Page 277 of Vicious Saint
I shouldn’t be disappointed to have to leave, not with how good I look sans the ruined hair and makeup.
But I’ve got my obsessions too.
“Fine, fucking fine.” I screw up my nose. “But if people start getting Annalie smiles, you have only your cock to blame.”
We arrived at LACE more than an hour late, given it took me over half of one to get my face and hair back in order. Saint watched me fix myself the entire time, grumbling curses over my outfit, even though he knew I won our game fair and painfully square.
When we walked into the club, it was with Saint behind me, his arms hugging my chest, practically dragging me up the steps to the private VIP area. He kept a murderous eye on every guy who dared to look at us, most of them with concern on whether or not I was being abducted.
Carlo followed behind, keeping his distance like Saint not-so-nicely demanded, even now as he guards the door to our private room.
“Bottoms up, bitches!” Sampson, the Royals’ running back, shouts as half the team raise their glasses, throwing back the umpteenth shot of tequila.
Saint has yet to join them, deciding through residual grumbling on the way here, that he will keep mostly sober to avoid a murder charge. I argued at first, because I wanted him to enjoy the night, but only took it far enough for him to snarl at me.
From the couch, still in Saint’s death grip as he rambles on with Levi about the game, I reach for a bottle of vodka on the table and am about to twist it open when it gets pulled from me.
“What the freak!” I yell, trying to snatch the bottle from Saint, who’s yet to miss a beat in his conversation.
This. Fucking. Guy. We’ve been here over a half hour and I’m yet to have a lick of anything.
He gives the bottle to Levi, who gives it to one of the boys next to him. The train goes on this way until the alcohol reaches the end of the couch.
Then, a White Claw gets shoved into my hand.
“Our stash only, Jimi,” Saint demands, popping the can open and tossing the metal cap onto the table.
With an agitated grind of my jaw, I tell him, “Now you sound like Carlo.”
“Probably the only thing I agree with the asshole on.”
“You really think your teammates will try and poison you?”
He leans back on the couch, spreading his arms wide over the back of it, finally releasing me from his possessive hold. “I trust no Royal except The Heathens.”
“You’ve drank with, and from, these idiots a million times.”
This has Saint’s bravado faltering just a second. “Times are different now.”
With how these families are, I highly doubt that.
The room we’re in is halfway to soundproof, which is why a tipsy Leviathan hears enough to chime in. “Your boy’s right, Hen, our fathers stay pissing bitches off.”
“Yeah, well.” I fall back on the couch, taking a sip of the bitch-cohol. “You know what they say about the damn apple and the tree.”
“Yeah,” Levi scoffs. “That it’s all the ladies fault.”
Groaning, I slam the can on the table and shoot to my feet. “I’m going to dance.”
Saint and Levi shoot to theirs even faster, one blocking my left and his sidekick rounding the table to block my right. Both with their arms crossed over impressive chests.
“I’m not staying on this couch all night.” I look fiercely between them. “Either I dance here.” I pause, jutting my chin to the glass window overseeing the dance floor. “Or down there. So either you buffoons get a grip on your alpha man bullshit, or I’m getting my groove on with one of the stripper poles.”
On cue, they both look about ten feet over, where two poles and a red light are taking up the corner, then back at me with adamant expressions.
“Fine, have it your way.” I step onto the table and jump off the other side, swiping a shot of something clear off a server’s tray, throwing it back just as the idiots are in front of me again.
Saint rumbles a low, dangerous sound. “Why do you always have to be so fucking hardheaded?”
