Page 305 of Vicious Saint
39
Hendrix
“Where the heck are you taking me?!” I laugh, nearly tripping over a crack in the ground.
It’s been two hours since Saint woke me up, demanding we miss school, I shower—with him—then get dressed so he can take me somewhere special.
He’s dabbled a lot inspecialsthe past few days: including a movie night with just the two of us in the common area, cooking dinner for me in my room, even making up with Archer for spilling the beans about The Pit and Provisional. Although, the last one took a few blunts during a sleepover with Archer and Bex to achieve. All of this in a sweet, unspoken attempt to make up for the nightmares I’m still having almost every night.
It’s the same exact one. With the same exact monster.
The only difference is my ability to wake myself up before he does.
Not that it helps much since he’s become quite the light sleeper since the night that triggered them.
Same thing each time, he asks what the nightmare was about, I keep it vague about my attacker, doing my best not to cross the line into lies. It seems to be helping, though, because even though Saint feels guilty, he’s been in an uncharacteristically chipper mood.
And that’s saying a lot for a guy who goes from electrocution to dance party in his underwear at Mach speed.
“Quit the yappin’, you’ll find out soon enough.”
“I’ve been blindfolded and steered for a half hour, you dick, the least I’m entitled to is questions about whether or not this day is gonna end with me breaking an ankle.”
“Your cankles will be fine, Jimi,” he jokes, and somehow through the pitch black, I succeed at stomping on his sneaker. “Leave my ankles alone, Mr. Athlete’s Foot.”
“Low blow.” He slaps my ass through my leggings, which hurts enough for me to squeal since my cropped puffer jacket can’t protect it. “Besides…it’s like ninety-eight percent gone already.”
Wouldn’t know since I haven’t allowed his nasty feet near me without socks on.
I actually trip over a crack this time, but Saint’s reflexes are quick and have both arms hooking my waist. Then, with his face buried into my neck, he says, “We’re almost there.”
The sound of increased footsteps around us tells me Saint’s not lying, especially when I hear Carlo and Vic’s hired protection talking about scoping the area.
If someone told me six months ago I’d have a stepbrother boyfriend, mobster for hire, and bomb squad K9’s as unofficial pets, I’d tell them to ease up on Riggs’ psychedelic blunts.
“Wait here,” Saint demands through a whisper, right before the warmth from his body trails off and I’m left cold, listening to Rufus sniff the ground around me. This goes on for an irritatingly long time, and I’m contemplating breaking my promise to Saint and removing this damn blindfold.
Loud, scraping metal has my head darting in every direction, and my hand is seconds away from the blindfold when Saint’s warmth returns to my back.
“Go-time, Jimi,” he says, right before we’re moving again.
I swallow the dryness in my throat, my heart rate spiking with every step closer to our destination, and by the time we get there, it’s ready to punch through my ribcage.
As successful as Saint’s attempts to swoon me have been, none of them involved this much secrecy. Preparation. Or even leaving Riverside. This surprise, though, feels momentous somehow, and I still have no idea what it is.
“There’s a small step here,” Saint announces, helping me over it, and a few steps later I’m surrounded by the comfort of heat from all sides.
I can’t see, but judging by the slight echo I can tell we’re in an open space of sorts. My guess? Maybe a warehouse?
A storage unit?
Saint’s gone again, but his footsteps don’t get far before he’s passing me with keys rattling.
A door opens and closes.
Something falls. Saint hisses a curse.
An entire scene plays out as I wait, in the damn dark, with my entire body thrumming from anticipation.
