Dirty Saint: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read online

  DIRTY SAINT

  By Vesper Vaughn

  COPYRIGHT 2016 Vesper Vaughn

  STAY IN TOUCH

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  Contents

  STAY IN TOUCH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  STAY IN TOUCH

  MORE STORIES BY VESPER VAUGHN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SOUNDTRACK FOR DIRTY SAINT

  SAINT

  They call me Saint. That’s not my name.

  My name is actually Francis Hodgkins Williams. The third.

  Yeah.

  My parents hate me. That’s the only reasoning I have for why they named me that.

  But everyone calls me Saint now. Saint Francis.

  Get it?

  I’m the miracle on the football field. The pious, well-mannered college senior who took Fullerton University from obscurity to the top division of college football.

  All on my own. I was on the varsity football team straight out of high school and ended up a sophomore quarterback who ploughed through the competition.

  Everyone wants to know where I get my talent from. I tell them from God, of course.

  The truth, if I could say it at press conferences, is that everyone we play against is a fucking joke.

  But I’m not supposed to say ‘fucking’ because it’s against the honor code. So I flash my blue eyes at the camera, paint Bible verses underneath my eyes on game day, and point to the sky when I make my eighth touchdown of the game.

  I own this pathetic little university and everyone in it.

  And that’s exactly how I like it.

  PROLOGUE

  ESTHER

  I pull the top of my buttoned cardigan closer to my chest. My cheeks are on fire as Saint steps closer to me.

  “We can’t. Not here,” I whisper. “This place is sacred.”

  Saint smirks at me. “We can’t do what? I’m not doing anything.” He inches closer to me and my heart races. “Did you want to do something? With me?”

  “I need to set the candles out for the evening service,” I say, my voice cracking. I turn my back to him and look once more into the old cedar cupboard. I pull out a dozen white taper candles and drop half of them on the floor.

  “Do I make you nervous or something?” Saint growls from behind me.

  I bend down to pick up the candlesticks and feel Saint’s eyes burning through the fabric of my floor-length skirt. I stand up quickly and hold the candles close to my chest. “I really have to go replace these.”

  Saint reaches his hands over to my chest and I freeze. “Let me carry those for you.”

  I’m speechless as he gathers them into his hands, his fingertips brushing against the soft fabric of my cardigan. I close my eyes, my breathing slow and deep. I try not to think about what he wants to do with those hands.

  God is watching us.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ESTHER

  “Sister Esther, what are your thoughts?”

  I’m torn out of my reverie by a question from my professor. “Um, I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”

  The stern-faced woman at the front of the classroom is my women’s studies professor. Professor Jenkins. Professor Ruth Jenkins. She smooths out her floor-length denim skirt and grimaces at me. “I asked you what your thoughts are on the woman’s role in the church.”

  I look down at my notebook and realize it’s completely and utterly blank. I’ve been daydreaming through the entire class. I blame the brilliant fall day unfolding outside of the wood-framed windows. If I’m honest with myself, I can also blame the football team practicing in the field below. “I think women should…” I trail off, torn between what I want to say and what I should say. “Defer to men in all things.”

  “And do you have biblical evidence to support that?”

  I hear the voice of my father in my head as I speak my answer. “A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not the one deceived; it was the woman who was deceived and became a sinner. But women will be saved through childbearing—if they continue in faith, love and holiness with propriety. First Timothy, chapter two, verses eleven through fifteen.”

  I glance over at my roommate who is absentmindedly braiding a strand of her hair that’s fallen out of her low bun. She rolls her eyes at me and I try not to laugh.

  “That’s the New International Version, Esther,” Professor Jenkins intones. “Can you give me the King James Bible.”

  I squirm in my seat, chastising myself. I start again. “Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression. Notwithstanding she shall be saved in childbearing, if they continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety.”

  Professor Jenkins smiles. “Very well done.” There is a single, digital tone that rings out through the speakers to indicate class is mercifully finished. “Hopefully I will see each and every one of you at the prayer supper tonight.”

  Everyone gathers up their books but Professor Jenkins isn’t quite finished. “Esther, if you could stay behind, please.”

  My hand automatically goes to the top of my sweater. Sometimes the top button comes undone and I don’t realize it. I hate violating the dress code. But no, I’m all buttoned. This can’t be anything good. I pick up my books and walk to her desk.

  Romy, my roommate, is waiting for me by the door. I wave at her. “Go ahead, I’ll see you back in our room.”

  The door shuts and dulls the voices of students rushing through the halls outside. “Esther, you seem distracted recently.”

  I shake my head. “No, not really, ma’am.”

  “Have you been taking any time off? I know it’s hard being the Honors College student President. I want to make sure you’ve been having some fun.”

  I think back to the last few weeks, from the beginning of this sem
ester onward. “I haven’t had a lot of time to relax, honestly.”

  Professor Jenkins smiles at me. “Well, I suggest you find some fun somewhere. I think some of the students are renting a bus and going apple picking for the food bank this weekend. And there’s the big football game.”

  My stomach does a backflip at the mention of football. I try to compose myself. “I’ll look into that. Thank you, Professor. See you tonight at dinner.”

  I rush out of the room before she can pull me back inside. Romy has her phone out and she’s texting. “Romy! Put that away. You really can’t wait until we’re back in the dorm room to do that?” I think about the number of times Romy’s had her phone confiscated. We’re not supposed to have cell phones in academic buildings.

  She rolls her eyes. “Nobody’s going to take this from me.” She motions around the empty hallway. “There’s nobody even here. It’s Friday, no one cares. They all just want to go home.”

  I sigh. “Suit yourself.” We walk out of the academic building into the full October sunshine. The sky is a cloudless blue and the leaves on campus are a firestorm of color. It can’t be much more than sixty-eight degrees. I have the sudden desire to pull off my cardigan.

  I look over at Romy, who’s already unbuttoning hers. “You really just want to get in trouble, don’t you?” I ask her.

  She laughs. “I want some sun on my skin for once. And if the boys are sent into a masturbatory rage, then so be it.” She pulls off her cardigan and reveals a spaghetti strap tank top. I look around, way more nervous than she is. “If you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, you can walk a few steps ahead, Esther.”

  I pause. “I’m fine.” The sound of a relaxed student body with the promise of a weekend ahead of them fills the air. We walk slowly back to our dorm.

  “So what did Professor Barren have to talk to you about?”

  “Don’t call her that,” I intone.

  “What? It’s not like anything at this place could set back feminism any more than it already has.” Romy loosens her bun and shakes her long, red hair out over her shoulders.

  “She thinks I need to have more fun.”

  Romy laughs. “She thinks? Her? Seriously?” She mock-applauds me. “You’ve done the impossible. You’ve out-losered Professor Barren.”

  “Thanks a lot, Romy,” I reply. “She suggested I go apple picking.”

  Romy laughs so loudly several Frisbee-tossing freshman turn around to look at her. One of the girls glares at Romy’s lack of clothing. “Apple picking! Wow. Yeah, that’ll really turn your world upside down.”

  “She also suggested the football game on Sunday, but I don’t know. I don’t really like crowds.”

  Romy rolls her eyes. She slips her key card out of her wallet and opens the door to our dormitory. She holds it open for me. “I think I have a much better idea of something you could do to help with your need to unwind.”

  We walk through the industrial-carpeted hallways, the fluorescent lights buzzing over our heads. I unlock our dorm room and push inside, setting my books neatly on the shelf above my pristine desk. Romy’s side of the room looks like a bomb exploded. A bomb filled with pink and glitter. My side is neat. Or as Romy says: “Intensely plain and boring.”

  Romy throws her books onto her unmade bed. “I’m telling you, you’ve gotta come with me tonight.”

  I pull my hair out of its bun. The long, waist-length strands fall to my waist. I stare at my plainness in the mirror. I’d give anything to have red hair like Romy. But dying it is against the honor code. “Whatever you have planned, I’m not going.”

  Romy groans. “You seriously need to unclench and have a little fun, Esther. I promise we won’t get caught, alright? I never have. In fact, no party has been busted at this house. Ever.”

  I study my profile in the mirror. Then I realize this is the height of vanity and I stop. “With my luck, it’ll be the first time that it does get shut down.”

  Romy looks at the clock on the wall. “The prayer dinner is at seven tonight. We go to that, then we come back here and sneak off campus. It’s easy. I’ve done it a billion times. You’re going with me. No excuses, no exceptions. Pinky swear?”

  I’m resigned to what she’s saying. I reach out my hand and wrap my pinky around hers. “Pinky promise.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SAINT

  I stand in the mirror of my bedroom and straighten my tie. I look boring. But that’s the general idea. My khaki pants, plain white button down shirt and navy tie are supposed to blend into the background. “I’m going to be so happy to stop wearing these fucking clothes after I graduate.”

  Rick, my roommate, barely looks up from his gaming PC to answer me. “Yeah, I guess,” he replies.

  “Are you even listening to me, dude?”

  Rick hits all the buttons of the controller at once and stands up, hollering. “Victory is mine!” He does a lap around the room.

  “Finally get to Virgin Level Ten on your fairy tale game?”

  Rick throws a football at my face and I catch it at the last second.

  “Very funny,” he retorts. He opens the drawers of his dresser and pulls out a uniform identical to my own. “And yeah, I was listening to you. The translation of what you were saying is something like ‘I’m joining the national league and will be raking in twenty million dollars at the age of twenty-two. Yeah, I got the message.”

  “And you’ll be raking in cash as a lawyer,” I retort.

  Rick laughs. “Not quite the same thing, buddy.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Except my odds of making money long-term are much greater than your odds. You’ll tear your ACL in your third season and end up running a sandwich shop back in Des Moines.”

  I bite my lip. “Going for the jugular after I called you a virgin?”

  Rick nods. “Fair play, Saint. It’s fair play.”

  “You coming to the party tonight? It’s supposed to be a rager.”

  Rick glances over at his computer

  “Your binary-and-circuit-board girlfriend will still be here when we get back,” I say. I look at the clock. “And hurry up.”

  “For such a playboy, you sure are a stickler for time,” Rick says, shoving his sock-covered feet into brown, clunky dress shoes that are identical to my own.

  “Saint is always late. But Francis is never late,” I reply sarcastically. “Gotta keep my persona up and running, don’t I?”

  Rick reaches over to my messy desk and tosses me a thick, leather-bound book. “You almost forgot your Bible, Francis.”

  I point my finger at his face. “You ever call me that again, I’ll break your fucking nose.”

  Rick laughs as we walk out of the room toward the dining hall. The campus is quiet as beige-wearing students trod along silently toward the massive white building. It’s always quiet time before prayer dinners. It’s the rule.

  I lower my voice. “You think Tina’ll be there tonight?”

  Rick glares at me. “Stop trying to get me into trouble and keep walking,” he mutters.

  “You’re no fun,” I say.

  “Some of us are on thin ice around here. Some of us don’t have the golden ticket that you have. If you mess up, you get a slap on the wrist. You’re the reason this school has any money.”

  I grin at him, falling into the line snaking out of the men’s entrance. Yeah, it’s archaic and sexist. But the women and men never enter through the same doors on prayer night. Yet another rule at this place.

  The line inches forward and we enter the dining hall. Only candles light the space, and the sun is setting. It sort of looks like Hogwarts. You know, if the Harry Potter books were allowed to be read on campus, I’m guessing more people would publicly describe it like that. I take my seat next to the Dean of the College at the men’s table. He nods at me and I nod back, scooting out a chair and sitting down on it.

  I’m starving. We had two practices today and I had to skip lunch. The smell of roast chicken and mashed potatoes floats through t
he air. I wonder if I could sneak into the kitchen and charm my way into some samples.

  I’m stopped from wondering by the entrance of the women. There’s a girl in the front of the line. Her hazel eyes glint in the candle light, her dirty-blonde hair gleaming. Her cardigan sweater strains against the buttons holding her round tits in place.

  I bite back a grin and file her into my memory. I’ll use that later when I’m ‘confessing my sins’ in the shower.

  Everyone sits down and the Dean stands up. “Let’s begin with a prayer.”

  No fucking shit, I think to myself. It’s a fucking prayer dinner.

  He drones on for a good fifteen minutes. I can hear everyone getting agitated, but I’m in Golden Boy mode. I don’t move a single muscle. I know the Dean will compliment me on my stillness later. Just one more sticker on my good behavior chart.

  It’s a good thing that the party tonight won’t count on that chart.

  Because I’d be losing every single sticker on it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ESTHER

  “We can’t do this,” I whisper to Romy as we tiptoe through the halls. Everyone is asleep in bed. Lights out began twenty minutes ago. Romy carries an enormous leather handbag that’s more suitcase than purse.

  We slip out of the side of the building and into the dark night, darting between street lamps. We make it off campus and I let myself breathe a sigh of relief.

  Romy pulls me behind a towering oak tree.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper to her.

  She crouches down and unzips her purse. She pulls out a wad of fabric and shoves it towards me.

  “What is this?”

  Romy grabs a makeup compact and it lights up her face. “Would you stop asking questions and just do what I tell you? That’s the only way we’re getting out of this without getting into trouble.”

  I unfurl the bundle of cloth and realize it’s clothing. Well, it’s sort of clothing. It’s more like doll clothing. “I didn’t bring my Barbie, Romy,” I whisper to her.

  She rolls her eyes as she applies mascara to her lashes. “Put them on. They’ll fit.”

  My cheeks are burning and I’m happy that Romy can’t see them. “I cannot wear this,” I say, holding up the skimpy tank top and miniskirt.