Page 141 of Vicious Saint
Even a dash of Bratva.
What wedon’tfind rolling around, at least not in a long time, are a bunch of Italians straight out of A Bronx Tale.
Italians tend to stick together, mate together, and send their kids off to fancy Catholic schools together. Which is why this conclave at Riverside comes through sus as fuck. Even more so knowing my little Jimi Hendrix got herself a shadow looking just like them.
A memory hits from a time shortly after I met Hendrix.
I overheard her one night…drunkenly spilling the beans to Archer about her dad being some off-the-boat deadbeat Italian.
Said his last name was after cheese or some shit.
Thought nothing of it, since there’s cheese and dead beat daddies all over the globe.
But now…
I’d be a brain dead idiot not to consider some connection.
The sun appears from behind a cloud, blinding me, so I shield my eyes and squint for a better look, not surprised one bit when Hendrix’s shadow emerges.
Carlo lowers his shades to make eye contact but breaks it just as fast when the guy in the car gets a phone call.
What is this motherfucker up to?
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I check the screen.
Five minutes to two.
More than enough time to snap some pictures.
19
Hendrix
There are dreams, and then there are out-of-body experiences.
The second is what I’m pretty sure occurred last night.
I’ve had vividcomeabouts in my sleep plenty of times, but everything, down to the sounds of his voice, smell of his sweat, even metal from the locker I was pinned against, had me transported to another dimension.
One where Saint was eating my pussy like it was his last meal.
I screamed my orgasm, pretty sure even out loud, and now all I can think about is if Saint bore witness to it.
I’m thinking no, since when I did wake up flushed and damp, all I found was an empty bottle of Whiskey to speak for him.
Was kind of pissed he took off in the middle of the night but also relieved given it’d be a lot harder to hear me coming if he wasn’t in the room.
“Why are we here?” Archer complains as we lounge on the top of the bleachers. “Haven’t you had enough of him?”
My brain continues to ache, skin’s turning clammy, and the onset of dryness in my throat has me wondering if all three are the start of me getting sick. Every symptom, including the piercing behind my eyes, makes it that much harder to counter his judgment.
Isn’t Motrin supposed to help headaches? Damn.
“He’s not that bad,” is all I can manage as I adjust my sunglasses on my face.
Archer whips his head to me. “Whoisn’t that bad?”
I catch my mistake, then wonder if, in fact, itwasa mistake.
