Page 74 of Savage Saint

I don’t answer. It’s impossible to do so, because walking a few steps behind Rizos is Saint himself, holding an open bottle of my favorite soda and taking a sip. He scrunches his nose a bit after, looks down at the bottle, then tips it back again.

And it’s a panty-destroying catastrophe.

The way his throat bobs. The small lick across the bottom lip.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach while a few beads of sweat roll down my back, clinging to the light cotton fabric of my maxi dress. Then, there’s this low, embarrassing sound that escapes me.

Not a whine, but not quite a moan. It’s almost a choking whimper.

Immediately, my father gets the wrong idea and pats my back, thinking I’m suffocating on air. His taps are a little hard, and I stumble forward—lose my footing—until a strong grip catches me before this gets uglier.

I know and recognize the touch. His scent.

“Careful, Pocket Doc.” That’s it. In that deep, smooth-as-whiskey tone. He gives the warning, rights me, and then turns away back to his bike. It happened so fast; I have no time to find my voice before he’s gone, and I’m left standing with the faint sound of Rizos’s chuckles before the bikes disappear.

What. The. Hell.

How?

He shouldn’t be anywhere near⁠—

“Are you okay, Genesis?” Dad’s voice comes from beside me, and it’s then I realize my hands are shaking. “Sorry about that. Didn’t realize I patted your back so hard.”

“I’m fine.” A croak. Full of shock.

“Thank God someone caught you, even if it’s the kind of man I want nowhere near you.”

That takes me aback. My expression pinches tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just stay away.” Dad gives me a look before walking inside the colmado, and I follow without turning around. Mostly. One glance over my shoulder doesn’t count, especially when I hear the loud muffler of a motorcycle.

It’s not him. Just some old man on an older model of bike I can’t name, turning onto our street and riding past the store.

Inside, Dad’s already by the cooler, grabbing two six-packs, while I’m bothered by what he said outside.

He has no vote in my love life if I ever decide to walk down that path.

He has no right to judge people when he’s made more than one mistake in his life.

“You should’ve said thank you to the man who caught me before I fell.”

“I’m sure he didn’t care either way.”

“Why the attitude, Pa? You’re not usually rude.”

Dad looks over his shoulder and gives me that look again. The one full of I’m your father and know what’s best, but it doesn’t make me back down. If anything, I return the favor with an arched brow that says: it didn’t work when I was a teen and still doesn’t work now.

“Do you know who they are? Who he is?”

“You know of them. There’s a difference.”

“Why are you defending them?” His tone is accusatory. Nosy, too.

“Because casting stones is a sin, Mr. Romero. Don’t be one of those people.” Walking past him, I reach into a secondary cooler door and grab a bottle of Country Club raspberry soda. The same one Saint walked out of the door drinking. “You don’t actually know him or his people; they don’t bother anyone or affect your day-to-day.”

“I know they came here, set themselves up, and trouble followed.”

“You’ve seen this trouble? Like in front of you?”