“What the hell, Paisley?” my father snaps, setting his hands on his hips. “I know she went a little too far, but you have no right making Saint’s girl so uncomfortable she had to leave.”
Holy cow.
I internally blow out a sigh of relief. He didn’t notice anything between Saint and me.
Shit. My heart is still pounding recklessly at the close call. That was close.
Too close.
Saint shakes his head at my father, seeming even more pissed than he was when Mercedes was in here. “Mercedes wasn’t my girl, and I was the one to tell her to leave. Didn’t you see the way she was talking to Paisley? You can’t fucking defend that, man.”
“I know, but Mercedes was a guest and Paisley didn’t help the situation when—”
“There’s no fucking excuse, Alaric. You, of all people, should know it. I don’t give a shit who Mercedes is. I don’t feel comfortable her attacking your daughter about her education, career, and appearance and neither should you. Fuck her being a guest, that shit isn’t cool.”
“You’re right.” My father gulps down, sighing when his eyes land my way. “I’m sorry, Paisley. I just don’t like guests leaving abruptly. But I get it. The things she was saying… I should have acknowledged it hurt you and backed you up. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I offer him a tight smile. “I could have acted better, like I was telling Saint.”
“And like I said, you did the right thing,” Saint promises. “Believe me.”
My father pulls me into a warm hug. It’s the first in weeks, but it feels so good to know the only blood I know is right here.
Back in the dining room, we clean up the table before Saint convinces us he wants to wash the dishes. So that’s how it goes. Saint washes. My father dries them. I put them away. The night feels easier, and that tension that brewed at the table is over. It’s as if a cloud is lifted, like I can breathe again, and I don’t have to feel smaller than I already am.
I can’t stop thinking of the conversation Saint and I were having before it was put on hold when my father stepped inside the bathroom. There was so much paranoia in my head earlier that I was convinced my father heard what I said to Saint, even though I murmured it. But I don’t have to think about that now because he didn’t hear us. I know our worlds are bound to collide at some point, but right now I just really want to enjoy the warm thrill and sparks I’m wrapped in.
After the dishes are washed and we’ve tidied up, it’s just after eight. We decide to watch a movie in the lounge, not before my father makes his signature popcorn. Truthfully, it’s simply the store-bought kernels that he pops in a pan with store-bought caramel that he salts and mixes with the popcorn, but I let him get away with it because it’s delicious. Movie nights with Saint after dinners are something he and my father have been doing for years. Usually, I would move upstairs and do my own thing, but tonight after everything that happened, I feel like staying.
Saint takes his shotgun seat at the corner of the studded cream three-seater couch, while my father sits on the nearby armchair. I sit down on the left side of the couch where Saint’s sitting. The opening credits of Casablanca flash across the television and I smile. I can’t believe my father caved and gave into my request to re-watch it tonight for what feels like the millionth time. But I love this film so much, I could watch it forever. I know my father and Saint had some hardcore action blockbusters in the mix, but a black and white classic Hollywood film, especially starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Burman is something truly special.
“If I fall asleep, it isn’t because I’m getting old,” my father announces, leaning back in the chair as he downs his beer. His eyes are glued to the screen. “It’s because I had a twelve-hour shift today and only slept five hours after.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Saint teases, laughing at my father’s glare. Saint lifts his bottle of pineapple vodka and nods toward his best friend. “Salute, man.”
“Fuck off.”
“Don’t worry. He loves you.” I grin over at Saint.
Saint turns to me and subtly winks. “Tell me about it.”
“Shut up, I might not see you, but I can still hear you perfectly.”
“Oh shit, now I can’t gift you the hearing aids I ordered for your birthday.”
We all burst out in laughter at Saint’s comment. My father turns his head to him and flips him off mid-chuckle. “Yeah, because I’m totally not forty and we’re totally not four years apart. You’re such a shit stirrer, Saint Lisconti.”
The smile remains on my lips all during the opening scene of Casablanca. I spend the first half hour watching the film, but after a little while, my gaze travels to Saint when soft snores escape my father. My heart skips a beat as I find Saint’s hot gaze already on mine. The second I catch him, he swallows thickly and his gaze trails back to the film, but mine doesn’t.
I can’t stop thinking about you…
The words he spoke an hour ago linger in my mind now that my father is asleep. I take the time to analyze the way the television light casts a beautiful silver outline across Saint’s profile. How masculine his defined stubbled jawline, nose, and soft lips are. I wish I could reach out and caress his short, spikey beard, wish we could just lie here on this couch while he tells me about his passions, his dreams, the reason boxing aided that vigorous beating in his chest.
I’ve uncovered so many versions of Saint Lisconti already. The protector. The intelligent, mysterious man. The intimidating alpha. I wish I could unravel more, every single piece of him before the end of summer when I move to Seattle, Washington, for college.
“You’re missing out on the film,” Saint murmurs, flickers of white flashing across his face as the scene transforms into a flashback.
Shit.
I scoot a little closer to him on the couch, our thighs brushing as I whisper, “I’ve seen it so many times I think I can recite the lines. It’s that striking.”
Saint doesn’t give me anything, and so I turn back to the scene and set my bowl of popcorn on the couch with my tongue between my teeth. The silent treatment. That’s what you get for staring at him, girl!
It’s not long before I feel Saint’s eyes on me again while a montage of scenes plays between Rick and Ilsa of their time in Paris when they were madly in love. The scenes have my heart clenching every single time I watch this film—especially when Bogart says that iconic line for the first time; Here’s looking at you, kid—but this time is an exception. No matter how beautiful their love is unraveling in the scenes, I can’t get the heat of Saint’s thigh pressed against mine out of my head.
The fact that I know he’s watching me changes something for me.
What is he thinking about?
“Paisley,” Saint says softly and I’m ashamed of how quickly I snap my head toward him. It wasn’t even in a breath. So much for being subtle.
I wonder if he’s going to say something about our conversation in the bathroom before my father walked in. Now that my tired father is asleep in the armchair, part of me hopes Saint will mention something because this could be an opening.
“I have a confession…” he trails off.
I turn my body toward him, my smooth thigh grazing higher up the denim of his jean-covered thigh. The anticipation has me biting my lower lip. “Mhmmm?”
Saint’s gaze lowers to my lips and I swear they darken. It takes a full five seconds before those gorgeous blue eyes are on mine. “This is my favorite film.”
“No way! I didn’t know that. Why did I think it was Rocky?”
“Rocky? Fuck no!” His stunning smile breaks out on his lips and my heart backflips at the dimples. “My father used to always have this on. I guess over the years it became a remedy after all my boxing fights. I used to hide away and watch it. It used to calm me post-match.”
Here’s another version of Saint—the sentimentalist.
“Aww, that’s so beautiful. It’s touching that your father inspired your love for Casablanca. It must be nostalgic for you… comforting.” A thought crosses my mind. “Wait, is that why you used to call me ‘kid’? Because that’s what Bogart calls Bergman in the film?”
“You caught me red-handed, huh?” The most beautiful grin sprawls across Saint’s lips. “Yes, I guess I’ve heard it so many times it just stuck. I used to call you it not because you were an actual little kid at the time, but because it means something to me.”
“You’re quite the romantic.”
“No, I wouldn’t call myself that.” Saint frowns, his eyes wandering to his sleeping best friend and then back to the film. “My father was, though, a romantic. At least one Lisconti got it right. My father was the type of man who would help anybody, no questions asked. During the day, he was a hard worker—tough and direct—but the second he stepped inside the house at night, he was the biggest family man. So wise and genuine, so fucking genuine. He loved my mom so damn much it hurt.”
Saint’s words touch me so deeply because I hear the haunting emotion stripping his low voice. He may not be the type of man to so easily open up, so the fact that he is right now means a lot to me. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Saint. Your father seems like he was an incredible man. The type of man who wore his heart on his sleeve.”
“He did. He always used to tell me to fight hard for what I love with integrity. The way he used to look at my mother, even after they were married for thirty-one years. So much pure love. I just wanted to be like him.”
“What happened?”
Silence falls between us as my father stirs in his armchair, but after a few moments, his soft snores take over. Poor thing, I feel bad for him. He’s had such a long shift at the hospital.
Turning back to Saint, I find his eyes are closed, and his defined jaw is shut so damn tightly. It’s as if he’s fighting something within himself, something so potently alarming that seems to intensify the moment I gulp down and cup his face with both hands. He gives in with resistance, and with guidance faces me. I love the feeling of his stubble grazing my hands, of how those blue eyes turn cloudy as if they’re lost waves crashing out to the shore. Pain. Pain is all I see.
“Who hurt you, Saint?” I whisper, gulping down the agony I feel in my chest for him. “Who did this to you?”
“Life. Life fucked me over. Love didn’t seem worth it. Everything changed.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, wildflower.”
“You went from kid to wildflower…”
“Wildflower seems more iconic. Because iconic is what you are.”
My heart swells when Saint’s hand hovers over my waist. It’s almost as if he wants to pull me closer but is afraid of the repercussions. I part my lips, longing to ease his ache as his hot breath trickles over my lips. It taunts me, teases me, yearns for me to lean forward and kiss our flaws away. He’s so close I breathe in his musky college and can taste his peppermint breath with a touch of late-night liquor. So close that if I kissed him right now, with my father feet away, I wouldn’t know what would happen.
“You can touch me.” The words escape me so low I barely hear them myself. “You don’t need permission to pull me closer to you. Saint… you know how I feel about you.”
“Fuck, Paisley. You’re honest,” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine. “You’re so damn honest and it’s refreshing. You’re just so damn mature.”
“I am because I’ve been through a lot for my age. Grieving my nana changed me. It swallowed me in this deep void and forced me to grow up faster than you would like. Grief… it’s such a fucked up roller-coaster that never stops, no matter how many years have passed. As much as we’d like to think we’re the creators of our own destiny, we’re not, but I’m certain my path was bound to cross with yours because I know exactly how you feel about your father. I know you. I know you hold onto your past like it’s your shield. But it’s okay to surrender from time to time, Saint.”
I smile sadly and wrap my arms around his neck as I continue, “It’s okay to talk about how you feel and to be vulnerable, as long as you come out braver. I know me saying this may make me a hypocrite because I’m so in touch with my emotions yet braveness sometimes still falls short, but I’m trying my best to see the other side of the dark, even if it takes longer than I hoped. You miss your father and this film… it brings back all those emotions you’ve kept hidden because the world told you to. Well, forget about the world right now. Forget about the world and just listen to that beating in your heart because only it knows how far you’ve come and what you represent. Your father would be so proud of you. Of the man you’ve become. Of the man you are. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise, not even yourself.”
Within seconds Saint’s hands are on my waist, and it’s as if they’re scorching forbidden fire as he pulls me into a tight embrace. I feel his warmth all over me, across every single inch, and as much as the sexual tension lingers between us during this hold, it’s also filled with emotion and hope and rapidly breathing hearts.
I take in the way our bodies respond to each other, how my erect nipples stab through the material of my halter neck and beg to be touched. How I feel his arms around me, destined to never let go. How we let the soft piano playing in the film become the background melody to something greater than us.
I know it’s risky. I know my father could wake up any second and catch us because this isn’t a simple embrace between a woman and an older man; it’s an embrace of two broken souls trying to mend each other. And although we may be from completely different worlds, and our flaws turn to sacrifice, I’m convinced Saint came into my life for a reason. I may not believe in coincidences, but I believe in this.
Saint doesn’t respond to the words I’ve spoken, but he doesn’t need to. That fact that he holds me even tighter communicates everything I’ve ever needed to know. As we pull away, I lean my head on Saint’s shoulder while his hand remains around my waist. We stay like this, watching the film like two lovers following their usual Saturday night routine.
We don’t talk about what’s going on between us. We don’t overthink the fact my dad is in the room. We simply spend the entire film wrapped in each other. We don’t speak another word all night, but occasionally Saint kisses the side of my head and holds me closer. It has me wondering if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life by moving to Seattle when August ends.
I thought four years away would be enough to simmer my attraction for Saint, but as he holds me to him now and I’m wrapped in that sensual sandalwood scent after he stated he can’t stop thinking of me either earlier, something tells me those years won’t do anything but intensify my feelings.
They will only make me want him more.
It’s crazy because four years is both an extremely long and achingly short period of time, depending on how one looks at it. I’ll be twenty-two. He’ll be forty. What if everything changes?
What if the woman of his dreams walks into his life?
What if in four years’ time he’s married?
Deep down, I know it’s more than just infatuation for me, but this is life, and anything can happen. Anything. And that’s the most terrifying part.
It’s scary.
Daunting.
Surreal.
I glance up at Saint now and find his eyes already on mine. He smiles warmly and I return it, but I’m breaking inside.
Three months to go…
Three months and it could all be over, just like that. It’ll be over before it even started. Everything I could ever hope for could vanish and no matter how desperately I try to find the people we are tonight on this couch, I fear I’ll never find Saint again. That this moment between us will just be a distant memory in a few months’ time, something I’ll think of when I’m 761 miles away and lying in bed watching the Seattle rain glide down my window with a blurred vision, all broken, frazzled, and confused.
Oh my God…
A thick lump clogs my throat; the first one in my twenty-minute walk home from school. I should be ecstatic, considering it’s Friday and one day closer to both finals in two weeks and officially being done with high school. It’s mid-May and the green leaves in the tree-lined street softly sway in the wind, calling my name with every step home… until…
He followed me home.
Erik followed me home.
“Hey, Paisley, nice house,” Erik Sanders mocks, leaning against my house’s oak front door with a sly smirk and crossed arms. “What are your plans for tonight?”
Great. Just great.
I don’t have time for this, especially not today. It’s final weeks and while some losers are using it to finalize their plans for the summer and tick off the final things on their senior year to-do list, I actually plan to study.
Gulping down, I take my eyes off the most popular guy in senior year and refocus on fishing out my keys from my backpack. Just breathe, Paisley. I do just that, completely ignoring his dark-eyed stare, yet feel the back of my neck bundle with tension. Erik has barely spoken a word to me the entire four years of high school and I don’t plan on starting now.
Breathe.
“Oh, I see what this is.” Erik chuckles coldly. “This is you trying to ignore me until I finally cave in and leave. Good try, loser, I can be here all night.”
That nickname taunts me, swirling me into a pit of darkness. It’s a place I don’t want to be. But every time I attempt to crawl out and see a glimpse of the light, I’m blinded again.
I take in the scar on the base of his neck and scoff because it’s probably from some street fight. When are these guys going to learn?
“What do you want, Erik?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Please, just leave me alone,” I mumble, finding my keys. “Please.”
“Leave you alone? Why? Do I scare you that much?”
“No, you don’t scare me.”
“Then look at me, baby.”
I grind my jaw. “Don’t call me that.”
“I can call you whatever I freaking like. I’m just trying to have a friendly chat, baby.”
Opening the front door, I step in, set down my backpack on the hardwood floors, and prepare to slam it right in his damn face. “No, I know you want something from me.”
“Yeah. Your attention.” Erik reaches out his hand, preventing the door from shutting when I attempt to close it. Those dark eyes finally find mine and he chuckles as if to mock me once again. “I asked you a question, Reign. I think you should answer it.”
Raising my chin, I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think my plans are any of your business!”
“Oh, really now?” He arches a brow and steps closer, closing the gap between us. So close I’m forced to breathe in that spicy, over-exaggerated cologne and almost die because of it.
“Yes, really.”
Cold shivers run across my exposed back as it meets the cold wall of my hallway. Erik presses his body close to mine, that permanent smirk on his lips deepening. I want to slap it away so badly. I hate myself for ever having the smallest crush on him back in freshman year.
Erik’s eyes settle on my lips and then back on mine. “Wrong answer, loser.”
“If you call me what one more time, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Scream? Slap me? Get me suspended?” he taunts, inches from my lips. His cold fingertips slip under my skirt, brushing against my mid-thigh, and I panic. Heart racing, I slap his hand away and all he does is chuckle. “Not going to happen, baby, you’re forgetting who runs our school—my uncle. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and nobody will believe shit over me.” My eyes snap shut as his nose trails up my cheek, his mouth settling by my right ear in a lethal whisper. “Especially won’t believe the girl who hasn’t made one single ally in eighteen years. How fucking sad. They should give you an award for that shit, you freak.”
“Get the hell out of my house,” I grit, feeling my heartbeat in my ears as I shove his chest back.
Erik mustn’t have been expecting it, because he stumbles back by the doorframe, yet that infamous smirk remains as he begins laughing. “Why? Is your mom home? Oh, that’s right, she fucked off because she doesn’t give a shit about you. Wow, your own mother.”
My mom. That strikes a chord.
I swallow down the lump in my throat, forcing myself not to blink, no matter how impossible it is with tears brimming in my eyes. But there’s no way in hell I’m going to let this asshole see how I really feel.
This is what his group does, taunt the students who don’t speak up, the ones who seem weak and vulnerable and lonely. Erik’s laughter heightens, and a chorus of taunting chuckles follows. I didn’t notice it before, but three of Erik’s closest friends are leaning on my fence, including his girlfriend, Sofie, who simply watches on.
I attempt to drown the inner turmoil in my mind. That same turmoil that toys with my every breath. I don’t have time for this, time for their crap. For this pointless cat-and-mouse game. But it doesn’t surprise me with Erik because he’s nothing but a bully. He has been ever since the first day of freshman year when he mocked a girl with Lupus and gave another freshman a black eye because he bashfully glanced at his former girlfriend.
Stepping closer to Erik now, I lift my head to meet his gaze and forget his little cheerleader posse. “Want to know something?” I grit with a soft hiss. “People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. You may seem invincible. You may seem strong and powerful and capable of crushing people who are already running on low self-esteem, but I see right through you. You don’t intimidate me.”
Erik grinds his jaw, darkness clouding his eyes as he steps forward. I hate the way a wicked half smile rises on his lips. “Did you hear that, guys?” he hisses, directing his questions to his friends, yet his gaze never leaves mine. “I don’t intimidate Paisley Reign. Ouch.”
“Oooo, better do something about that, baby,” his friend Ryder taunts.
“Read my mind, man.” Erik nods.
Shit. Get out of this, Paisley.
Get out of this.
I take a step backward into my hallway in an attempt to reach for my phone in my backpack, but I’m too late. All it takes is two strides for Erik to be inside the house again. He slams the front door shut beside me and grips my waist when I attempt to run. Erik holds me back, pressing my body against his for a moment before his strength takes over, overpowering mine, and in a split second my back is pinned against my hallway.
Oh my God!
Eyes widening, my attempt to scream is muted by his large left hand that slaps over my mouth. His taunting, evil chuckle ruins me whole. What the hell is happening? Numbness takes over my entire body and I feel all the little hairs on the back of my neck rise in fear. The beats inside my chest rush across my body. I can feel those deafening thumps everywhere. In my heart. My throat. The pit of my stomach.
With my father at work, there’s no other way I see myself getting out of his hold but fighting with everything I have. But as Erik traps my body against his own and his free hand wraps around my neck, I lose all hope. No matter how hard or fast I attempt to shove Erik away, he doesn’t budge, as if he were a fixed statue. He’s taller. Broader. Stronger.
I never stood a chance.
Those dark eyes find mine and instantly I feel like I’m drowning in a fateful game of Russian roulette. I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth and defended myself.
“See what happens when you question my intimidation, baby,” Erik grits. He’s all up in my face, so deadly close as he tightens the hand over my mouth. “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson…”
The second he applies pressure to my neck, I slam my fists harder against his shoulders, my fingernails digging into his skin through his T-shirt. No avail. My muted screams lodge straight back down my throat, acting as silenced squeals upon deaf ears as he squeezes my neck even tighter.
No. No. No.
I don’t know what his intentions are—to scare me, to break my neck, to choke me to death. All I know is that it hurts just the same. The pain in my heart aches because I don’t deserve this. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.
My eyes burn as they brim with tears and widen in a silent plea. Please don’t do this. The cords in my neck feel as though they’re going to explode. I feel them throb against him as tears torrent down my cheeks and come to a halt on his hand by my mouth. The top of his hand is so tightly pressed against my mouth, it virtually covers my nostrils and strangles my every shallow breath.
It feels as though my body is suffocating itself. The harder he chokes me, the darker Erik’s eyes grow and the more I struggle for air. My lungs ache. My chest recklessly rises and falls, desperate for another breath, to hold on for another second as his body works to crush mine. There’s only so much I can take. I’m trapped inside my own game of fate, feeling the world closing in on me while I’m forced to accept through the burning sensation across my chest and tightness in my throat.
I don’t have another breath to take.
Erik’s eyes. His eyes are going to be the last thing I see.
Breathe. Push on, Paisley. He doesn’t get to break you.
A cunning smirk lifts his lips.
He wants this. He wants to see me struggle to hold onto life.
Just as it feels like I’m caving in, he lets go and steps away from me. My knees instantly give in and I stumble to the floor, face-first in uncontrollable coughs. Gasping for fresh air, the tightness in my throat remains as if his imprint is still there. My body is so numb, I can’t even feel my hands, not enough to push myself up. It’s as if I’m paralyzed from the neck down and I’m forced to lie crouched in a little ball with my cheek against the walnut hardwood floors.
Oh my God.
Erik’s navy All Star Converses are all I see as my fingernails scratch against the floor, desperate to get on my feet again and run for help, but I can’t. I watch hopelessly as the Converses stride away from me, each heavy thump vibrating through my ringing ear.
And then… he comes to a halt inches from the front door and my heart drops.
No.
“I hope you learned your lesson. Talk back to me again and I’ll finish you off,” Erik threatens. “And oh, tell anybody about this and I’ll be seeing you way earlier than Monday. You better understand what that means. And don’t worry, I’ll lock the door on my way out.”
With a click of the lock, the door slams shut behind him and he’s gone. Except nothing changes for me as panic overtakes my body and the agonizing pain in my neck continues. A terrible metal taste of blood laces my tongue and my breaths all rush into one. I can’t inhale without feeling as though I’m being choked all over again.
My backpack is inches away and as much as I want to clasp it to pull out my phone and call somebody—anybody—it all starts to fade away. My heavy eyes shut amongst struggled breaths as I feel myself being swallowed up in a pit of unconsciousness here on the hallway floor with fleeting distant thoughts.
I can’t leave my father. Not like this.
I’m not going to make it.
Saint.
His words… ‘I’m on your team, Paisley…’
Yet as darkness greets me, I accept that perhaps life won’t give me a chance to be a part of his team.
Not now.
Not for any longer.
Not in this lifetime… maybe I won’t.
