Saint:A Dark Mafia Romance(3)

By: Aubrey Irons



And that’s how you find yourself pouring gasoline all over a drum kit, four basses, ten guitars, a sound system and a bunch of amplifiers.

I’m not saying it was rational, but there you have it.

And now I need another drink.



Yoko much?

You’re just so wrapped up in your fucking books and your fucking classes that you just don’t know what it means to be spontaneous.

I scowl into the beer in my hands, my face scrunched up and my brow furrowed as those two assholes’ words tumble through my head.

Fuck Jayson. I can be perfectly spontaneous, thank you very much. Even if I don’t count my spontaneous bout of arson earlier - and I’d rather not - I’m not the complete shut-in bookworm he seems to think I am.

Please, I’ve got it. I can be spontaneous, and fun, and wild, and-

And that’s when I look up and see him just as he steps into the bar.

I’d say he’s gorgeous, but gorgeous doesn’t quite cover it. Gorgeous makes him sound pretty or primped to perfection, and he’s neither of those things.

The man is dark and brooding, like a storm cloud rolling onto a shore. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, and even though the lighting is terrible in this place, I can still see how dark his hair and his eyes are. The dim light of the place only accentuates the deep shadows across his face - the strong, chiseled jaw, the hollows of his cheeks, the way his brow furrows as he scans the room.

He’s across the bar, and when he suddenly looks up, the light catches something fierce and something piercing in his eyes. And mine are hooked on him. My eyes can’t seem to look away as they drink in the storm clouds of his face, the lightning in his eyes.

Those utterly perfect lips.

The tattoo ink on his neck, peeking out of the collar of his tight black t-shirt and leather jacket.

My gut clenches and my throat tightens, and I quickly bring the beer to my lips and swallow. My eyes are wide, following him as he effortlessly pushes his way through the crowd.

The man has bad decisions and wonderful regrets written all over his hardened, beautifully grim face.

And something ignites inside of me.

I reach for the shot in front of me and slam it back, feeling the room spin and lurch as I stumble from the bar stool.

Fuck it.

Fuck this place, fuck this night, and fuck Jayson and Max and fuck not being spontaneous enough.

I lurch through the crowd, realizing people are looking at me funny, realizing I’m sure I look as drunk as I feel but not really caring. I push past the final people between us, and then he’s right in front of me, his head turned as if looking at something in the back of the room.

My heart skips a beat, but I force myself onward. I stagger up to him and grab his leather jacket. He bristles as he whips his head down to look at me, leveling those piercing, haunting dark eyes at mine.

“Uh, hey,” I say it coyly. Or at least, I hope I say it coyly. I hope it doesn’t actually sound as completely stupid to him as it sounds to me as it leaves my mouth.

His eyes narrow at me. He says nothing.

Fuck he’s tall. Tall and big. Broad chest, broad shoulders, biceps bulging under the sleeves of his jacket.

I swallow.

This was a mistake.

No, it wasn’t.

“Yes?” he growls quietly, his thick baritone voice like gravel in my ears.

Fuck that’s hot.

I don’t know why I think it, and this isn’t remotely the kind of man I go for. I go for guys who imitate guys like this - guys who buy their leather jackets at expensive brand name stores, who get meaningless tattoos just to make them look tougher.

This man is the real deal.

He’s dangerous looking and criminally attractive in a way that sets off warning bells. Warning bells that I blatantly ignore.

“Um-”

I’m not actually sure what the plan was, beyond storming my way over here like I had a purpose. But then, that’s the point, right? To be spontaneous?

The point, there is no plan, not anymore. Because I’m saying no to plans.

And I’m saying yes to crazy, stupid ideas. Ideas like getting drunk and burning my ex-boyfriend’s garage down. Or, say, stalking up to random hot guys in bars and kissing them.

Which is exactly what I do next.

He freezes as I yank him down by the t-shirt and mash my lips to his. Freezes, that is, before he comes alive.

I gasp as he responds, his arms slipping around me and pulling me tight to that hard, firm body. My head spins as his perfect, soft lips part, and he growls as his tongue seeks mine hungrily. His stubble tickles my lip, and I find myself opening my mouth for him as he demands entrance.

Holy. Shit.

The crowds disappear, all the bullshit fades away, and the floor drops out beneath me.

It feels like I’m free falling - like I’m not even touching the ground there in his arms as my tongue eagerly seeks his. His hands are strong, one cupping the small of my back and the other firmly on my jaw. And my crazy kiss — my insane and my booze-fueled mistake ends up being the hottest, most toe-curling kiss I’ve ever had in my life.

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