Wicked Saint: Echoes of Forever

By Nichole Rose

Can a rockstar with a bad reputation convince a sheltered young artist that loving him is worth any risk?

 

Saint

Until last year, I had it all. Fame. Fortune. Family.

One horrible decision nearly destroyed everything

I've been tormented by guilt ever since.

Until the moment I set eyes on her.

Everleigh Townsend is the light to my dark. My muse. My future.

But she wants nothing to do with me.

Convincing her that I'm not the out-of-control rockstar I used to be will take a miracle.

But I'll talk the devil into heaven if that's what it takes to make her mine.

 

Everleigh

My whole life, I've had one goal. To paint like the masters.

Now, my goal is within reach, but I feel it slipping further away.

Every time Saint Greenway touches me, everything else disappears.

The world says he's a monster. He agrees.

But I've never felt as whole as I do when I'm with him.

Until my parents find out about us, and my life spins out of control.

How can loving someone be wrong when it feels so right?

 

Warning

When this older rockstar falls for a young college student, he'll do whatever it takes to convince her to give him a chance. If redeemed bad boys, sugary-sweet romance, and scorching hot romance sound like a good time to you, you'll love this Wicked Saint and his muse! As always, Nichole Rose books come complete with a sticky-sweet and guaranteed HEA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nichole Rose
• Release date: Mar 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215656976

Book preview

Prologue

Saint

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Two Years Ago

I love this car! Savannah cries, beaming at me from the passenger seat. She runs her hand down the leather console, laughing. Her eyes shine with happiness. It reflects in her animated expression, making me smile for the first time all day.

I'm hungover and my head is fucking pounding. I didn't get nearly enough sleep last night but seeing my baby sister happy is worth it. I've been working so much since the last album came out a year ago that I haven't gotten to see her nearly as often as I'd like.

Yeah? I ask.

Yes!

When you graduate, it's yours, I tell her.

Her eyes go comically wide. Seriously?

I nod, pressing the gas as we hit a straightaway. The engine purrs, the speedometer inching toward eighty. The road is still wet in places where it rained earlier, but I've got it under control. I've been driving these roads since I got my license a decade ago. I think I could navigate them in my sleep, and this car handles like a dream.

Savannah squeals beside me and dances in her seat. You're my favorite brother!

I better be, brat. She always tells me I'm her favorite, but I know she says the same thing to our older brother, Sawyer, as well. Our parents adopted Savannah when she was just a baby. Sawyer and I are both older than she is by nearly a decade, but we've always been close. She couldn't choose a favorite brother if her life depended on it. Sawyer and I don't have much in common, but we're both in complete agreement where our baby sister is concerned. Most days, she's the only thing we agree on.

Our relationship has been rocky for a while now. He thinks I'm reckless. He's not wrong. I've spent most of my adult life on the front page of one tabloid or another. As a rockstar, notoriety isn't necessarily a bad thing. People expect me to be outrageous. It sells albums, and I've sold a whole lot of those in my life.

I just never thought success would come at such a steep price.

My parents are ashamed of me, and Sawyer is fed up with me. Most days, I think he'd prefer that Vengeful Saints had failed like so many other bands do. I don't blame him for feeling that way. He's a teacher, a school administrator. Having an out-of-control rockstar for a brother hasn't been easy for him.

Truth is, sometimes I wish my band hadn't ever made it big.

Being Saint Green has caused my family a lot of trouble over the years. He's charming, outrageous, a daredevil who says and does whatever he wants. He's a figment of my imagination, a persona I created when I was seventeen and wild as hell. And somehow, he's slowly taken over every facet of my life. Most days, I'm not even sure who the fuck I am without him.

The more successful the band becomes, the more in demand he becomes. It's exhausting.

I'm so fucking stressed out all the time, trying to play the role I cast myself into a decade ago. Trying not to lose the rest of myself to it. It doesn't help that there's always someone in my face asking for something, expecting something. I have to be on all the time.

I'm drinking far too fucking often, trying to silence the clamor. It's a slippery slope I never should have gotten onto in the first place, and I'm ready to get off. I'm tired of waking up with a pounding headache and increasingly fuzzy memories of the night before. I'm tired of being Saint Green every fucking day of my life.

Which is why I'm home now.

This time next week, I'll be in a private rehab facility in Orange County. I won't be home for Christmas, so I made a point to come for Thanksgiving. I don't want my parents or siblings to find out from the news that I checked myself into rehab. They should hear that shit from me. But I've been stalling all day. Making my mom and sister cry makes me feel like a fucking asshole, and I already know they're both going to cry when I tell them.

There's no avoiding it though. If I don't get my shit together soon, I'm going to lose them. I realized that about the time I woke up in a jail cell in Barcelona a week ago with no memory of how I landed there. No one knows about that yet, but I'm sure it'll hit the news sooner or later. When it does, I'd like to be well on my way to fixing my shit.

So get on with it, I tell myself as Savannah sticks her tongue out at me.

I have something to tell you, I say.

Saint, she groans. What did you do this time?

Guilt stabs me in the chest. She's not even seventeen, yet she already expects the worse from me. Expects me to tell her I fucked up again, did something stupid. She shouldn't have to live that way, always worrying what I'm going to do next. Or what scandal they're going to have to deal with next. No one should.

I won't be home for Christmas this year, I say, my voice soft.

Her face instantly falls. Christmas is magic to my sister. She outgrew believing in Santa a long time ago, but she still believes in the spirit of the holiday with every ounce of her heart. No one will ever convince her that Christmas magic doesn't exist or that she shouldn't throw her whole heart into bringing that magic to life for the people she loves.

Saint, you promised! she says.

I know, I sigh, mad as hell at myself for breaking yet another promise to her. But something came up.

Are you going on tour again?

No. I hesitate, nervous as hell to tell her the truth. It's going to break her heart. I'm checking myself into rehab on Monday, Sav.

What? Saint. Her eyes grow wide, her mouth falling open as shock and distress shift through her expression in tandem. Tears fill her eyes, instantly making me feel like a fucking failure.

Don't cry, baby sister, I say, giving her a smile. This is a good thing.

Are you…are you on drugs? she whispers.

No, I say, my voice firm. I've done a lot of stupid shit in my life, but there are some lines even I won't cross. I don't do drugs and I don't deal with people who do. That shit never ends well for anyone.

Then what?

Mostly, I just need a fucking break, I admit, whipping around a car doing ten below the speed limit. I'm getting too old to keep doing the stupid shit I've been doing.

You're not that bad, she says.

To you, maybe. Mom, dad, and Sawyer would disagree. So would my bandmates. They've had about as much of my shit as they can handle.

That's not true. They love you, Saint.

I know, I say. But I've been causing them grief for years. I want to fix that. I expel a breath. And I've been drinking too fucking much.

Oh, Saint, she whispers.

I'm not addicted, I say, though I'm not sure if it's actually true or not. It's not the alcohol I crave. It's the numbness and the complete lack of feeling that comes with it. That's my vice, my addiction. Escape. But I'm getting close, Sav. Too close.

She gives me a sad smile. Where are you going?

A facility in Orange County.

Will we be able to see you?

Not at first.

Her bottom lip quivers. And I feel like a complete asshole, just like I knew I would. She deserves a brother she can look up to, not one who consistently lets her down or disappoints her. It kills me a little that I'm not more like Sawyer. He's always had his shit together, always done the right thing. And I've always been the fuck up.

I need to do this, I murmur, whipping around another car. The driver keeps tapping his brakes like he thinks the curve ahead is some sort of monster. It's not. It's a simple S-curve.

I know, she says. But I'm going to miss you.

I'll miss you too, baby sister. But when I'm out, things are going to be different. I'm going to take some time off, spend more time here at home.

Seriously?

I nod.

Pinky promise, she demands, holding her pinky out to me.

I hook mine through hers, smiling. Pinky promises are inviolable to her. If you even think about breaking one, she throws a holy fit. I hope she always keeps that innocence. The world needs more of it.

Are you going to tell Sawyer? she asks.

I guess she heard us arguing earlier. He didn't want to let her ride with me. I had to fucking fight to get him to trust me to drive her fifteen minutes down the road. I'm not even mad at him about it though. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn't trust me, either.

Yeah, I'm going to tell him. He won't like it, but maybe it'll salvage our relationship. I miss the way shit used to be between us.

He misses it too, Savannah whispers.

Yeah? As we hit the first part of the S-curve, I take my eyes off the road long enough to look at her. It's a mistake. I know it is as soon as I do it. The car hits a puddle and loses traction. I ease off the gas and loosen my grip on the steering wheel, trying to give the car a chance to come out of it, but it doesn't. I'm going too fucking fast.

We spin in a full circle and then another, quickly spinning closer to the edge of the road and the barricade. I yank the steering wheel to the left, trying to nudge the car that way, but it's already too late. The car hits the barrier and then we're airborne.

I throw my free arm out toward Savannah, trying to keep her in her seat even though she's wearing her seatbelt. Her terrified scream as the car flips is one I know is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

Chapter One

Saint

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I s this Saint?

Depends on who's asking, I growl into the phone, rolling onto my back to stare up at the skylight directly overhead. It's barely eight in the morning, but I've been awake for a while. Sleep is elusive, as usual. I can't remember the last time I slept through the night. It was before the accident, I know that much.

As if merely thinking about it conjured up a memory from the depths of my brain, I hear my baby sister screaming as the car plunges down the embankment. Glass shatters as it flips again and again, flinging us around like ragdolls. The acrid stench of gasoline burns my nose. The terrifying screech as metal shreds assails my ears.

I barely hear the girl on the phone talking to me over the sounds of it.

Oh, this is Miriam. Miriam McMath. I'm Savannah's roommate.

I sit upright in the bed, scrubbing a hand down my face as if that's going to erase the memories. It won't. It's been two years since I nearly killed Savannah, and I still see it every time I close my eyes. I was hungover and driving too fast. I stupidly thought I was in control, that I knew those roads too well to use caution. I was wrong.

The car hydroplaned and flipped over an embankment before catching on fire. I still feel the heat of the flames licking at my skin. I still remember the way our older brother, Sawyer, screamed for Savannah to wake up as she lay limp and broken beside the burning wreckage. I remember the way my mom screamed and the way my dad collapsed when the doctors told us they didn't know if Savannah was going to make it.

She almost didn't make it, and I live every single day knowing it was my fault. The whole world knows it was my fault. They think I was drunk, but I wasn't. I was hungover, careless, and stupid, but I wasn't drinking.

I haven't tried to squash the rumors.

What's the point?

It won't change what happened or eliminate the guilt. Nor will it change the fact that I had taken to drinking far too often. Often enough that I'd decided to check myself into rehab to get it under control.

They might have the details wrong, but at the end of the day, I deserve every ounce of guilt and blame they want to pile on my shoulders. For most of my life, I did what I wanted to do, regardless of the consequences. I chased money and fame, even when I knew it was wrong. I clawed my way to the top, determined to be the biggest rockstar in the country, and my family paid for it. Savannah paid for it.

For the rest of her life, she'll pay for my mistakes. And I'll regret that for the rest of mine. But I'm not that selfish, reckless man anymore. Saint Green died in the fire that consumed my car.

I'm what's left. A cautionary tale.

I'm trying like hell to be someone worthy of my family and the forgiveness they've given me. The love they've shown me. Even when I didn't deserve it, they were there. I owe them everything. But I don't know if I'll ever feel like I deserve them. Or if I'll ever truly believe I deserve forgiveness.

The road to redemption is a motherfucking journey.

Saint? Hello? Miriam says.

Shit. I forgot about her.

I'm here, I rasp, pulling myself to my feet and striding toward the bathroom. The blinds are thrown wide open, allowing early morning sunlight to spill into my room.