Page 140 of Vicious Saint
“Letterman,” she muses.
“I like to keep my shit to myself. And in a certain way.”
“Really?” She taps her chin. “I had no idea.”
I lunge for Hendrix, and she yelps, high tailing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
How long does it fucking take to make two breakfast sandwiches?
“Ali! Baby!” I holler into the back of the local bagel spot, where my brother from an Arab mother got lost behind a wall. “You know I’m not myself when I’m hungry!”
He yells back something in his native language, most likely to shut the fuck up, so I pluck a Slim Jim off the counter and rip it open to avoid destruction.
I’m down to the last bite when the short old man pushes open the swinging doors to the kitchen, holding two round sandwiches in aluminum foil.
“Just in time.” I blow out a breath. “I really didn’t feel like breaking another one of your Hookahs.”
More under breath Arabic commences as he shoves the sandwiches inside a plastic bag, handing it over, then waving me off.
“No money? Again?” I ask, pulling out my wallet.
He gives me the finger and walks away.
“A twenty it is!” I slap the bill on the counter, then head toward the exit. “Until next time,habibi.”
I’m over halfway through my sandwich when I turn the corner to Riverside, the short walk to food coming through in the clutch when I’m late for practice.
After the shower, Hendrix, like the temptress she is, strutted her usual stuff in one ofmytowels, mentioning some shit about meeting up with Archer.
Her willingness to greet me half naked is another reason I’m sure, but still find it hard to believe, that she’s got no idea how hard I mouth fucked her pussy last night.
The groan in the back of my throat has nothing to do with the huge bite I’m taking into eggs, cheese, and bacon.
“Fucking shit,” I mutter when I feel ketchup spill on my chin, then curse again when I find some splatted on my Retro 3’s.
While peering into the bag I notice, in the midst of Ali breaking up with me, he forgot to give me custody of some napkins. So, I find the nearest trash can and throw the rest of my sandwich inside it.
I’m crossing the threshold of the parking lot when I spot Riggs and Levi on the field, tossing a ball back and forth.
Yes, they know I’m back—little hard not to tell them when finding out last minute we’ve got football practice.
And yes, they know about my situation with my little Jimi Hendrix.
Took every dose of meds not to beat the fuck out of them both for laughing. Same goes for earlier when they heard I was grabbing her a sandwich along with mine.
Yeah, I may be a dick, but one who heard Hendrix’s stomach grumbling. Wasn’t going to let her get as cranky as I was…risk a battle royale or some shit.
I’m approaching my Rover when a strange car a few rows down catches my eye.
A black on black Rolls Royce Ghost.
Not exactly a first choice luxury for teenagers, even the wealthiest ones.
There’re two guys in gray suits and Aviator sunglasses, one with almost his whole back to me, while the other leans against the passenger door. Door guy’s got a lot to say with his hands, allowing me to catch the pistol at his waist.
They shoot the shit,no not literally, as a third motherfucker with slicked back hair and cigarette in his mouth listens from the driver’s seat.
Now…we’ve got a lot of different heads rolling through Riverside: from kids of corrupt politicians, dirty blue collar, crooked white ones.
