street, Portola Way.
“Why did you do that, kid?” Saint growls.
“I gave you five extra seconds.” I smirk for the first time today. “You should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you?” he spits. “One day you’ll grow up, kid, and you’ll learn that life isn’t always about listening to the statistics or following the fixed rules all the damn time—it’s about surviving. It’s about constantly getting knocked down and instead of getting back up on your feet again, crawling your way to the finish line. We all need little releases in life, and you, kid, you just slaughtered mine.”
And then he’s off, collecting the bookshelf so effortlessly before storming toward his house.
My smirk drops.
Oh.
I stand there frozen, unsure of everything around me. What just happened?
I stare at the back of Saint’s head, at the speckles of allusive flames wrapped around the man next door, all the while he climbs up his porch steps. I gulp down as he glances over his shoulder just as he reaches his front door. Saint’s blue-eyed gaze meets mine and narrows. It’s as if there’s this unspoken havoc between us, a vow that this is unfinished business.
Rushed footsteps come from behind me. It’s my father. I just feel it.
“You okay, Paisley?”
I turn to him. “I will be.”
Silence laces the air for a moment as my father’s dark brown eyes travel beyond me. “Who is he? Our new neighbor?”
I don’t even have to ask who he’s talking about. I just know.
“He’s the devil of Sacramento… and he’s just getting started.”
And just like that, Saint’s front door slams shut, confirming he heard every single word.
Great. Just great.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest.
Game on, neighbor dearest.
