Page 183 of Vicious Saint
Comfortable enough to curse and threaten?
I sneak a glance at Saint, who’s got a look to match mine, and both our sights gravitate toward Costa who’s quick to reach for a book on the desk and open it up.
“I like to know every person in a room before I walk into it, which is why I’ve been doing my homework all week on each of you. Making some of those phone calls I love so much to fellow colleagues.”
Shit…Hell may be worth not having this guy for two weeks.
My shoulders relax, but it’s not until Costa’s done strong arming us that Saint does the same—pulling his eyes away to take out his phone and type a message.
Voices around us drown with my attempt to read what it says, stretching as much as I can without being obvious. I’m not stupid enough to assume I heard the extent of what he knows from Vic, so any chance I can sleuth, best believe I’ll be sleuthing.
I get no further than the name on top of the screen.
Which isn’t a name at all. It’s a number.
Seven to be exact.
Who the fuck labels people by numbers?
Saint looks up the second after he hits send, and I’m seconds from drilling his ass with questions when a bing goes off on Annalie’s phone.
I can feel every ounce of blood draining from my face.
She looks down at the screen, then at Saint, then back at the screen, biting her lip as she types.
I watch all of this unfolding so hard from the corner of my eye it might fall out.
Right after Saint’s phone goes off, Annalie reaches over, grazing her nails up his thigh, mouthing a word I assume isn’t a guy named Dick.
Suddenly, I’m catapulted back to a year ago in a seat similar to this, bound by fear, nausea, and yes, jealousy as I watch this bitch touching someone who isn’t mine.
Tidal waves of anger overcome my emotions, making my hand squeeze the pen I’m holding.
I know we aren’t together.
That wecan’tbe together.
But for some reason the idea of him still wanting to mess with other girls didn’t occur to me. Not sure why, this is Saint for fuck’s sake, he’s a whore.
Who am I to change that?
To change him?
There’re two reasons why moments, even magical ones, are held in our minds, not our hands.
The truth—because it’s heavy.
And time—because it stops for no one.
Saint leans into Annalie’s ear, whispering something before dragging her desk closer, the sound of metal scraping the floor drawing everyone’s attention.
The real messed up part? It’s not even on them.
With every breath my throat burns hotter, and I know it’s only seconds before my eyes give away what I’m trying to hide.
How can I be so fucking stupid?
What did I think was going to happen?
