Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy #1) Read online

  Tara delivered the drink to the woman, then headed onto the main floor to clear off tables and make sure that the few customers still left didn’t want a final drink before the place closed. Clay started putting bottles of alcohol away while covertly watching the blonde as she dipped her tongue into the froth of whipped cream before she wrapped her lips around the rim of the shot glass, tipped her head back, and deep-throated the concoction, just as the drink name implied.

  Oh, fuck me…

  A soft moan escaped her as she swallowed. When she was done, she slowly licked the remnants of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth, her lashes falling half-mast. Her actions were so guileless and unpracticed, yet so fucking sexy it turned him on—and reminded him that it had been much too long since he’d gotten laid.

  One quick text to the woman with whom he had a friends-with-benefits arrangement could easily change that status, but first he needed to make sure the cupcake left his establishment safely, then he could close up the bar. Considering his reaction to the out-of-his-league blonde, he definitely needed to indulge in a hard, hot fuck.

  Tara returned with a tray of empty glasses and set them in the sink behind the bar. The last of the customers filtered out for the night, and two of his regulars gave him a wave on their way toward the exit.

  “See you later, Saint,” one of the older guys called out.

  Clay was more a sinner than any kind of saint, but ever since his brother Mason had given him the nickname years ago to irritate him—which it had—everyone had followed suit. And the nickname stuck. It had been easier to put up with the label than fight it.

  “’Night, Ted. Charlie.” He lifted his hand in a reciprocal good-bye. “Be safe out there.”

  Tara grabbed a damp rag and started to help him with the cleanup.

  “I’ll finish up here,” Clay said to her. “I know you have a mid-term exam tomorrow, so go home and study and get a good night’s sleep before your class in the morning.” Tara was attending college part-time to get her business degree, and Clay tried to support her in any way he could.

  She smiled at him, her expression relieved. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I’ll get the blonde to close out her tab, then head out.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He placed a bottle of Grey Goose vodka back on the liquor shelf. “She’s the last customer. I’ll take care of her.”

  “Of course you will, Saint Clay,” she said on a teasing drawl. “She definitely has that damsel-in-distress vibe about her, despite her expensive clothes and accessories.”

  Clay had a history—more like a bad habit—of helping and/or rescuing those who were down on their luck in some way, including Tara herself, though she’d come a long way from the broken, angry girl he’d originally employed at Kincaid’s. Hell, most of his workers had been hired based on their desperate need of a paycheck, as well as a way to prove their self-worth. A lot of them came from less-than-ideal circumstances, or were trying to recover from a hellish past as damaged as Clay’s own was.

  But the blonde wasn’t any of those things, and he doubted she needed any kind of rescuing—and certainly not from him. She was merely a pretty inconvenience, one that required Clay to do the dutiful thing, as he would with any of his customers who had had a few drinks too many.

  With his back to the blonde and still facing Tara, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a pointed look. “I’ll take care of her like I would any other tipsy patron,” he said, his tone direct. “She’ll pay her bill, and I’ll call a cab to take her home so she’s not driving under the influence. Making sure she leaves safely is all part of my responsibility as owner of this bar. Nothing more.”

  Tara reached up and patted his cheek. “You can try and justify it all you want, but you’re a good guy, Saint Clay.”

  Despite his nickname and the reason behind it, he wasn’t a fucking saint. Never had been and never would be. He’d done a shitload of illegal and immoral things he wasn’t proud of in his life, and while he’d done his best to redeem himself, there was still a darkness inside of him that would always remain.

  “Good night, Tara,” he said, his abrupt tone making it clear that he was done with this conversation.

  “See you tomorrow night, boss,” she said with a cheeky grin.

  She grabbed her purse and jacket from a cupboard behind the bar just as the dishwasher—a young kid he’d caught rummaging through the dumpster in the back for scraps to eat a few months ago—came out from the back area, where the small kitchen was. He was pushing a beaten-up bike, which was his mode of transportation that he kept in the storeroom so it didn’t get stolen. A plastic bag hung from the handlebar, and Clay knew it held a Styrofoam container of leftover appetizers from happy hour. Taking a meal home at the end of the night was something Clay had insisted on, since he suspected that was the kid’s main source of nutrition.

  “Elijah, walk Tara to her car on your way out?” he asked the kid. Clay usually escorted his female employees to the parking lot himself at the end of the night, but for liability purposes, he wasn’t about to leave the blonde completely alone for any length of time.

  “Yes, sir,” Elijah said respectfully, that belligerent chip on his shoulder he’d carried for the first few weeks of employment now a distant memory.

  Clay waited until the two were gone and he heard Tara lock the main door before he turned around to deal with the blonde. He strolled toward her end of the bar, where she was running her finger along the rim of her shot glass, her chin propped in her hand. As he approached, her heavy-lidded gaze shifted his way, then slid down the length of his body, blatantly checking him out.

  When her bluer-than-blue eyes found their way back up to his face, a soft sigh escaped her lips. “You are sooo freakin’ hot,” she said, her unfiltered comment a good indication that she was well and truly intoxicated. Then she glanced down at her empty glass and frowned. “I think I need another Royal Fuck, or maybe you could give me a Screaming Orgasm.” She giggled like a naughty little girl, so cute and impish. “I’ve never asked a guy for a Screaming Orgasm before, but that last one was so good I want another.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched with undeniable amusement. Damn, he didn’t want to like her. Didn’t want to see her as anything more than the rich, privileged woman she appeared to be. The inconvenience he’d referred to earlier, and it was that thought that prompted him to put an end to her evening.

  He took the shot glass from her fingers and set it in the sink beneath the bar. “I think you’ve had enough Royal Fucks and Screaming Orgasms for tonight, Cupcake.”

  “Cupcake?” Her pretty eyes lit up, her complexion rosy and flushed from the alcohol. “I like cupcakes. I like to make them, and I like to eat them. And when no one’s looking, I like to lick the frosting,” she said in a low, secretive whisper.

  Fuck. He wanted to lick her frosting, starting with her lush mouth and moving to her full breasts and tight nipples, then working his way lower, where she no doubt tasted sweeter than sugar. Those dirty thoughts sifted through his mind, along with a sudden jolt of arousal that had him gritting his teeth.

  His physical attraction to her was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, so raw and hot and immediate. She wasn’t even close to being his type of woman, but she was such an enigma, and the kind of temptation he knew would be nothing but trouble. With a shake of his head—mainly to jog some sense into his brain—he went to the register and printed up her bill. When he turned back around, he found her gaze in the vicinity of where his ass had been, and she was now shamelessly eyeing his crotch.

  She slowly licked her lips and raised her glassy eyes back to his. “That Blow Job I had was pretty tasty, too,” she said huskily, a faint hint of wickedness in her voice. “Maybe I’ll have another one of those.”

  A hotter-than-fuck image of her soft, pink lips wrapped around his cock as she sucked him off emblazoned itself in his mind. His unruly dick was totally on board with that idea, and he swallowed back
a groan.

  Jesus Christ, she was killing him.

  “The bar is closed and it’s getting late.” He placed the slip of paper on the bar in front of her. “If I can get you to settle your tab, we’ll get you on your way.” And he was certain he’d never see her again, thank God.

  That frown came back again, along with a hint of worry creasing her brows. She reached into her purse, fumbled around the contents for a few seconds, then withdrew a wallet with the same pattern that was on her handbag. With clumsy fingers, she tried to slide a credit card from its slot, and when she finally managed the feat, she gave it to him.

  He stared for a moment at the American Express Black Card. He’d heard that they existed, knew that the exclusive credit card was reserved for the obscenely wealthy, but had never seen one before. His bar clientele was strictly blue collar and paid in cash or with a standard credit or debit card. As he walked back to the register, he glanced at the name imprinted on the plastic card.

  Samantha Jamieson.

  Yeah, she looked like a Samantha, he thought, and ran the card through the system. A few seconds later, the word DECLINED showed up on the display. Certain that was a mistake, he swiped it again…and the reply remained the same.

  Holy shit. Had she really maxed out one of the highest-limit credit cards available? He hadn’t seen that coming. He returned to Samantha, but before he could say anything, she looked up at him with wide, knowing eyes.

  “It didn’t work, did it?” she asked in a pained voice.

  “Umm, no,” he replied, and handed her back the card. “Do you have a different one you’d like to use?” He was certain she had half a dozen credit cards to choose from.

  She swallowed hard and shook her head. “No. None of them will work,” she said softly, disbelief etching her beautiful features. “He really did it. My father completely cut me off,” she mumbled in resignation.

  Before he could process that interesting statement, she swayed on her chair, and Clay instinctively reached across the bar to grab her arms before she fell off her seat and ended up on the floor on her ass. She clutched his forearms as she tilted to the side again.

  “The room is starting to spin.” Her eyes squinted in a frown as she tried to focus on him. “And you look…a little fuzzy.”

  Oh, yeah, the cupcake was drunk. He no longer cared about her bill, but he needed to figure out what to do with her. “Samantha, I need your cell phone so I can call someone to pick you up.”

  “Got rid of it,” she murmured as she pressed her fingers to her temple. “Don’t want my father to find me.”

  Her responses were getting stranger and stranger, and he had no idea if what she was speaking was the truth or the alcohol talking. Who got rid of their cell phone because they were worried someone would find them—unless they were running from trouble? And now she was his problem. Fucking great.

  He gently pulled her forward so her arms were resting on the counter, supporting most of her weight so she didn’t tip to the side again. He quickly moved around the bar, then turned her around on the chair so that she was facing him. She blinked up at his face, looking so sad, so forlorn, that he felt an odd tightening in his chest.

  He exhaled a frustrated stream of breath. “There has to be someone I can call. Or how about I get your address from your driver’s license and have a cab take you home—”

  She shook her head wildly, sending that cloud of silky blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. “I can’t go home. Don’t make me go back home.”

  He really wanted to be a cold, cruel bastard and send her home anyway so she was no longer his headache, but considering her emotional state, and the alcohol in her system, she was at a huge disadvantage and would never be able to deal logically with whatever she was running from.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  She reached out and clutched a handful of his T-shirt, her eyes shimmering with moisture. “Oh, God, what have I done? I don’t have…anything. I don’t have any money, nowhere to go…” As if finally realizing how dire her situation was, she threw herself against his chest and burst into tears.

  The woman had no boundaries, because she was suddenly plastered against him, her arms around his neck and her face buried against his throat as she had a mini breakdown—and he somehow became her lifeline. He was used to handling obnoxious drunks and disorderly bullies that came through the bar, but this… He had no clue what to do with a clingy, emotional female—and one that smelled so soft and deliciously feminine.

  He tentatively wrapped an arm around her waist to make sure her legs didn’t give out on her, all too aware of the crush of her breasts against his chest, and how her curvy body fit his in all the right places. And, yeah, his stiffening cock noticed, too, and didn’t hesitate to make his interest known.

  She finally calmed down and sniffled, and he almost laughed when she rubbed her runny nose against his T-shirt. The act was so unladylike, so unrefined, that he was certain she’d never do such a thing if she were clear-headed. But it made her seem more vulnerable and real. Not at all the cool, aloof socialite he’d originally pegged her for.

  She let out a soft, shaky exhale, and her damp breath caressed the side of his neck. “I’m so tired, and I don’t know what to do, where to go…” Her whispered words trailed off, and she snuggled closer, trusting him, a stranger, with her welfare.

  Clay clenched his jaw and made a quick, split-second decision he prayed he didn’t come to regret later. She was in no shape to go anywhere, and he wasn’t such an asshole that he’d just send her on her way to fend for herself, when she was clearly high on alcohol and her judgment was skewed.

  He grabbed her purse, kept an arm secured around her waist, and guided her toward the back of the bar while shutting down the lights in the place as they went. She was wobbly on her heels, and she didn’t even question where he was taking her, just accepted that he was a nice guy and would keep her safe. Which was incredibly stupid on her part. He could have been a serial killer, for all she knew, and that thought just reinforced his decision to take her to his apartment upstairs and let her sleep off the liquor she’d consumed. And in the morning—and he was betting she’d be nursing a helluva hangover—she would be on her way and would no longer be his worry.

  Getting her up the steps and keeping her steady on her feet was a test of his patience. She giggled each time she tripped, her mind already forgetting about the meltdown she’d just had at the bar as she flirted with him and told him once again how freakin’ hot he was. He really wanted to be annoyed, and he would have been if she’d ended up being high maintenance, but she was actually kind of adorable…until he got her into his apartment and her face suddenly turned pale.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach and licked her dry lips, a panicked look in her eyes. “I’m so dizzy, and I don’t feel so good.”

  Oh, shit. Clay knew exactly what was coming, and also knew the eruption wasn’t going to be pretty considering the array of drinks she’d had. Dropping her purse on the couch, he rushed her to the one bathroom in the small apartment, which was connected to the only bedroom in the place.

  She started to moan, and he curled his fingers around the back of her neck and pushed her to her knees in front of the toilet just as she started to heave. He wasn’t quick enough. She started to throw up before her head was over the bowl, and a very colorful concoction splashed onto her silk blouse and expensive-looking pants before he could finally get her positioned over the commode. Even then, her hair fell around her face as she puked, and chunks of gross shit caught in the blonde strands.

  Clay grimaced and swore beneath his breath as he did his best to pull her hair back while she continued to throw up. As he waited for her to empty her stomach, he thought about all the times he’d stood vigil over the toilet with Mason during his brother’s wild and out-of-control teenage years. Hell, Mason was still wild and rebellious, but at least Clay was no longer responsible for sobering him up, thank God.

  As the oldest with t
wo younger brothers, Clay had been forced to step into the role of a father figure to Mason and Levi at the age of sixteen—or risk the three of them being separated by the foster care system. While his mother served her eighteen-month prison term for drug possession and prostitution, it had been Clay who’d made sure his brothers were fed, clothed, and made it to school every day (though Mason had spent most of his high school years ditching class so he could smoke weed or bang some chick, or sitting through detention for being a belligerent smartass to one of his teachers). There had been no father around to help at any point in their lives. Not when his mother had conceived each one of them with some nameless john she’d slept with to support her meth habit.

  Another low groan from Samantha brought Clay’s mind back to the present, which was where he preferred to remain. The past was filled with nothing but shitty, painful recollections that, for the most part, he managed to keep buried deep in that place inside him where he locked away his darkest memories.

  Done retching, she finally pushed away from the toilet, trying to look composed despite how inelegantly she’d just thrown up and how wasted she still was. He released her sticky hair, grabbed a clean washcloth, dampened it with water from the sink, then gave it to her to wash her face.

  She swiped the cloth across her mouth and chin, then looked down at herself, cringing in dismay as she caught sight of her soiled clothes. “That was disgusting,” she murmured in embarrassment as she looked up at him from where she was still sitting on the floor. “And now…and now I’m all messy.”

  Truthfully, his cupcake looked like shit and smelled just as bad. “Yeah, you’re a hot mess, all right,” he said, a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice.

  She perked up ever so slightly, an impish smile curving the corner of her mouth. “No…you’re freakin’ hot,” she said again.

  He chuckled when she totally misconstrued the phrase hot mess as a compliment. Clay was undoubtedly jaded when it came to women. He wasn’t amused by them, and he didn’t laugh with them much, either. He didn’t do relationships or romance or dating. Normally, the extent of his interaction with a woman was serving one a drink at the bar or hooking up for a quick fuck. Yet this woman was already getting under his skin and intriguing him more than was wise.