Page 142 of Vicious Saint
Of course I hate Saint for the shit he’s done, but I can’t lie and say he isn’t proving to be a third bit decent.
Who knows? Maybe his trip to Cyprus paid off.
At least for the time being.
Some ignorance is better left inside the head, so I go with the safer answer to avoid Archer’s artery from exploding.
“Sorry, I figured you were talking about Carlo.”
Confused eyebrows cinch together, but Archer still breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck, because I was for sure gonna have you committed.” With a close inspection of my face, he says, “Hey, you okay? Your cheeks are really red.”
Ignoring the drawn attention, I cast a glance at Saint when his back is to me. Tight black and gold jersey with a number three taking up most of it. A matching helmet with a crowned lion on his head. He’s speaking intently with his coach, drawing lines for different plays in the air. My body heats and teeth find my bottom lip when he suddenly bends over, continuing the conversation while tying his cleats.
With a shimmy to ease the pulse between my legs, I lick my lips, debating the outcome of striding over there to squeeze his ass.
Holy, shit. This must be some fucking flu.
“What are you doing?” Archer’s question is abrupt.
I blink rapidly behind my sunglasses. “Huh?”
“Stop eye fucking your stepbrother.”
“I am not eye fucking anyone, you ass. I zoned out.”
“Uh-huh. Sure,” he grumbles. “Still don’t know why you feel like watching Saint practice.”
“Not what I said, Arch. It’s just nice out and I’m hoping the fresh air will help my head since clearly the Motrin didn’t.”
Or the greasy sandwich left for me by Saint.
Although, it was another decent thing I’ve added to the Why Saint Isn’t a Complete Asshole-Fuck-Shit-Fucker-Face list.
Rubbing sweat off the back of my neck, I jut my chin at him. “Plus, wasn’t it you who said you’re not allowed to go anywhere else but here. With me?” A judgmental pause is warranted before I follow up with, “So why don’t we talk about you, huh?”
Archer shifts in his seat, deciding now’s the time to pay attention to a game we both know he doesn’t understand.
“What about me?”
“How about an update on you and the fire?”
“Still an ongoing investigation.”
“Since when are you tight lipped about drama?”
“Not tight lipped, just cooperating with the detectives.”
“You mean your dad?”
He says nothing.
“What about the suspect?”
“Still a suspect.”
My eyes roll so far back I can see the throbbing of my brain.
“Okay…so who is he?”
