Page 85 of Bad Saint

Getting off this island is even more imperative. But how?

My body, it appears, is in tune with Saint because when my skin prickles in awareness, I know that he’s standing by the shore. I wish I could say I despise this awareness, but I don’t. Being lost in the wilderness, it feels nice to be connected to someone, even if that someone is an irritating son of a bitch.

Swimming back, I don’t bother concealing my near nakedness when I emerge from the water. My bra is barely modest, and my white underwear are completely transparent. But what do I have to hide? Saint has seen me bare. The thought has my cheeks flushing.

Wringing out my hair, I lock eyes with Saint who is still glistening wet. His tousled hair is tied back, and his ripped shorts sit low on his narrow waist. We both play the role of castaways perfectly.

“Did the hut survive the storm?” he asks, snapping me from gawking at his muscled chest.

“Yes. That thing was built to last.”

“Did you sleep in it when I was out cold?”

I bite my lip, embarrassed. “No, I stayed with you.” I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I was scared to leave him alone.

He thankfully doesn’t touch on the topic. “Good, so you’ll be okay with me tearing it down?”

“What?” I ask, surprised.

“We need to get off this fucking island. And I’m not going to sit around, dick in hand, waiting for that to happen.”

“But the SOS—”

“Forget the SOS. We haven’t seen anyone in almost two weeks. No one is coming.” He doesn’t seem too upset over that fact. I wonder why. “I want to make a raft. It’s our best chance.”

The unspoken lingers. And then what?

“I could use your help.” He clutches at his side, hinting at the lingering pain.

Questions are long forgotten. I almost fall over my feet when I hear him asking for help. I playfully wiggle my finger in my ear while he rolls his eyes.

“Or you can stay here. I don’t care either way.”

All playfulness subsides.

Narrowing my eyes, I nod. “Fine. I’m in.”

I’m presuming he wants to start immediately, so I step into my shorts and tank. When I’m dressed, I meet his eyes to see a deep desire in his. I remember the last time I saw it—when his mouth was coaxing me to the point of no return.

I swiftly put such thoughts out of my mind, but when Saint scans down my body quickly, I wonder if he remembers too. However, it doesn’t matter either way because his admission of him leaving, with or without me, rings loudly.

“Ready?” he asks, snapping me from my thoughts.

“Yes,” I reply. “Let’s get the fuck off this hellhole.”

The future remains unclear, but the present is certain—it’s time to go home.

We need to get off this island. The longer we stay, the greater risk she’s, no, the greater riskthey’reboth in.

Day 25

THE HUT WHICHI once called my sanctuary is no longer. But I suppose if what Saint proposes works, then it’ll be a savior in a different sense. We’ve worked for the past four days solid, dismantling the hut and transporting the wood to the beach.

Saint is on the mend, but he’s still sore. This has delayed our raft building because as strong as I’d like to think I am, we both need to carry one piece of wood at a time, which is taking forever.

He has thankfully allowed me to dress his wound, which definitely looks better. But I know it still hurts. He constantly needs to catch his breath, and I catch him every so often flinching when he twists the wrong way.

But he doesn’t complain. He seems focused on getting off the island and sooner rather than later.

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