Chapter 3 #2
I can still feel the closet’s splintered wood biting into my back, the jagged chair leg clutched in white-knuckled hands, and the certainty that no one would come.
And then Saint, still gangly armed and fueled by rage, swinging a bat.
Bones broke. Blood spilled. And suddenly, I wasn’t alone anymore.
He’d paid for saving me with six months in juvie and a new tattoo, but when he stepped out, I was waiting with a secondhand duffel and a studio apartment that I scraped the money together to rent after leaving the group home. The only furniture it had was a battered couch that sagged in the middle.
My camming setup barely covered rent, let alone furniture, but Saint never complained. Not when the springs dug into his back. Not when I burned the first meals I tried to cook.
We’ve been watching each other’s backs ever since.
“How’s the arm?” I gesture toward the sleeve that covers a knife wound he got last month while dealing with another predator we tracked down.
Saint rolls his shoulder in demonstration. “Stiff in the mornings. Fine otherwise.”
I frown in concern. “You should let it heal before the next one.”
His expression shifts, the hunter awakening. “Naw. I don’t like that this guy’s already gotten so close. I’ll deal with him before he escalates.”
The familiar cocktail of guilt and gratitude washes through me.
Saint has his own career now, working security for various clubs and offering the occasional muscle for hire, but he drops everything when I call.
Eight years since that night at Omega House, and he’s still showing up with metaphorical baseball bats when I need him.
“You hear back from your contact at the cybercrimes unit?”
“Yeah. They picked up the Alpha who was targeting the young Omegas online that you flagged last month.”
Pride swells within me. Another one caught. Another predator off the streets. “Charges sticking?”
“Enough evidence to put him away for fifteen years, minimum.”
We share a look of grim satisfaction. This is what we do now, what we’ve done since I taught myself to hack and Saint taught himself how to hurt people without getting caught. We hunt the hunters, protecting those who can’t protect themselves.
“To the next one.” Saint raises his glass in another toast.
I click my glass against his. “To justice on our terms.”
“So,” Saint begins in a way that makes my spine straighten, “you’ve been quiet about your Tuesday night regular.”
I scowl at him. “Didn’t we agree not to talk about him?”
“I just worry about you.” His finger traces the rim of his glass. “It’s not healthy to get too caught up in the fantasy.”
“Mind your own business,” I mutter, though there’s no real heat in it.
“You’re my business.” The edge of protectiveness in Saint’s words would annoy me coming from anyone else. “Two-hour private sessions where you do what, exactly?”
I trace a water ring on the tabletop with my fingertip. “We talk.”
“Talk.” His flat tone conveys his skepticism.
“Yes, talk. Not everyone wants to see me naked, believe it or not.”
Saint leans forward, elbows on the table. “So this rich guy pays premium rates to chat? Don’t you think that’s weird? You’re selling a product he’s not using.”
My skin prickles with the memory of GentlemanX’s low murmur in my ear last night, the way his presence seemed to wrap around me even through the digital distance. “He’s sweet. He ordered dinner for me.”
“He what?” Saint straightens in alarm. “You gave him your address?”
“No, of course not. He sent me tokens, and we ate together. On camera,” I add, seeing Saint’s expression darkening. “It was nice.”
“Nice.” Saint repeats the word like it’s foreign. “An anonymous Alpha who won’t show his face spends hundreds of dollars to watch you eat, and you think that’s nice instead of creepy?”
Put that way, it does sound weird. But the memory of falling asleep to GentlemanX telling me a story doesn’t come across as predatory. It carries an intimacy my other sessions never reach.
“When he talks, it feels…” I trail off, unsure how to explain the strange sense of safety that comes from a man who’s never shown me his face.
Saint’s eyes narrow. “You’re blushing.”
“Am not.” I press my cold glass to my cheek.
“You’ve got a crush on this guy.”
“I do not.” The protest comes too quickly.
Saint leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “You realize how dangerous that is, right? Emotional attachment to a patron? Especially one who hides his identity?”
The criticism stings, even though I’ve had the same thoughts during my more rational moments. “He’s not dangerous.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can feel it.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.
Saint’s expression shifts from concern to alarm. “Are you serious, Micah? That’s your defense?”
My shoulders hunch. “Forget it. He’s a client who pays well and doesn’t ask for nudes. End of story.”
Saint holds my gaze for a long moment before speaking with deliberate calm. “I’ll track him down and cut off his hands if he hurts you.”
The declaration is so matter-of-fact that I can’t help but laugh, though he’s not joking. “Get in line. I’d hack his bank accounts and ruin his credit score first.”
The tension breaks, and Saint’s mouth curves in a rare smile. “That’s my boy.”
“We should head out.” I check the time on my phone. “Got a show at nine.”
Saint finishes his drink and slides from the booth, waiting as I gather my backpack. As I stand, a wave of unexpected warmth rolls through me. I tug at the collar of my hoodie.
Saint tracks the movement. “You okay?”
“Fine. Hot in here.”
Before I can duck away, he reaches out to rest the back of his hand on my forehead, and his eyes widen with concern. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s nothing.” I step back, but the movement brings on a wave of dizziness, my vision blurring for a moment. “The whiskey just hit harder than usual.”
Saint’s nostrils flare, trying to scent me. “Your Heat’s not due for what, two more weeks?”
“Three and a half,” I correct him. “This is what comes from mid-day drinking.”
“You always were a lightweight. I’m driving you home.” Saint declares, leaving no room for argument. “And no show tonight.”
“I can’t cancel. I need the money for next month’s rent.” I inhale deeply, trying to center myself. “The alcohol will wear off before I go live.”
Saint’s expression indicates he wants to argue, but his knowledge of my financial situation stops him from pushing. “Fine. But I’m staying at your place tonight.”
“No, you’re not.” The last thing I want is for Saint to be eavesdropping while I talk to GentlemanX. I grab my backpack. “You have hunting to do, remember?”
Saint curses under his breath.
“Unless you want to wait for your arm to finish healing?” I push.
“No, dealing with this underwear asshole is more important.” Saint studies me with worry. “But if it gets worse, you’ll call me, and I’ll take you to the clinic.”
“Yes, sir.” I bump my shoulder against his. “Will you buy me an orange juice on the way?”
“Not sure sugar is what you need right now,” he grumbles, but he’ll hit a drive-thru, regardless.
I let Saint take my bag from me and hustle me into his car, which sits at the curb right in front of the entrance to the bar.
As he pulls into traffic, I rest my forehead against the cool window, telling myself it’s just the whiskey. But deep down, I know better.
It’s been years since I caught the flu, and as the city flows past, my body begs for bed and rest. But my thoughts circle back to GentlemanX’s voice, the one place I can forget everything else.
Flu or not, I’ll log in tonight.