Page 120 of Vicious Saint
With a quick swerve onto the exit, it’s less than two minutes before I’m blocking a hydrant in front of the mansion.
I kill the engine and fling open the door, not giving a fuck that a taxi almost rips it off the hinges.
Storming up the front steps like the madman I am, I’m greeted by no one but my father’s cameras when I get to the front door.
There’s only one reason why he would give security the day off—and knowing this feeds the anger I need to get out.
Which I’m sure is clear as fucking day to whoever’s turning the camera and watching me literally punch in the entry code.
Can’t be Dad. If it was, my phone would be dancing.
One door opens to another closed door, so once more I tap on some keys before hearing the click.
“Hello!” I shout, not sure why I’m surprised Darla isn’t here either.
The statues of saints judge me as I barge past them down the hall, so I flip each of them off until I get to the kitchen. Pulling out my phone, I dial my father again, heading to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water.
Just as I finish chugging it, the call connects to voicemail, making me throw the phone against the wall. It takes the edge off, but not close to enough.
I need to fucking talk to him.
In an attempt to talk myself down, I use the calculated breaths Dr. Morris taught me, since the last thing I need is my father seeing me go postal.
In like a balloon…out through a straw.
In like a balloon, out through a straw.
I had a plan. It was foolproof.
Until my father made me the fucking fool.
The whole point was to keep the prey away from the monster—then he goes and brings it right to the monster’s fucking doorstep.
With my breathing steadier, I make my way over to the phone, picking it up to find the entire screen filled with cracks.
I dust it off with the hem of my jersey, hoping somehow the universe likes my despicable ass enough to at least let it still work.
“Shit,” I grumble, tapping my thumb against the screen, and although the phone app is still there, it’s not enough to use it.
Guess this bitch also has her reasons to hate me.
I’m seconds from tossing the phone in the trash when it starts to go off, and thanks to the Taylor Swift song she put as her ringtone, I know exactly who it is.
I slam my finger mercilessly against the screen, desperate for the universe, even though bitch proved to hate me, to give me a damn break. She does, because Taylor doesn’t get the chance to finish telling me she’s the problem.
“Hello? Big bro?” Theory’s voice trickles through the speaker.
I press the phone hard against my ear, ignoring the sting that comes with it. “Yeah, baby girl, I’m here.”
“Oh my God! I miss you so dang much!” she squeals. “But how did you get your phone?”
“I miss you too, and don’t worry about it. Why the fuck aren’t you guys home?”
“We’re in D.C. for the weekend. Daddy has work stuff.” The line goes deathly silent before she adds, “Oh no…”
Oh. Fucking. No is right.
My jaw muscles clench. “Put him on the phone.”
