Page 215 of Vicious Saint
How the fuck do I respond to words like that? Can’t be with sass, not when they’re powerful enough to break hearts.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, I reassure him, “Nobody’s gonna die, Carlo, okay?”
At least that’s what I tell myself to help me sleep at night.
He laughs off my much calmer response. “Of course,signorina, I know. I-eh…just get-ehlittlepazzo.”
My smile is half, but whole at the same time.
“I know all about crazy, trust me, and it doesn’t look like you.”
With a polite nod, Carlo returns to scanning the street.
“Can you at least tell me if your family is on our side?”
“Don’t you worry,signorina.” He winks. “I will always be on your side.”
We re-enter the club, and the crowd has increased astronomically, with people barely able to pass each other without bumping shoulders.
Carlo insists we leave, but I insist on one more drink and a dance with eitherhimor my best friend.
It doesn’t take long for the three of us to end up in the middle of the dance floor, Archer and me busting out our dance hall moves, while Carlo sticks out like a sore, overly dressed, thumb.
“Get it. Get it!” a drunk Archer hollers behind me as I dip low and rise with a slow arch of my back, then grinding with him.
A position we’ve been in many times when partying, since this bestie’s dance moves far surpasses my other bestie’s two left feet. The gyration of our hips is provocative enough to garner discomfort from Carlo, but playful enough to be deemed nothing more than a best friend hype up sesh.
One thing about do-gooder Archer, he’s got moves nobody would expect, and fuck do I love him for it.
I’m bent over with an arm up in the air, craning my neck to face him as he leans back, still rolling his hips.
He cracks up when I bite my finger suggestively.
With that, we break apart, swaying, jumping, spinning to the music like two typical drunken messes. And, for a fleeting second, all the pain, anger, even sadness fades away.
29
Saint
Another ten million down the fucking drain.
Half to Luke and half to his girlfriend.
At this rate, I doubt there’ll be any money left in my savings account by the time I reach twenty-one.
Almost everything that happened after I lit that motherfucker up is a blur, and the things that aren’t come back in bits and pieces.
The smell of burnt flesh. Flames dancing.
Levi tackling me to the ground.
Gunner using a bucket of ice water to put his cousin out of his misery.
These memories run on repeat since I, once again, have been trying to adjust to my new, and stronger, medications.
Some would consider my actions of nearly burning someone to death a come to Jesus moment, since it was me who called Dr. Morris and told him I was feeling the effects of cold-turkeying allmy meds. Of course leaving out the drugs, booze, and violence I had covered up with money and threats.
Took me a lot of self-loathing, distance, even caving to a few sessions with the doc to start shedding some of the guilt of what I’ve done.
