Page 32 of Vicious Saint
“So there I was, mouthing off to the sucker as he scrambled to keep up with demands.” He holds the joint between his lips, jab-crossing the air. “Told him keep stackin’, and don’t stop until that bitch is filled to the brim with the goods.”
Levi reaches for his AirPods, and I do the same with my phone, both of us knowing it takes a sober Riggs at least ten minutes to answer a question.
A stoned Riggs? Minimum thirty-seven.
I have two choices: stare at the empty football field or scroll through texts.
I choose scrolling.
To one in particular.
It’s not until I pass Fifteen—I know this because the bitches I fuck are labeled by numbers—that I come across the name I’ve been looking for.
Jimi Hendrix.
It’s a thread I started after stealing her number from Archer’s phone the night after our little game began:
Me: Hey Jimi…it’s me
Me: Saint
Me: Your next book boyfriend *heart eyes emoji)*
It took a solid ten minutes of her sitting on the hood of Archer’s Porsche biting her nails before responding. I know because I was watching from inside my Range Rover.
Jimi Hendrix: Here’s to hoping you get *skull emoji* off quick then *fingers crossed emoji*
Me: Now that really hurts my feelings.
Me: Turns me on a bit too not gonna lie…
Jimi Hendrix: How the hell did you get my number?
Me: A friend *wink face emoji*
Jimi Hendrix: Pretty sure you have no friends.
Me: Things got pretty friendly on the elevator last night *shrug emoji*
Jimi Hendrix: You’re as arrogant as you are delusional.
Me: Huh….
Me: Is that why I’m picturing myself holding Hershey kissed DDD’s?
Jimi Hendrix: That would be your chemical imbalances.
Me: They have been juggling a lot lately…
Jimi Hendrix: What do you want, Letterman?
Me: *finger point emoji, pinch finger emoji, cat emoji, peach emoji*
Me: If you need help cracking the code I’m free to demonstrate.
Jimi Hendrix: Awww that’s sweet…now how’s this for a code?
Jimi Hendrix: *middle finger emoji, middle finger emoji, middle finger emoji*
