Page 396 of Vicious Saint
Rolling my eyes, I slap my knees and stand, watching a satisfied grin curl Hendrix’s lips as I trek over.
The second I reach her, she throws her arms around my neck. “And here I was thinking you’d put up more of a fight.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll be making up for it later.”
When I’ve got her bent over the bed, balls deep inside her pussy.
“You two. Turn around and smile!” the aunt demands, cell phone already pointing at us.
With a low grumble, I pull Hendrix into my side, attempting a smile that doesn’t reek of fuck my life energy.
I guess it worked, because right after a few snaps we’re being ambushed by other cameras too.
June’s. Theory’s. Even Bex and Cray’s dad joined the Piss Off Saint Parade.
Demands like “Stay right there” and “You better let me get a picture next” come from Hendrix’s mom and aunt, along with a “Keep still you idiot” from Theory. The most impossible one being Dad’s “try smiling like you don’t want to kill everyone.”
Better fucking believe I get close to it when Good Guy suggests taking round three of a group photo.
I tell the asshole to eat a dick, then take off to where Hendrix is mid-posing for Cray’s dad’s camera with her mom and aunt, no less than ready to rip arms out of their sockets.
“Photoshoot’s over. You’re coming with me.” I snatch Hendrix’s arm and drag her around the makeshift stage.
She curses my “caveman bullshit” the entire time, but I could tell by the twentieth photo she was just as close to dismembering people as I was.
When we come to a stop I spin her until she hits my chest, looking up at me with an adoration I’m not sure I’ll ever be good enough to deserve.
“We did it, Jimi.” I grin, brushing wavy strands of hair behind her ear. “We reached the inevitable.”
Hendrix clutches my shirt with both hands.
“Damn straight, Letterman. Next stop for us…Bromwell and—”
“Bromwell.”
She rears her head back, dumbfounded. “What do you mean, Bromwell? What happened to Vanguard?”
“I decided to stay local.”
“Saint…” Hendrix drops her hands to her sides. “The doctor said there’s still a chance. So did your physical therapist.”
“A small chance, and I’m pretty sure they only said it at the beginning to avoid getting stabbed by one of your pencils.”
Unlike my little Jimi Hendrix, my mind was made up about college even before I started physical therapy.
My joint was completely shattered, reconstructed, and as good as the Orthopedic surgeon was, we both knew my chances at playing football again were shot from the beginning.
Did it sting? Fuck yeah.
But not nearly as much as the idea of being states away from Hendrix.
Why?
Because this girl not only flipped my world around, she changed my perception of it. Even more so of myself.
For a decade I looked in the mirror and saw a monster, convinced myself I’d never be anything more. But now? It’s like every day I’m seeing the real me for the first time.
Hendrix makes me want to do better.
