Page 267 of Vicious Saint
“Well, I have to give a flying fuck! So hurry up and get out so I can take a shower.”
I was worried that after the situation with Annalie, Vic would rescind his offer to hook me up with his friend at Bromwell, but he didn’t. In fact, I’ve got a date for the interview.
Two weeks from now.
I refuse to let whatever help I get from him carry me, though. I know how good I am, and I want my talent to be the focus.
Not my stepfather.
The sound of water turning on has me swing open the bathroom door, finding the guy I now call boyfriend standing outside of the shower.
“Not a chance, Letterman. I’m showering alone.”
I’m looking to get clean, not dirty.
Saint, the absolute idiot that he is, decides the best response to my denial is swinging his dick around like a helicopter to try and entice me.
It does, obviously, but not enough to miss my drawing class.
“Hurry the heck up and wash your ass.”
I slam the door just as Saint yells, “Aw, c’mon! I’m already at a semi!”
“I love how you look in yourboyfriend’sLetterman, by the way.” Theory waggles her eyebrows next to me on the bleachers.
A new one, since Saint is hanging the one we destroyed like a shrine in his dorm room. Took a lot of arguing to convince him to at least keep it face forward so nobody could see the tiger stripes.
I gape down at the black, gold, and white leather jacket I’m drowning in. “Oh, God, I’ve become a fuckin’ cliche.”
“Nah.” She bumps my side. “It’s sweet.”
Sweet isn’t the word I’d use for her brother forcing my arms into it like a parent does a child who hates dressing up.
It’s an intense Friday game night. Last one before the championship, and the first one I’ve been to since homecoming. From what I’ve gathered throughout the weeks from The Royals’ sycophants, the team has been absolutely killing it during theplayoffs, same goes for the game we’ve been watching for over an hour.
The hope for them to continue with the streak was the only reason I caved to wear Saint’s jacket “as his good luck charm.”
But now that I’m front row watching Saint dominate the field, listening to fans scream his name, yeah, I’ll admit it does feel good knowing I get to go home witheveryone’s favorite star quarterback.
By home, I mean thirty feet away in my dorm room.
It’s almost the end of the final quarter, and Saint is amidst a huddle as my phone vibrates in my hand. A text from a flu ridden Archer.
Archer: How are they doing?
Me: 24-0
Archer: Please don’t tell me you’re wearing
his Letterman.
I wince.
Me: Fine…I won’t tell you *cringe smile emoji*
Archer: *eye roll emoji, eye roll emoji, eye roll emoji*
Archer: Such a cliché.
