Page 144 of Vicious Saint
Archer’s pierced glare aims right at my head, but he doesn’t bother with his usual scolding about smoking on school grounds.
“Insane. You didn’t hear about it from Levi or Riggs?”
“Riggs was there?” a shocked Archer questions.
“Of course he was. Tyson threw it.”
Andrew Tyson. Another jock with a God complex.
Archer nods to himself, and I almost call his previous bluff before reminding myself we’ve got company.
Flicking the lighter, I hold it against the tip of my Newport. “Anybody fall on their face?”
Stevenson cracks up. “Yeah. Me.”
I inhale with a chuckle. “You really are a fucking klutz.”
Stevenson pulls me to him, tickling my side.
“Quit it. I’m sick and gonna die!”
Archer laughs. “A lot quicker if you keep that smoking shit up.”
I’d defend myself if I wasn’t screaming for dear life.
Stevenson hauls me onto his lap, fighting for my cigarette, when all of a sudden a football comes flying and smashes him in the face.
“What the fuck?” He releases me, hand covering the nose spilling with blood.
I spring to my feet, not needing to turn around to know who the culprit is. He’s got an arm already being talked about by the NFL.
Archer jumps to his feet just as fast.
“Shit, I think it’s broken,” Stevenson muffles behind his hand.
Every ounce of like I felt for this motherfucker goes flying out the window. In its place…blinding rage again.
“Here.” I toss my cigarette, then pull off my tank top, pressing it against Stevenson’s nose. “Use this to stop the blood.”
Heat blazes against my back, and I’m not talking from the sun.
Saint’s eyes. They’re stabbing through my sports bra.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
“Don’t.” Archer squeezes my arm. “You have to live with him.”
My jaw clenches as I spin around to find Saint. Which isn’t hard given he’s the only one standing in a circle of teammates.
He’s got his arms crossed in front of him, helmet like a crown halfway on his head, glaring at me like a mad king who’s just been provoked.
Approaching the locker rooms at record speed, I leave Carlo behind holding my bag as he rambles in Italian how I shouldn’t be fighting with mybrother. Then, I push the doors open so hard they let out a thwack against the wall.
He doesn’t follow, knowing better than to test my patience or my mother’s demand to give me space.
A little kindness I was offered in return for waitinghoursto hear from her. Didn’t get much information other than that, and an apology for not coming home when she promised. No shocker there…since these days she cherishes secrets almost as much as her new husband.
“Saint!” I belt out, charging past the half-naked sweaty guys. “Where are you?!”
