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Chapter 1
Saint (September 10th, 2021)
AngeliseverywhereIlook tonight, and I keep having to tear my eyes off of them. It’s one of Pucker’s quarterly queer nights and I’m far from the only one trolling the crowd of familiar faces at the bar for a one-night stand. Living in a small town like Elk’s Pass, I know most of the people dancing in the dim lighting of the bar.
The rainbow-hued spotlights strobing over the temporary dance floor can’t hide that this is still a sport’s bar where the town locals gather to drink and watch hockey. Jerseys and other hockey memorabilia still line the walls, interspersed with huge televisions. The screens are set up so that every seat has a view of the game.
Tonight, half the screens are streaming music videos instead of sports highlights, adding to the club vibe. It’s not exactly a transformation, but normally I have to drive an hour out to Hamilton to find easy action. So it’s a pleasant treat to have options closer to home. I’ve just learned to be more careful with expectations when hooking up here in Elk’s Pass, the perils of small-town life.
Another peril is running into an old friend’s tagalong kid sibling all grown up and dressed to impress. Their skinny jeans hug their ass and a form-fitting vest over a bold floral button up emphasizes their masculine figure. As a teenager, Angel used to trail after my friends and me, annoying their brother, Marcus, to no end. Now, they’re gorgeous with their sharp features. Their lithe body entices me with their every movement among the knot of people taking advantage of the music to let loose.
Angel and I have been making eyes at each other all evening while I nursed my beer and they bounced and gyrated on the dance floor. No one else here tonight catches my eye, so I dance my way closer to them, trapped in their thrall.
Back when I represented them in their divorce, their hair was freshly shorn close to their scalp in a celebration of their freedom from a controlling ex. It has grown out in the almost two years since they first reached out to me to help end their marriage. They eye fuck me as they give me a coy little wave, inviting me to approach. They are by far the most alluring person in the bar.
I don’t fuck my clients. Not even when they bat those pretty long lashes and look up at me through a curtain of silky, dark mahogany hair. I got them full custody and the lion’s share of their marital assets. Which should mean they are strictly off limits. But a part of me really wants to make an exception to that rule for Angel.
Angel holds my gaze as I weave my way through the crowd of gyrating bodies. The dim lighting isn’t quite enough to give this gathering the illusion of anonymity. I recognize the guy dancing pressed to their back. Angel isn’t my only former client among the dancers.
Another downside to moving home to practice law in the tiny town near the US-Ontario border where I grew up is having to be a jack of all trades. It’s an upside too, never a dull day. If I’d stayed in Toronto with the cushy corporate law firm where I interned…well I’d be finding loopholes for rich assholes to get richer instead of helping my community.
And for all Angel’s guileless innocence, they needed my help when I represented them. Fucking a client is bad. Fucking a former client doesn’t have the best optics, but it’s not every day that I meet someone who makes me want to bend my own rules.
Which is why the first words out of my mouth when I find myself grinding against my former client are, “I don’t date.”
It’s a truth that has sent most of my exes running once they realize love will never change the fact that I’m aromantic. That truth nearly crushed me when I realized it about myself. Mostly because accepting that I’m not wired for romance meant also accepting that I will never be what the first great love of my life needs.
Angel loops their arms around my neck, pressing our bodies together, and it’s easy to push aside thoughts of their contentious divorce. The bold dancer in my arms is light-years from the timid person who sat in my office desperate to leave a miserable situation.
My own divorce—just a year into my ill-fated marriage to my best friend—was amicable, but it broke my heart to let Carl go. It still breaks me sometimes to know that one day I’m going to lose the closeness I’ve always shared with him when he finds his forever love. When he does, it won’t be in a place like this, the music flowing and my blood rushing at being in the middle of a tight knot of writhing bodies.
Carl is still my best friend. We even bought a duplex together when we moved back home. He’s my neighbor and a huge part of my life to this day—another fact that drives away potential dates, which is for the best, really. Every person I’ve let in since Carl has wanted that romance eventually, so it’s better not to let anyone close enough for walking away to hurt either party.
It all amps up the physical attraction thrumming through me at every touch from Angel. Their hands drift down to my biceps before they twist in my arms.
Angel grinds their perfect bubble butt back against me more insistently, and for a moment, I’m not sure if they heard me. Do I need to say it again? Angel grabs my hands and places them firmly on their hips, urging me to press us closer together. My breath catches at how good it feels, how naturally we move together.
Carl lives for the romance that will never come easily for me, but this I can do—use my body to bring a partner pleasure. I don’t do flowers just because, or surprise anniversary getaways for two with couple’s massages or whatever other trite tripe people expect from their lovers. It’s not me and I don’t want to force myself into pretzels to make someone else happy. No matter how much I love them. I couldn’t make Carl happy as his husband. And I won’t lead on someone as sweet as Angel.
I should make sure they heard me, but as I open my mouth to repeat myself, Angel smirks up at me over their shoulder. They look cockier than I’ve seen them since we were teenagers and they had a puppy love crush on me. It’s a relief to see a hint of their former fire back in their gray-blue eyes.
“Good, I don’t have time to be dated.” They wink at me, saucy as fuck and damn, is that ever hot.
“What are you looking for here?” I ask.
It’s hard to believe it’s already been over a year since I litigated their divorce. Which means two years since they separated from their ex. We’ve only seen each other in passing since our official attorney-client relationship ended. That’s enough time for this to be okay, right?
“Right now? To feel your hands on me while we dance.” They grind their ass against me again and I reflexively grip their sides tighter, guiding the movements.
Angel’s hips roll into me, and I have to bite back a moan as we move to the music. It would be so much easier to just forget the consequences and take this at face value. Just enjoy the gorgeous person making me feel good. Except I can’t forget that Angel is practically family. Carl’s sister’s husband’s baby sibling. So, family at several removes, but still.
“Stop overthinking it, Saint John.” Angel growls, turning in my arms and guiding my hands to the lush curves of their ass. Mm. I’m not going to argue with them. They certainly seem to know what they want from me as they nuzzle into the exposed skin at the open V of my shirt.
“Just Saint.” I gasp when their fingers tweak my nipple through my button up. Damn, they are winding me up and I’m already aching to get them alone. “Fuck, you want to drive me wild, Ange?”
Angel flinches, then shakes their head. They try to soften the reaction, wrinkling their nose at me—looking adorable as fuck—as they firmly correct the nickname. “Angel.”
“Got it. Angel,” I repeat. They’re still plastered against my body. I’m so hard. All I really want is to take them home and fuck them as senseless as they’re making me. I’m ready to throw caution to the winds. “Would you want to get out of here and get horizontal?”
