Page 117 of Vicious Saint
“Isaidshut your mouth.”
“You know what? Maybe I won’t.” I shoot to my feet. “In fact, now that you’re back I’d like to have a little chat about what you did that night.”
Fuck this tip-toeing bullshit.
If Saint, or Vicious, or whoever he wakes up as is going to hurt me, it’ll be whether or not I give him a piece of my mind.
“What night?” He plays stupid.
“The night you twat blocked me.”
“Just a little disagreement between men. Nothing for someone like you to concern yourself with.”
“Someone like me?’’
“Yeah, you know.” He reaches for the ends of my damp hair, twirling them around his finger. “Desperate for my attention. Yet stillsoinsignificant.”
Weeks of pent up fury explode from me like a volcanic eruption, driving my hand back, then toward Saint’s face, only for him to catch me in the air by the wrist.
He waggles a finger at me slowly.
“Now, now, Jimi. What did Ijustsay about pissing me off?”
“I don’t give a fuck! How dare you call me desperate, you worthless piece of psycho shit.” A slap from my free hand cracksacross his face, forcing his head to the side. “The chipped nail polish on my toe is worth more than the lungs that keep you breathing.”
Saint freezes, the epitome of murder in his eyes as he blinks a few times. Until poof, it’s gone, and an amused chuckle rumbles from his chest.
“What the hell is so funny?”
Besides the irony of having to ask the same question he asked me.
“Just how easy it is to make you crazy.”
“You’re seriously fucked in the head, you know that?”
He releases me with a sigh. “So it seems.”
I stare at him, long and hard, trying to decipher which way this statement was intended. Saint seems to mistake my deliberation for contempt when he shrugs.
“If it helps you feel any better, you make me crazy too. A little too crazyif yaknow what I mean.”
I have to physically shake my head to keep it from combusting.
“Better? No. Stabbier? Definitely.”
“No shit! I’ve done my share of stabbing too.”
I glare at him.
“You know…with my co—”
“Yeah, I got the innuendo.”
Saint breaks into a frenzy of shits and giggles, sliding two hands down his face.
“Fuck, Jimi. You’re funny.”
“So it seems,” I mutter his phrase, my gaze set on the door.
