Page 95 of Vicious Saint
I save the lack of comparison between stilettos and chunky heels and allow her to get to the point of why she was chasing me.
“So…your mom mentioned you wanted to hang out.”
My lips form a straight line. “Did she now?”
“Yup! And I’m so excited.” She hikes a thumb over her shoulder. “Was actually thinking about going for a swim. You down?”
Obviously I’m not down. Not with any of this.
I don’t even know how to swim.
But…I do have questions.
And maybe a little girl time with an eager Theory is what I could use to get some answers.
About our parents. A missing Saint.
The monster they call Vicious.
Mom wasn’t lying when she said she set up my bedroom. A beautiful black and white damask bedspread, endless throw pillows to match. She even had a corner drafting table set up in front of a west facing window. The wallpaper I hate is now covered in antique Marvel comics,mycomics, and even some portraits I painted. Yes, I dabble in brushes too, but nowhere near as good as I am with pencils.
Walking into the closet, I find it packed to the brim with hundreds of outfits that fit my style perfectly.
Not gaudy or posh, conservative to play the part.
Mom took a room she knows is not my taste and turned it into one I would’ve designed myself.
The gesture brings on a pang in my chest, knowing how hard she worked to make me feel at home in a place she was confident I’d never want to live in.
Making my way down the closet, my fingers run along each designer dress, top, pants, and shoes I pass on the way to intimates.
Chanel, Prada, Louis Vuitton.
Even Valentino.
Every drawer and shelf coordinated by occasion and seasons, a heart drawn with different colored pencils at the ends of each label.
She really is the best mom in the world.
I spot the bathing suit drawer right away and open it, groaning internally when I find only one pieces in the front. That is, until I move them aside and come face to face with an adorable high waisted black and leopard print bikini.
It takes me less than five minutes to get dressed, throw my hair up in a high pony, and pin back my bangs—which are now long enough to be considered curtains. I reach into my bag on the dresser and pull out my phone, both of which I didn’t realize I forgot in the kitchen until Darla met me by the steps holding them.
After a quick once over, I toss the lace cover up on the floor, imagining how much more spiteful it would be to walk around in a bikini.
The hallways on the fourth floor are identical to the rest, more limestone, vintage curtains, and realistic portraits of people.Notsaints. The Persian runner beneath my feet is soft, and there isn’t a speck of dust on the sculpture next to the elevator.
It’s like walking through a Civil War mansion.
The ding comes only seconds after I press the button, and when the doors open I let out a breath of relief.
Elevators and me…don’t love our history.
Mirrors line the car, so I use them to examine my hair the entire ascent to the roof, then wink at whoever may be watching through the camera in the upper corner.
“Girl! Look at you,” Theory squeals, soaking wet, standing right outside the doors when they open.
And of course…there’s Carlo…in the only shaded area by the pool.
