Page 18 of Dirty Saint

Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God! You went to The Strip?”

“You know it?”

The thought of my sister going to such a place made the hair on my arms stand.

“Everyone knows about The Strip.”

“You’ve been there?” I asked in a panic.

She shook her head. “God, no. I wish. I heard it’s amazing.”

I shrugged, trying to downplay how much fun the place was. The last thing I needed was Gracie going to a place like that. “It’s alright, I guess. Not really our scene.”

She huffed out a breath of laughter. “Maybe notyourscene, but I’m all for hot boys on motorcycles.”

I rolled my eyes and moved away from the kitchen counter. “Don’t even start with that crap. Keep your head in the books and your eyes off the boys.”

I didn’t wait for her to respond. Instead, I double-checked the locks and turned off the lights. Before getting into the shower to wash away the night, I tapped on Gracie’s bedroom door and said good night to her.

After I washed the smoke and exhaust from my hair, I slid into my bed with a sigh of contentment. Thankfully, I didn’t have to be at work early in the morning and could catch a few extra hours of sleep. Still, I wished I had stayed home and saved myself the drama.

The last thing I needed was a reminder of how badly my life turned out, but seeing Koah had been just that. The memories. The loss of my father and missing out on watching my sister grow up. It was all on him, and I hated him for that, but every time I closed my eyes so sleep could find me, all I saw was his face.

His light eyes and slanted smile. His thick arms and the tattoos littering his muscled flesh. He was tall and handsome. Even I could admit that to myself, but the fact was, I was irritated with myself for even allowing those thoughts to pass my hatred.

I flipped onto my side and stuffed my arm under my pillow. It was disrespectful to my father’s memory to consider Koah Saint attractive. Looks aside, he was a menace—a black stain on this earth, and he didn’t deserve my attention or my time.

No.

I never wanted to see his face again. I would do all I could to ensure that never happened, but I saw his face every time I closed my eyes. He taunted me—reminding me of how close we were when we were young. Before the lies. Before the end of my life.

His aunt, who was also my father’s fiancée, and his cousin hated him. My dad barely paid him attention, and Gracie was too young, but Koah and I were the same age. We went to the same school, and before all hell broke loose and I found myself on a witness stand defending my father, we were thick as thieves.

But like everything else I had lost, my respect and affection for Koah died in the courtroom the day he lied, sending my father to prison for a murder he didn’t commit. It perished the second I was shipped from foster home to foster home—the moment my innocence was stolen in a dark room by a foster boy two years older than me.

The second I was broken. Bruised. Defeated. The exact moment Victoria Walsh died and left behind a confused girl determined to survive. As far as I was concerned, Koah Saint could burn in hell. Lord knows I had simmered in its fires for quite some time. It was only fair.

5

Saint

AsIsteppedontothe witness stand, I thought about freedom and how badly I wanted to keep it. I sat in the hard chair and adjusted my clip-on tie before I set my trembling hand on the leatherbound Bible in front of me.

“Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the man in uniform asked.

I swallowed hard, choking on a lump lodged in my throat. The Bible felt hot against my palm, and I wondered if it would scorch me when I lied under oath. Would it engulf my arm in flames and burn me to death? And if it did, would I mind dying?

So help me, God.

I had prayed for God to help me so many nights once I was under Lorne Walsh’s roof. Every time we visited the basement. Every time he snuck into my room after the house was asleep—every time he touched me—I begged God to make it stop.

My mother had been a religious woman. I remember how she used to beg God to save her when my father would beat her. It was a different kind of pain, her beatings and me being molested, but I still understood what it felt like to do anything to stop it.

And I had.

I closed my eyes, remembering my mother and all the kindness she showed every person in her life. She had deserved so much more than the life she had, and sometimes, I felt relief knowing she was in heaven and safe from my father’s fist. I missed her kind eyes and loving smile, and I wished more than anything that she was there to hold my hand through this.

When I opened my eyes, they clashed with Joker’s.

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