BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Nine-3

“I’m pretty sure we discussed this,” I argue. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

I’m expecting World War III to erupt, but it doesn’t. “Suit yourself,” he says with a languid shrug. A bubble of disappointment stirs as I was prepared to go head to head.

A squawk breaks the silence.

“Actually, I better make some sort of coop for Harriet Pot Pie. I wouldn’t want her running away.”

Saint nods coolly, not at all amused by her name.

His aloofness is pissing me off. I am so used to us arguing that I don’t know what to do with this apathetic Saint. “Her being here means this island isn’t as remote as we believed it to be.”

He chews his coconut, mulling over my claims. “Yes, that’s true. Though the fact there is rum has me believing this is a route for outcasts.”

“Why?” I question.

“Because rum is a common currency of the seas. If someone was sailing on a yacht, you wouldn’t think they’d leave something like that behind.”

He’s right.

“So we wait until a ship passes?” I don’t know what the next step is.

“No, we just wait and see what happens.” He offers me the last of the coconut, which I thankfully accept.

I don’t know what his comment means, but it’s clear this conversation is over when he places the coconut shells on the box and brushes past me. Both Harriet Pot Pie and I watch as he walks along the shoreline, picking up a thin branch which he no doubt will sharpen into a spear and use to catch our dinner with.

Well, that was awfully unsatisfying.

This meek version of Saint confuses me. Yes, I’ve wanted him to allow me freedom, but now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it. Seeing so many sides to him leaves me constantly questioning which is the real him.

Sighing, I decide to focus on finding material to build Harriet Pot Pie’s coop. I need to keep busy before I say or do something I’ll regret.

I’m laying some leaves down for Harriet Pot Pie when Saint returns. He’s been gone all day. Not having an idea of time is horrible because the guessing is far worse than knowing the truth. The sun set hours ago. With no other choice, I was forced to make a fire. It took me hours, but I was impressed when the sparks came alive. My Girl Scout leader would be so proud.

I occupied my day by collecting branches, leaves—anything I could use to construct a coop. It took me all day, but when I placed all the pieces together, I was certain Harriet Pot Pie would love her new home.

She disagreed when she flapped her wings and flew over the wooden perimeter. Regardless, I decided to lay some leaves down and give her the option of returning if she ever changed her mind.

Saint carries a spear he’s carved from a tree branch over his shoulder. It seems he’s a good fisherman as he’s caught a few fish. When he sees the fire, he arches a brow. I wait for him to acknowledge it, but I get nothing.

The restlessness I’ve felt all day gets amped up.

Saint stands by the fire, peering around for what I assume are smaller sticks to roast our dinner on. I pass him two from Harriet Pot Pie’s coop, seeing as she isn’t using it. He accepts them with a nod.

This silence is killing me. I would even settle for him barking orders or telling me to kneel. I then realize he hasn’t called me ahгел lately. It bugs me. It shouldn’t, but it does.

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, needing to fill the static. “I brought the bottled water down from the hut and stored it in the water like you said.” Oh, my god. I sound pathetic. Seeking praise.

Saint peers at the bottled water, which I’ve secured by his shirt to a tree stump protruding from the sand so it doesn’t float away. “I’ll have some rum.” When he stops stabbing the fishes onto the branches and makes a move for the drum, I dance to the left.

“I’ll get it.”

The tiny jerk to his brow is the only sign he gives that he’s impressed with my submission. But he continues spearing the fish onto the sticks and places them over the fire.

I make my way to the barrel, unsure why I have this desperate need to seek his approval. It hasn’t mattered in the past, but here, the dynamics have changed. Thankfully, there is a nozzle I can use to pour our drinks. Using the coconut shells as our cups, I carefully turn the tap, not wanting to waste a drop.

The strong smell of alcohol hits my nose, and my queasy stomach turns. I’m not a big drinker—how can I be when it’s done nothing but cause me pain—but for tonight, I decide to forget my reservations. Saint’s share is a lot more generous than mine, which is fine. I feel drunk from the smell alone.

Once I’m done, I make my way over to the fire where he’s cooking our dinner. “Here.”

He accepts the drink, pulling a face when he smells the strong liquor. “Thanks.”

Feeling ridiculous standing around, I sit down near the fire and sip my drink. The moment the bitterness hits my throat, I cough madly, thumping my chest to help swallow down the poison.

Saint peers at me over the fire. “There’s a lagoon a mile or so up the beach.”

Once I think I can talk without wheezing, I reply, “Did you see anything else?”

“No. Tomorrow I’ll venture farther inland to see if I can find anything. There might be more caves. I don’t know. It’s worth a try.” The terrain farther inland is rocky and dangerous. The hills are steep, and without proper supplies, Saint could end up hurt or, worse still, dead.

Once upon a time, that prospect wouldn’t bother me as much as it does now. If something happens to him, I will be stuck here, alone. My palms begin to sweat. “Okay. Maybe you can show me where the lagoon is, and I can catch some fish. Or rummage for crabs.”

He looks skeptical of my skills, which tips me over the edge.

“I know you think I’m some bimbo who can only make a living using my looks, but I’ll have you know I’m a lot more than that. I grew up on a ranch in Texas, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. I used to get up with my father every morning at sunup and help him tend to the animals. I also rode a quad bike instead of a horse,” I add smartly, my Texan accent coming through, just as it does anytime I get mad. I don’t know why I told him this. I guess I somehow need to prove my badassness.

Once my rant is over, I feel better until a lopsided smirk tugs at Saint’s lips. “I don’t think you’re a bimbo.”

“Oh?” My cheeks turn a beet red. Well, this isn’t at all awkward.

“A pain in the ass, yes”—my mouth hinges open—“but a bimbo, no.”

This is the first time Saint has openly shared his feelings about me, and they weren’t as insulting as I thought they would be.

“So you grew up on a ranch?”

I don’t question his inquisitiveness as it feels nice to discuss everyday normal things when we are living anything but. “Yes. In a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. You can just imagine how my mom and I were the talk of the town when the wife of a Baptist minister was seen in the next town over, consorting with ungodly characters,” I mock with a deep Southern drawl.

“Thanks to my mom’s indiscretions, the town began to believe the apple didn’t fall from the tree. I was suddenly the most popular girl…but for all the wrong reasons. It sucked, and I was happy to get the f**k out of that town when I was almost sixteen.”

I don’t feel the need to share any more about Kenny or my mom because they don’t deserve a second of my time. Besides, I’ve already shared what happened with Kenny.

“Where did you grow up?” It’s out before I can stop myself.

I know absolutely nothing about Saint. Our circumstances bound us together unconventionally, but the fact we’re stuck here, with no idea if or when we will ever get off this island, means all we have is time. And what better way to kill time than by playing twenty questions.

His poker face is in play as he draws the fish toward him so he can take a closer look. Satisfied it’s cooked, he passes me the stick, freshly roasted fish attached. “Thank you.”

I’m disappointed he still won’t share anything with me, but I guess we’re not here on vacation. We’re here against our will.

Reaching for a palm leaf behind me, I place the fish on it, careful not to burn my hands. It smells delicious, but honestly, anything smells appetizing when you’re starving. Fanning it with my hand, I wait for it to cool down.

Saint sits across from me, the fire crackling between us.

I can hardly wait, and I dig into the flesh of the fish, blowing on my fingers because it’s damn hot. However, when I place a piece of the soft meat into my mouth, I forget about third-degree burns and shovel the chunks into my mouth.

It tastes unlike anything I’ve ever eaten before.

“This is good,” I say around a mouthful of food. Saint nods, sipping his drink with an indifferent expression. Uncaring I look like a caveman, I finish my dinner in minutes, thankful to be eating as it gives me something to do besides ask Saint questions he doesn’t want to answer.

My full belly sighs in happiness as I lean back on my hands. I didn’t realize how hungry I was because when I look up, I see that Saint’s fish is still partially intact. “Do you want more?” he asks, offering me his dinner.

“No, thank you. I’m full.” I drink my rum, cringing every time I swallow down a foul-tasting mouthful.

There isn’t a star in sight, and I wonder what that means for all the dreamers out there. Where do they send their wishes to? If I had a wish, what would it be? My question is soon answered.

“I grew up in Syracuse, New York.”

In what feels like slow motion, I lower my face from the heavens, meeting Saint’s gaze. He waits for my reaction. Waits for me to fire a million and one questions. But I don’t because, for now, this is enough.

“Oh, no…please don’t tell me you’re a Yankees fan. I can’t be stranded with someone who thinks tiny white pants on a guy is a good thing.”

He blinks once as I’ve clearly caught him off guard. Then he bursts into husky laughter, shocking me. “I suppose you’re more of a rodeo girl then?”

This time, it’s my turn to laugh. “Please, I may be from Texas, but I live in LA now. The only sport I like is catfights on the runway.”

Saint raises his coconut in salute. “Looks like we have more in common than I thought.”

I raise my coconut and feign clinking glasses. “Cheers.” The ghastly rum now tastes like honey on my tongue because it’s a victory drink, and victory has never tasted this good.