Page 158 of Vicious Saint
Hendrix answers her ItalianinItalian for the satisfaction of knowing I won’t understand.
“Damn, Hen.” Levi rears his head back. “You speak Italian?”
She shrugs. “I can hold conversations.”
Riggs snorts whatever Riggs snorts from his tiny spoon and throws his head back. “Shit’s pretty, hot, baby. Not gonna lie.”
I snatch Hendrix’s wrist to haul her into me, and this time when I speak, it’s with just an uneasy expression.
Trying to remind her of our current predicament: with her mysterious Italian, my dad, and whoever else might be holding a grudge.
She blinks at the guys, then back at me, mumbling, “I’m just gonna hang in Archer’s room.”
The muscles in my face stay clenched.
“We’re only a few floors down, Saint, and Carlo will be in the hall.”
“Exactly.”
She looks over at the guy observing our every move, then at me. “You’re acting paranoid.”
“Am I?” I whisper.
“Yes, you are,” she whispers back.
Consider me bored of playing nice.
“You’re staying with me here. End of fucking story.”
“I’m leaving with Archer. End of fucking story. Now let go of me.”
Hendrix takes my silence as surrender, but what I’m really trying to do is avoid murder and another four week sentence.
Which is about to get a lot harder with her Italian mean mugging as he closes in on us.
“Get-eh your hands off her.”
“Oh, sonowyou wanna speak English?”
He steps to me and in seconds I’ve got Hendrix shielded behind me, Levi and Riggs at my side.
Fire burns in my lungs, growing hotter with every puff of my chest. “I’m gonna give you one chance to turn the fuck around and get out with your spleen still intact. Got it?”
He spits some more shit I can’t understand, but I make sure he chokes on the words I say next.
“I hold a short fuse and long grudge, motherfucker. So I suggest you don’t test me.”
Archer, along with Hendrix, mouth off their usual pleas for me to not do anything reckless, but the clouds are already rolling in.
Crack.
I hold my breath until I’m lightheaded.
Crack.
Pressure crushes my chest, about to rip through the surface when Hendrix’s hand grips my mine, her thumb running in circles over my palm.
The nature of her touch may be gentle, but it’s powerful enough to ground me and allow oxygen to once again hit my lungs.
