Page 242 of Vicious Saint
I feel the ease of Carlo’s back against my face before I can see who it is, not that I need to see to know. The jolt of my heart and tingles up my arms speak for themselves.
With swearing under his breath, Carlo releases me, stepping aside and revealing the source of all the trouble.
Broken party and heart.
There stands Saint in his signature fashion: jeans, crisp tee, Letterman, and fitted Yankee backwards on his head. Irritatingly gorgeous as ever. Levi’s flanked at his side, dressed like his counterpart sans the hat, with his ash brown hair ruffled as if recently being pulled.
And the glower at Craig from Levi’s hazel eyes?
Is almost as menacing as Saint’s.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
I do not want to be the reason this poor guy suffers the wrath of a deranged quarterback and his savage best friend.
Because yeah…Levi might be quieter than the rest of The Royal Heathens, but I’ve seen the damage he can cause when they’re crossed.
It’s at this moment I know I fucked up by wishing I didn’t have to deal with Carlo’s antics.
Pick your damn caveman, Montgomery.
“More drivers?” Craig deadpans.
“Please stop talking.”
Contrary to the intimidation wafting from the two Royal giants, they help themselves to a seat, where Saint’s voice scrapes like nails as he demands Craig pour two rounds of tequila shots. So, like a fire ignites under his ass, the bartender rushes behind the bar to prepare them.
All while I stand feet away, holding my breath as my estranged stepbrother twists and locks eyes on my body. Saint’s freshly shaven jaw hardens as he stares at Carlo’s jacket around me, andhis nostrils do their jealous twitchy thing when he stops at my thighs.
I look down at where his sight is glued on me, finding the already short sweater dress scrunched up even higher, an inch from exposing my panties.
Shit.
As casually as Saint’s zeroing in will allow, I shimmy to fix myself. Which, for some reason, seems to piss him off even more. So, for the sake of Craig not becoming an organ donor, I fasten the buttons on Carlo’s jacket. Saint watches with a deadly level of possessiveness until the very last button is closed.
Then those angry, hungry blue orbs rise to mine.
I blink, unsure of whether to stay and risk self-inflicted asphyxiation, or chance drowning as I swim back to the boat. Meanwhile, the easiest route hasn’t even occurred to my stupefied ass until now that Carlo said his Escalade is in the parking lot.
The chokehold Saint has on me tightens with every second he inspects my face—not granting me an ounce of reprieve until Craig slides the shots in front of him and Levi.
Before Craig gets the chance to retreat, though, Saint locks a hand around his wrist, pulling him forward and muttering something sinister enough to turn my new acquaintance’s face white.
I offer Craig a silent apology as he rushes to the other end of the bar, not that he’s aware because he refuses to look at me.
This fucking dick.
Once again choosing silence, then violence.
As if he has any right after what he’s done to me.
Saint takes a shot, and Levi right after, allowing a clear view of the gun he has resting on the bar.
Dick. Squared.
I make it one angry step toward them before Archer appears from the dark, a little less drunk and a lot more furious.
“Seriously, Lavell?! Cutting the wires?!”
