Page 197 of Vicious Saint
The muscles of Archer’s back coil as he listens to whatever the person has to say, shaking his head, pacing, and pulling at the ends of his hair. I’m tempted to barge in and kick whoever’s ass is making my best friend upset but decide against it because Archer’s already visibly uncomfortable.
The sound of a hand pounding the wall makes me shoot away from the window, waiting several moments before trying to snoop again.
This time when I catch a glimpse, there’s no longer just Archer in my line of sight.
It’s Riggs fucking Bishop too.
“I knew it!” I whisper to myself when I put my back against the wall. “Something’s going on with that obnoxious little shit.”
In Riggs’ defense, only the former is actually true.
He may not carry as much athletic muscle as Saint, but he’s fit and only three inches shorter than him.
When Riggs’ raises his voice, the words are slurred but filled with agitation. “You fucking promised me, Beaumont.”
“And I’m telling you the damn truth.”
The sound of knuckles colliding with bone comes from the staircase, then, a tussle of bodies.
I swing open the door and barge inside, finding Archer with a bloody lip and being pinned against the wall.
“Bishop…what the fuck?”
“I got this, Hen.” Archer spits blood. “Go back to your room.”
“Like hell I am.” I charge up the steps, shoving the drunken mess off him, feeling a sense of pride when I catch blood seeping from Riggs’ mouth too.
“Use the time wisely, Beaumont.” Riggs sways on his feet. “’Cause this shit ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”
“Go sleep it off, asshole…and don’t come around either of us till you’re back to your sober obnoxious self.”
Riggs salutes me. “Roger that, Cap. But it won’t be for a while.” He slurs something inaudible, then stumbles past us down the steps.
“What was that supposed to mean?” I ask my bloody best friend, who’s still panting as Riggs disappears out the door.
“His father is sending him away.”
“Away? For what?”
Archer presses his fingers against his busted lip when he says, “For starting the fucking fire.”
27
Saint
Hendrix walking out on me last week was a tinderbox ready to explode.
The countdown began shortly after my meds kicked in. I passed the fuck out on Theory’s bed only to wake up—alone—in a fog ten times worse because every vivid dream that came with the side effects revolved around Hendrix.
Her standing on the other side of the football field during a game, glazed over eyes and messy hair, the same excruciating look on her face she had when I outed her to my sister.
Hendrix appeared in the recovery room shower, this time with Stevenson on the bench, kissing the pussy piece of shit as she rode out her orgasm. I screamed in silent madness, banging my fists against the wall begging her to stop. She never did.
In a matter of eight hours I watched her get fucked, eaten, abducted by aliens, even lay dead in a pool of molten lava.
It was an endless series of fucked up events taking place in my mind. She was everywhere, and nowhere, melting my psyche until it bled out at my feet.
I’ve been chasing the high of mass destruction ever since.
