Page 87 of No Saint
The red glow of the Roller Burger sign spilled over the street, like some poor attempt at the Red Light District of Amsterdam. Although, I was fairly certain the scantily clad blonde leaned against the streetlight on the corner was actually a hooker.
The parking lot was empty, the same way it always was on a Sunday night. No one wanted to work this shift, but I always said yes. Even if I got no tips, the crappy hourly rate was something. Plus, all the Sunday staff felt the same, and no one cared if I did some schoolwork between the rare customers.
I clocked in, plopped down onto one of the benches under the awning, and changed into my skates.
“I hate a Sunday double.” Cassie rolled to a stop beside me and sat down. “Guess how many Jesus flyers I got today?”
The post-church crowd always came in for an early lunch. Again, only one reason anyone came to Roller Burger, and beinga pervert wasn’t very Godly. But oh, how they liked to ram it down our throats while checking out our asses. They “tipped” with the holy spirit and church leaflets. Cheap assholes.
Cassie pulled at least five crumpled leaflets for the same church out of her apron pocket.
“Well, at least you’ll have lots of sky daddy points.”
“Only one way I’m going when I pop my clogs.”
“Pretty sure the devil will send you back, Cass.”
“He can try.” She grinned. “I reckon he’s hot though, so…”
“My mother would say you need Jesus.” She needed something, that was for sure.
“Mine too. How was it? Going home?”
I knew she was asking about my dad without asking. “Good. Same old.” In more ways than one. Same old dad refusing to be reasonable. Same problems. Poverty, illness, Wolf. Same old making out at The Lookout like we used to when we were teenagers…
“I wish I could have come with you guys,” she said on a pout. “That party looked fun.”
“Wouldn’t know. I didn’t go.”
“Obviously.” Everyone knew I hated parties. She took her phone from her pocket and tapped the screen a few times. “Seriously, though, Hendrix is so hot. If only?—”
“Gross. Even if he were single, trust me, you wouldn’t want to touch him with a ten-foot pole. He’s a man whore.” I held up my hand. “Excuse me, a rehabilitated man whore.”
Behind us, the grill sizzled, the scent of frozen patties thawing wafting over my shoulder.
“Wolf was a man whore, too. Didn’t stop you, little Miss Don’t Date Bad Boys.”
He was a six-foot-three high schooler with more muscle than most fully grown men. There wasn’t a girl in Dayton who didn’t want him—yeah, myself included. Of course he was a whore. Shelifted a Judgy McJudgerson brow at me. “Monroe told me all the stories about those Dayton boys.”
What happened to girl code, or what happens in Dayton stays in Dayton? Monroe was giving confusing messages in our co-management of Cassie. “And from the sound of it, Wolf was Grade-A bad.”
“Yeah, well, learn from my mistakes.” Guilt niggled at me for calling Wolf a mistake.
A look of what could only be described as pity crossed Cassie’s face. “I guess you saw Wolf was with that girl on Saturday night?”
Girl? What girl? He was with me on Saturday night. Something in my chest sank, like a foretelling of things to come.
Cassie must have seen something on my face shift. “I did tell you not to get attached to him again. To throw your words back at you, you should stay away from bad boys. And seeing as he literally blackmailed you, I’m thinking you’re drawn to extra toxic?—”
“What girl?”
She pulled her phone from her apron. “I saw it on Hendrix’s InstaPic.” Then she tapped over the screen and held it out to me.
I’d deleted social media after Wolf and I broke up. I could have just blocked him, but I didn’t even want to catch a glimpse of him in the back of someone else’s picture, the way he was now in Hendrix’s story from last night.
In the Hunt brothers’ backyard, Hendrix, Lola, Zepp, and Monroe stood in a group, smiling at the camera. But my focus quickly shifted to the background.
My heart sank at the sight of Wolf sitting on the trampoline with Nora. “That’s his ex,” I said, all too aware of the bitter tone of my voice.
