Page 224 of Vicious Saint
The idea of Saint being my boyfriend-slash-stepbrother sounds as cringe out loud as it does in my head.
But the complete opposite when we were together.
In fact, every time, including the ugly times, felt like an involuntary movement. Like when traveling from one place to another unsure of how you got there—but still knowing it’s where you belong.
Point proven when I realize my eyes drifted to a soaking wet Saint. Who, apart from the shirt glued to his muscles and usual stoic features, has an underlying sadness etching the curves ofhis face. One I’ve only seen after he pulled me off his bed, and I had to convince him he didn’t hurt me.
Quite the poetic turn of events now that he actually did.
In spite of my anger toward Saint, I allow myself a moment to succumb to the weakness and take him in, shock punching the wind out of me as the corner of his lips hitch slightly. Not in a callous way, but in a “I’ve been hoping you see me too” kinda way.
As if we haven’t spent every Sunday in silence around a dinner table with our parents. We still share every single class. Friends. Secrets we’ll take to the grave.
God, this boy is maddening.
But I miss him so damn much.
Theory’s over dramatic laugh forces me to blink away thoughts of Saint, returning my mind and my heart to the body on the table.
“Nice to have you back…” Archer chuckles, plucking the cigarette close to burning a hole in my skirt out of my hand.
“Sorry…” I tell him as he puts it out in a drop of water between us.
“No need to apologize, Hen. I get it. You care about the asshole.”
“No. I care about the good guy hiding behind the asshole.”
“Or maybe the good guy was never there to begin with.”
“He’s there, trust me.”
His presence comes and goes like the air in my lungs.
A bout of silence falls around us when the rain suddenly lets up, and once again I find my attention journeying to the far end table.
Theory climbs off it, Annalie right behind, running her finger up Saint’s arm as he stands.
Dumb handsy bitch.
And what makes it even worse is Saint not flicking her off like the dirty little flea she is. Instead he turns away from me to yank on Annalie’s hair, making her wince as he mutters something in her ear. Good or bad, I’m not sure, but whatever it is, she’s grinning at me when he lets her go.
The audacity is beat down worthy for sure, but what the bitch mouths next seals the timeline of her wretched existence.
“He’ll never want a fat, ugly bitch like you.”
“So, whaddya think?” I pop out of a Macy’s dressing room stall, twirling for Carlo in the fifteenth outfit I’ve tried on for Archer’s yacht party Saturday.
Yes, at first I was reluctant, but after Saint and Annalie lit a torch in my belly three hours ago, I decided to say a wholesome “fuck you” to both by not allowing myself to stoop to their level.
Call it the high road…or river.
At least for now.
“Molto bella, signorina.” Carlo nods, ignoring the middle aged dressing room assistant telling him to leave. “I think-ehthis is the one.”
“Really?” I run both hands down the black off-the-shoulder dress, then lift a foot to examine the saddle tan boots.
The same knee high chunky heelers Theory and I were supposed to buy together.
