Page 196 of Vicious Saint
With a mental apology to Bex, I silence the call, and immediately after a ping comes through.
Bex: Hey I guess you’re busy…call me when you can. I need to talk to you about something.
I’m in no state to entertain cryptic messages, so whatever bomb’s about to drop will have to wait until I’ve recovered from this one.
Shoving my phone under Saint’s pillow, I go back to hanging out with the ceiling, wondering where he is, who he’s with, and whether or not he’ll bother returning to his room at all. Or even school, giving Vic another reason to move me.
It lasts maybe two minutes before more sorrow and angst take over, so I pick up the remote and do some idle scrolling through Netflix.
Settling onEmily in Paris.
“Alright, Em,” I point the remote at the brunette smiling at me on the screen, “let’s hope your dilemma with a French guy is worse than my dilemma with an American one.”
I exhale a deep breath as the opening scene of a sad Emily eating ice cream alone outside at a café begins.
Great.
We’re both a mess.
The only difference is she’s being smart and eating her feelings.
“Hold on, girlfriend, I’ll be right back.” I press pause and jump off the bed, jogging to the kitchen where I know my tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy awaits.
A slither of hope returns to my taste buds as I swing open the freezer, only for them to crash and burn when I pick up the pint, finding a sticky note on the front of it:
What’s yours is mine in this house Jimi…see you after practice :P
That slimy, sticky fingered bastard.
Even in the past he ruins everything.
Flinging the empty tub across the kitchen, I holler, “Yeah, well. You need the therapy more than me anyway!”
But I really need the sweets.
With a deep growl, I shut the freezer door and swipe my bag off the table, looking forward to my date with Emily too much to give up now.
Carlo’s taken up an empty office a few doors down and is thankfully asleep inside it when I sneak into the hall.
I take the elevator to the first floor, where it’s quiet all the way to the vending machines.
“Decisions, decisions.” My finger taps my chin. “Salty, sweet, or both?”
Who am I kidding? Always both.
Sliding my debit card into the slot, I snag myself the goods with a push of some buttons, then bend down to retrieve them.
That’s when I hear it.
A guy’s faint whisper in the nearest emergency stairwell.
Snacks always do pair well with some tea.
After carefully placing the chips and chocolate bars in my bag, I tiptoe over to the door, looking through the window to see who it is.
My mouth drops open.
Archer’s at the top of the landing, arguing with someone, but I can’t tell who it is because his body’s hidden behind the turn of the stairs.
