Page 118 of Vicious Saint
“So. It. Fucking. Seems…”
“Look asswipe,” my attention shoots back at him, “this littletripof yours may have put you in a better mood since the wedding, but it sure as shit hasn’t put me in one. So I’m gonna need you to tuck away the Jekyll-Hyde complex you’ve got going on and listen carefully…”
Poof goes the giggles…enter seriouseverything.
“No, you fucking listen.” He bares his teeth, bumping into me hard. “I don’t give a shit about your mood or what a bitch like you thinks of me. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, you, your mommy, and your aunt are just another one of my father’s charity cases.”
It takes everything in me not to slap him again.
“Oh yeah? And which number does that make you?”
With a guttural roar, Saint lifts his duffle from the floor and sends it flying, making me flinch as it crashes into his dresser.
“Get the fuck out!” he screams, right before slamming comes from the door.
Damn you auto-lock.
I holler to Carlo that I’m fine, ignoring whatever he says in Italian, and study the look on Saint’s face.
It’s equal parts hurt and enraged. Both of which I can tell he’s holding back.
And I loathe the feeling squeezing my heart because of it.
“Gladly you piece of shit.” I spin around, leaving him to his violent breathing as I stomp over to the closet.
Saint darkens the doorway moments after I’ve got a pair of shorts on and shirts piled in my arms.
“You should know better by now than to make me this angry,” he says in a much calmer tone.
“Well, call me an idiot then.”
I’m no longer frightened, just exhausted—because it’s become abundantly clear that whateveriswrong with this guy, leaves him with little to no self-awareness.
“You invaded my privacy, Jimi.”
I drop the shirts on the floor between us. “Seriously? And what the fuck do you think you did to me on the night of our parents’ wedding?”
“That was different.”
“How?!” I burst. “How was barging into Lance’s bedroom as we were hooking up any different?”
Saint’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, but he closes it just as fast.
“Exactly.” I shake my head, then bend down to gather my clothes.
Saint surprises me by trying to help.
“Thank you,” I grumble as he hands over my Captain America tee.
Remaining on his haunches, Saint watches closely as I gather more. “I know you hate me,” he says, picking up another shirt to fold on his lap.
Perfectly of course.
“Yeah? Well, you should also know I have my reasons.”
“We both have reasons.” He hands it over, and begrudgingly, I thank him again.
“You haveonereason to hate me, Saint. One.”
