Page 380 of Vicious Saint
“She went to Riverside last year, duh.”
“Not for a long time.”
“Not a short enough time either.” I tilt my head suggestively. “In fact, I remember her really well. Five foot nothing, blonde, quiet. Such a cute, innocent face.”
“You shut your filthy mouth.”
“Should’ve told her the same, Boris my man, since it didn’t take long after I fucked your precious Anna’s virgin cunt for her to start swallowing my cock like a pro.”
He launches the hammer, I’m sure intended for my head, but because his aim sucks it hits me in the chest instead.
Hurts like a bitch, though, I’ll give him that.
“She bled a lot too.” I blow out a tense breath. “Poor thing should’ve chosen a smaller dick to open her up.”
Just as expected, my plan works, and Boris is storming over to me with fire dancing in his eyes, allowing me to breathe deeper the farther he gets from Hendrix.
With a grin plastered to my face, I make sure to inspect the state of my wrists before he reaches me. Which are loosened even more thanks to whoever did a shitty job tying the knot.
Let’s. Fucking. Go. You piece of shit.
Boris wastes no time punching me in the face, making blood, along with a tooth, fly from my mouth, and my chest heaves with the thrill of pain.
I smile red at him. “Do you know how rough your little girl liked taking my cock? Fuck…I remember it like yesterday.”
Another swing to my face, and it’s like electricity shooting through me.
“Stop!” Hendrix screams, but Boris and I are too busy.
“I mean…you should really be thanking me, Boris. Your little girl’s pussy was so torn up by the time I was done with her, I wouldn’t be surprised if it no longer works.”
He grips my chin, and slams his forehead into mine, causing shit to rattle inside my brain. Unfortunately for Boris, all it does is fuel the electric storm brewing inside it.
“Guess that’s a no on gratitude.”
“I heard stuff about you too, Saint Lavell, something about being a quarterback?”
“Notjusta quarterback, Boris. The best one The Royals have seen in over twenty five years.”
“Is that so?”
“Saint, shut the fuck up!” Hendrix yells, no doubt assuming what’s going through Boris’ mind as much as mine.
Sorry, baby, but I’m on a mission.
“Super so. In fact, I had the coach from Vanguard show up to my championship game to congratulate me back in December.”
He picks up the hammer at my feet. “Then it would be such a shame for me to break your throwing arm.”
“Such a shame.” I frown, then smile bloody at him again. “But at least I didn’t tell you it’s my right one.”
“Saint! Please! Stop!” Hendrix tries once more, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I risk this sick fuck returning his fury on her.
Boris shifts to my right side, lifting the hammer, and I don’t even bother preparing for the blow I know is coming. I keep my eyes deadlocked on his, welcoming the pain, the broken bones, the blood, theanythingas long as it buys me time to get my little Jimi Hendrix out of this basement.
The hammer crashes into my shoulder, and I hear the crunch of bone before I feel it. But when I do feel it, stars blind my vision, and hot pain radiates through me like a blast of fire.
I swallow that shit down, along with the scream clawing its way up my throat when he does it again—and boy, oh boy, does my lack of response piss off Mr. Boris over here.
