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    The Sinner and the Saint
    The Sinner and the Saint
    The Sinner and the Saint
    Ebook166 pages2 hours

    The Sinner and the Saint

    By RJ Scott

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    About this ebook

    The hero is a sinner. The bad guy is a saint. And agreeing to sex for just a month turns everything else upside down.

    Ben Rockwell, a former military medic, arrives in Ellery with a mission to establish a specialized unit for post-trauma care at the Veterans Center. Driven by a strong desire to rectify past battlefield decisions, he pours all his focus into this endeavor, disregarding everything else. However, his world takes an unexpected turn when a stranger moves in next door, throwing him off balance. Despite being hailed as a hero, Ben feels burdened by the weight of concealed truths, and knows he is anything but.

    British actor, Nicholas Merrick, accused by the media of cheating on his fiancé and then coming out as gay flees from London, and seeks refuge in his friend’s house in small town Tennessee. He intends to remain hidden until the chaos in his past subsides. The choices he made in his life were motivated by protecting his best friend, but everyone has painted him as the villain. The moment Ben and Nicholas cross paths, they fall in lust, but is love possible for the sinning hero and the saintly bad boy?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRJ Scott
    Release dateApr 24, 2018
    ISBN9781785641251
    The Sinner and the Saint
    Author

    RJ Scott

    RJ Scott is the author of the best selling Male/Male romances The Christmas Throwaway, The Heart Of Texas and the Sanctuary Series of books.She writes romances between two strong men and always gives them the happy ever after they deserve.

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      Book preview

      The Sinner and the Saint - RJ Scott

      Chapter One

      Loud banging, with added yelling, pulled Nick out of a nightmare. After a restless, irritable, messy night of tossing and turning, he had finally fallen asleep sometime before dawn. Only to wake up at fuck o’clock in the morning to someone pounding on the front door. And some asshole shouted words that he couldn’t make out. Was this part of his dream? He couldn’t tell.

      For the longest time, he lay flat on his back, unwilling to move. He was bound up in the sheets like a mummy, the quilt on the floor, and he was still in that half world between nightmare and reality. Even closing his eyes didn’t help dispel the vivid images of him walking up to the Oscar podium completely naked with the Queen pointing and laughing at him.

      He’d been naked as the day he was born, hanging loose and free, and no one said a thing. Apart from laughing at him, that was.

      And the Queen was throwing popcorn at him.

      Yep, it had been that kind of nightmare, and it wasn’t the first time he’d had it. And where the Oscar fear had come from, he didn’t know. There would never be a chance at an Oscar for him. Not for the guy whose acting career had come about by accident and developed only because of a personal rebellion against his straitlaced family. His résumé included two sequels to the highly profitable, but formulaic, shit-bad, Angels of Bedlam franchise, with his entire fee going to charity because he didn’t need the money.

      Nick hadn’t been in the first UK-funded Bedlam film. That film had been praised for its ingenious twist on a dark horror romance. No, he had played the handy British villain in the two sequels, the studio cashing in on any money that might be left out there in a saturated market, by ticking all the boxes. Explosions, tick. Strong, but mostly naked, female lead, tick. Sexy, down on his luck, in the wrong place at the wrong time, male lead, tick.

      And him, the ubiquitous bad guy with the English accent.

      The follow-ups were certainly not Oscar material, and once Nick pulled his fragmented sleep-addled thoughts together, he focused on the statistical likelihood of his even being nominated for an Oscar in the first place, let alone accepting it naked.

      Fuck me, he muttered to the empty room and rolled onto his front. No one actually knew he was staying at Jason’s house, so he wasn’t going to answer the door.

      Jason McInnery and his husband, Kieran, lived in this stunning home, in the small town of Ellery, Tennessee. With glass from floor to ceiling, wide open rooms, a pool in the garden, and the most comprehensive jungle gym he’d ever seen for their son, Jonas. Even the damn guest room was beautiful—a huge wood carving took up nearly one wall, and the view from the window to the mountain was stunning. At least that was the adjective he was supposed to use for what he could see in the daylight. Objectively, he could imagine it was spectacular from the photos he’d seen on Jason’s private Snapchat, but he was too exhausted to think about it now. A quick glance at the clock showed him it was five a.m. and still dark in the shadow of the mountain, so he rolled over and pulled the covers up to his neck.

      Even amidst the chaotic remnants of his nightmare, he welcomed the heat that cocooned him and willed whomever was knocking to fuck right off. The mess of dreams forgotten, he drifted on as many good thoughts as he could muster and was very nearly asleep when the banging started again. He groaned and hid his face under the pillow, willing the person creating the noise to go away. Then it ceased, and he closed his eyes but didn’t remove the pillow. Dawn was too close now, and the room would fill with light because he hadn’t even taken the time to pull the drapes.

      Unfortunately, his bladder had other ideas about what he needed to do, and cursing, he grabbed the sheets and untwisted himself. Feet planted on the floor, he scrubbed a hand over his face. The untamed beard was just another reminder of everything that was horribly wrong about his life. Normally, he would have just the right amount of stubble, but the last installment of Angels of Bedlam, cunningly entitled Bedlam Adrift, called for him to be a castaway, hence the beard, which he’d left to tangle.

      No point in worrying about it anyway. He’d left London to get away from the paparazzi with their incessant need for more, and he was in unofficial hiding. Therefore, no one would see his beard or his bloodshot eyes.

      He caught sight of himself in the mirror.

      Jesus, you look fucked.

      Bedhead. Bags under his eyes. Beard. It was a whole cacophony of B-shit. Yawning widely, he padded across the bedroom to the half bath, emptying his bladder and washing his hands. He’d gone to bed as nature intended. Well, warm nature anyway, completely naked, which had probably led to the nightmare. Packing back home had been done in less than five minutes; his priorities had been money, passport, his phone, laptop, and associated chargers. It seemed as if his messed-up head hadn’t thought any kind of pajamas were needed or indeed underwear.

      The next choice was shower or bed, and with the exhaustion of the past few days, the media attention, plus making sure Heather was okay, fleeing the UK, ending up here in the middle of rural Tennessee, it was all too much, and he sighed.

      Bed it is, he muttered to his reflection. As soon as he woke up, he was going online to order everything he’d forgotten to pack. Jason had said to help himself to anything he needed but helping himself to his friend’s clothes didn’t feel right.

      He yawned again and stepped out into the cooler bedroom, eyes only half-open.

      Hands where I can see them, someone shouted, and Nick, startled, his heart pounding, fell backwards into the bathroom, catching himself on the doorjamb as best he could. He blinked to focus on the man in front of him.

      A cop.

      With his hand on the holster of his gun, ready to pull it out and shoot him.

      He raised his hands and then lowered them to cover his junk and then raised them again when the cop didn’t move.

      Can I just…? He began to ask if he could at least get a towel, and then it hit him. Why was a cop in Jason’s house? He went on the defensive. Why the bloody hell are you in here?

      Officer Ryan, Ellery PD, the cop said. What’s your name?

      Nick was tired, naked, and beyond pissed off, but he stayed polite. Officer Ryan, a pleasure to meet you, but you have me at a disadvantage.

      You’re English, the cop summarized. British, he corrected as if he wasn’t sure which was appropriate. Given that any time he was in the States Nick was asked either of these questions, he just nodded. Next would be a question about where he came from, and he knew as long as he said London, then everyone would know where that was.

      No point in telling them he was originally from Oxfordshire, but that he hadn’t been born in Oxford, or that yes, he was a Brit, but that didn’t mean he had to sound like Hugh Grant or say bloody hell all the time as Ron from Harry Potter did.

      British, yes, he confirmed.

      I need a name.

      What? Why are you even in the house? he asked. Because hell, the cop didn’t seem to recognize him, but what if, weirdly, he was a Bedlam fan or knew anything about the wealthy Merrick family? The name might well strike a chord, and then all anonymity in this town would be gone.

      Officer Ryan’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. Evidently, he couldn’t believe that this Brit was the one asking questions.

      Your name, he ground out with determination.

      Nick, he finally answered, "I was not causing a disturbance unless you count snoring, which I can’t defend as I was asleep."

      Another voice came from outside the bedroom.

      Finn? Was there someone in there? Do you need help?

      Officer Ryan, or Finn as the other guy called him, six feet of sexy, ignored the question.

      Your full name?

      Look, this is sensitive, okay. The guy who owns this house, Jason McInnery, he knows I’m here, Nick explained. He gave me the code to get in, said I could use the place as I wanted.

      He offered the information with a put-upon sigh and hoped to hell that was enough. Then he edged back into the bathroom a little, conscious he was naked, and that this was way worse than going up on a stage for a damn Oscar.

      Someone appeared at Finn’s side, tall, in a suit, with narrowed eyes, and a fixed expression. Who the fuck are you? the newcomer asked, all brash and bristling.

      Finn stiffened, Wait outside, Ben.

      'Ben' rounded the corner and stared at Nick, his eyes wide, and then his gaze dropped to where Nick was completely exposed. That was the last straw. Nick dropped his hands and covered himself.

      Could I get a towel? Nick asked, oh so very patiently, and inclined his head toward the cotton softness hanging on the heated towel rail, which of course, Officer Ryan wouldn’t be able to see.

      Slowly, the cop warned, his hand still on his holster.

      Call him stupid, tired, or pissed, Nick made a comedic and exaggerated show of reaching for the fluffy cotton and then pulling it toward himself like a magician showing he wasn’t hiding anything.

      Can I? he asked and gestured with the towel. Then he stared at Ben, who was still casting glances from his face to his junk. As long as your friend here has seen enough?

      Ben had the grace to look away, but that didn’t mean he’d put down the hockey stick he was holding. Only when the towel was in place did Nick step into the bedroom. He got a better view of the cop and the other guy and wondered what would happen next. Officer Ryan’s radio crackled, a female voice asking for a follow-up on the call.

      Sue, get me Jason on the line; ask him if he has houseguests while he’s away. Some guy called Nick.

      Great, now they were getting somewhere. Jason would confirm that he had indeed offered a place to Nick.

      Who are you? Ben asked as the cop waited for confirmation.

      Nick wasn’t here to play nice with a cop, particularly one with a non-cop at his side. He wasn’t interested in giving his name, or his connection to Jason, or to answer any god damn questions from a perfect stranger.

      That is none of your business, Nick said, evenly.

      It’s my business when I’m tasked with watching over a neighbor’s house and I see some idiot sneaking around, see lights go on, and no one answers the freaking door.

      Ben sounded pissed off, way more annoyed than Nick was. It seemed as though he took this neighborhood watch business very seriously. In fact, he was edgy, wary, and after checking Nick out, he seemed less able to look at him.

      I wonder what this guy’s story is?

      I was asleep, and it’s the middle of the night.

      Ben’s lips thinned. "You always sleep with the outside lights on? Like, all the lights?"

      Nick loved finding out what made people tick; it was part and parcel of being observant. He’d been taught to do it since he was a kid, cataloging expressions and trying to understand motivations. A useful tool in business, his dad had reminded him, know your enemy.

      Ben was holding the hockey stick in a combative position; his knuckles were white and his jaw set. He was fierce standing there as if he wanted to take Nick down. His shoulders were back, stance wide and steady, with styled but short hair, his face was clear of stubble. He was primed and ready for action, and Nick immediately had him pigeonholed as military. Not a cop otherwise, Officer Ryan would have let him in on the scene and not asked him to wait outside.

      Soldier? Sailor? Airman? Who the

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