Page 236 of Vicious Saint
I mean mug Bex, a much gentler approach compared to pulling the orange hair out of her head.
“Who the fuck are you kiddin’? I already got you nominated. And just so you know, I’d shank any bitch who says you don’t deserve it. Even if that bitch is you.”
Bex, for whatever reason, does not seem convinced, but I’m not about to ruin any of the fun we’ve been having. So, we’ll just have to save the reassurances for when there isn’t bartender eye candy waiting to serve me from across a wooden dock.
Thirty minutes later, Carlo disappearing into the woods for fifteen of them, we’re finally getting into the night and it. Is. Lit.
Good music. Vibes. Even food to offset the alcohol.
Still waiting on the last one, though, since I’m only allowed to drink from Carlo’s vetted stash.
A fair compromise, yeah.
But what good is bartender eye candy if I’m limited to half a glass of wine served by a paranoid gangster?
Once every damn hour.
“It’s-eh…good…yeah?” Carlo says, beaming with pride as I take the first sip of Moscato imported from his town in Sicily.
The wine goes down like a shot of liquid Jolly Ranchers, making me tap my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“If you’re into cavities, sure.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Che?”
Flattered gangsters make for fatter chances of leniency, Hendrix.
“Magnifico.” I chef’s kiss the air and he nods in appreciation.
“Hen! Come dance with me!” Bex runs up on us shouting, many shades drunker than I am now that I’m on a schedule.
I level Carlo with a stare, eyes demanding to give me some space.
He does so through a tense nod, so I hand him my bag and glass of nasty wine in hopes he drinks the rest of it and falls into a sugar coma.
You can tell how drastically the tables have turned since Bex is the one dragging me to a crowd of moving bodies, stopping just at the edge of them. Unlike Archer, Bex needs more time to push past her white girl rhythm, not that she seems to care as she shakes her little ass back and forth.
It’s secondhand embarrassing, yeah, but in an endearing way.
“I only got like ten before I head out!” she slurs over the music. “Got a date with my favorite psycho.”
I’d argue for her to stay, since we don’t get to see each other as much as we used to, but thanks tomyfavorite psycho, I know how easy it is to get caught up in their madness.
“How are you getting home?” I ask, twirling her.
“Roman’s on his way!”
“Roman? Since when?”
Her parents are more the type to be comfortable with an Uber.
“No idea.” Bex sways to a Halsey song. “They’ve been more on edge than usual, lately.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. “What about when you’re with Cray?”
“Ironically,” she laughs, “that’s the only time they’re not on edge.”
I’m completely absentminded as my body moves with the music, that is, until a drunk, messy Archer nearly pummels through us, vodka neat in hand.
