Page 329 of Vicious Saint
“These days…probably both,” Jerome deadpans.
I level him with a glare. “That sounded borderline homophobic,Jerome.” No longer seeking the opinion of a bigot, I turn my attention to the quiet new guy wearing sunglasses.Inside.
“Do you have a non-homophobic opinion?” I hold the pints out for him, but as expected, get nothing but his whispers into Jerome’s ear.
Jerome nods at whatever New Guy says, and right after, New Guy takes off to the entrance and disappears into the empty lot.
Way to take a security job seriously.
“Both it is,” I grumble, wishing Carlo would hurry the fuck up taking a shit, because I doubt Mr. Meany over here will be eager to help carry a hundred bags.
Yeah, someone may have overdone the shopping a bit.
By someone, I mean me.
“You finished,signorina?” Carlo appears at my side, eyeing the extensive amount of groceries in the cart.
“Oh! Not yet, but look!” I rifle through the cart, snatching up a favorite drink of his. “Manhattan Special.” I wiggle the bottle in front of him. “On sale too.”
Carlo smiles. “You’reehtoo good to me.”
“See? Putting up with my shit has its benefits!”
After a quick ruffle to my hair, Carlo asks Jerome where his partner went, then nods when he’s told to touch base with Vic. As if the man doesn’t already have the entire street under surveillance.
“Okay, a few more minutes.” I look down at my phone for the time, and my lip twitches when I find no update from Saint or my besties on the game. Should be over by now, unless they went into overtime.
Ugh.
Shooting a quick text to both Saint and Bex, I not so politely demand an update, then return to wandering the aisles, feet throbbing in these damn heels the entire time.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” I apologize again to Carlo, who’s got two armfuls of grocery bags as we leave the store twenty minutes later. “How was I not supposed to answer Saint? He just won the damn championship.”
Did I have to stand in one place until we hung up? Probably not. But I couldn’t shop, ignore foot pain, and listen to Saint going over his winning play.
Holding my empty hands out to Carlo, I tell him, “I can carry some bags, you know.”
“No, it’s-ehtoo cold and you fight me on wearing the jacket.”
I did do that, yeah. Regretting the decision too since it’s December and he parked all the way at the end of the damn parking lot.
“Well, where are your buddies? They could at least help.”
“They go ahead to the street, then we follow behind.” Carlo grunts, adjusting the bags. But once again, when I offer to carry some, he denies, insisting it’s his job.
Stubborn Sicilian men, I swear.
A chill runs through me, so I tighten my arms over my chest while trying not to stumble.
“I hurry to the truck for you, turn on the heat,” Carlo offers, picking up the pace. I’d stop him, but it’s not like I can high speed chase anyone in these damn heels.
At this point, I’m just trying not to hit the pavement.
“Right behind ya!” I yell, even though it’s a flat out lie.
They could name a small canyon after us.
A few dozen steps later, Carlo reaches the trunk of his Escalade, placing the bags on the ground, and thankfully I’m not much farther behind blowing hot air into the palms of my hands.
