Page 198 of Vicious Saint
Feeding my monster more than enough to keep him content like a baby.
Levi, never one to turn down being a menace to society, joined in on the festivities, claiming he needed a release of his own now that we’re down another Royal Heathen.
Riggs is not only Levi’s cousin, but his best friend, and the sting of Riggs’ dad tossing him into rehab hasn’t eased up on him.
Or hit me yet, thanks to a green eyed siren who snatched up my soul and fucking ate it.
So, together in disfunction, we took off to Brooklyn for the weekend, far away from Hendrix, my meds, her Italian, and my father’s prying eyes. Levi backed me up in every bar fight I instigated, house parties we tore up, even a street race followed by a police chase. Won both, by the way, even though only the first included fifty grand.
It was exhilarating as fuck: the speed, the pain, breaking laws and faces, but not one of them pumped my blood hard enough to climb out of the chaos-driven hole. Which carried on during school hours, where I watched Hendrix from a distance, then took out my frustrations from missing her on the field during The Royals’ first game.
According to the new rival coach from Manhattan High, ripping off an opponent's helmet to beat him with it is not considered good sportsmanship.
Neither is screwing one of the student cheerleaders—exactly what I told the asshole when he got in my face.
In the midst of my existential crisis, the only words I’ve spoken to Hendrix were typed out in a million drunk texts, mostlycursing her out for seizing my thoughts and inhibitions. For flipping my entire grid upside down and leaving me with another fucking mess of hers to clean up.
Only to erase each of them right after.
Needless to say I’ve been spending one second after another using adrenaline to fill this gaping hole in my mind.
Like a junkie desperate for the fix he knows is going to kill him.
Which leaves me here, in The Pit, with bandaged knuckles and white tank stained with blood.
Courtesy of Fight Night.
An invitation only event two Saturdays a month, dedicated to ripping each other apart for sport and loads of cash, with no holds barred. Just two guys in a cement ring, where the only protection is survival instincts.
Violence and money.
A true recipe for destruction.
The crowd erupts in cheers as my fists blast the jaw of my backup QB Coby, who’s been trying hard to make a name for himself and stupid enough to challenge me in an attempt to do so.
No complaints here, since he’s the only guy I’ve fought so far who packs a punch hard enough to make me feel something other than empty.
Coby swings and I duck, the bones of his face crunching against my fist when I return a left then right hook.
In seconds he hits the ground, and my skin vibrates with satisfaction—but not enough.
Not even close.
The ref, Pete, who’s not so much a ref as he is an amp man, uses this time to approach my side holding out a tray filled with lines of coke, offering me a bump. I take him up on it, using the rolled up bill he hands over to snort a line, throwing my head back to bask in the high.
High turns to magic when I spot Coby standing up.
With an explosive roar, I hit him with a round kick to his face. A tooth flies out through a splatter, landing next to us on the ground, igniting more screams and hollers.
Coby sways on his feet, gurgling something unintelligible.
My guess? A prayer to his maker.
“Let’s go, part time!” I beat my chest. “That all you got for me?”
He shakes his head, waving a hand in surrender, but I’m not having it. Not when the Avengers tattoo I spot on his arm has thoughts of Hendrix sneaking up on me.
Her obsession with superheroes.
