12. Saint
Saint
I ’ve endured two weeks of pure torture in the form of heavy drugs, self-reflection, shrinks, group meetings, and even a few sessions of hypnosis to get to where the fuck I am right now.
Parked in the lot of Riverside, twirling my phone in my hand as I watch police and firefighters going in and out of the dorms.
When I finally got my phone back from the discharge station, I turned it on to find a slew of alerts from local media.
Apparently, a fire was started two nights ago, and the female dorms are closed until further notice.
I shouldn’t be amused by the news, but knowing what it means has me basking in satisfaction.
My little Jimi Hendrix has nowhere to go except for home. Which has now officially become the Lavell Mansion courtesy of her mother.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall of those tantrums.
Whoever torched the joint chose wisely—because if I had to play nice for weeks to get discharged early, only to get stuck listening to my dad bitch, moan, and beg me to go to church, I’d be hunting down and murdering the motherfucker before the day struck noon.
Even a padded room at Holy Trinity is better than listening to him pray for my soul on repeat for the next week.
I managed to stay off Dad’s grid when I picked up my Rover in our private garage, a task I anticipated to be the hardest given the surveillance he’s got surrounding every inch of it.
There’s an upside to having the founder of the biggest cybertech company in the world as a father—you learn a thing or two about tweaking the system.
So, with a quick wedge to the bathroom door as the guard took a shit, I broke through the firewall of the cameras, leaving them on loop as I gathered the items I instructed Theory to hide in my trunk.
Breaking out of the looney bin was a vigorous task, but you’d be surprised what a guy can accomplish with a handsome face, good dick, and loads of cash.
Katie, I think it was? Head of Psych. Great lay.
Her assistant? Not so much.
But…the drought was long and I was desperate.
So, I fucked them both senseless for a get out free card—with every intention of spending the last of summer in my dorm, where there’s nobody to nag me or answer to.
Or watch me like a hawk every time I get pissed off.
The cycle is always the same: Saint loses his shit, Saint gets sent away, Saint comes back drugged up and well behaved. Saint watches everyone tiptoe around him until they finally let their guards down.
Here’s the thing about distance after a psychotic break.
You’re gifted with clarity.
About the things you want.
The things you don’t.
The things you know you should avoid.
That last one, man. That’s the motherfucking kicker.
Because out of all the endless rambling and my knack for tuning people out, I managed to search in and out of the pits of hell to find what’s left of my soul.
It was only a chip. Yeah. You know it.
Right on the shoulder.
Making the idea of still hating Hendrix, while letting things slide between me and her, hard as fuck. Took a lot of imaginary throttles, woo-sahs, even wet dreams, to shake the need to carry out the first one.
Despite such feral instincts, I also decided it’s best to stay as far away as possible, at least until I figure out how a feisty brat, barely five foot four with great tits, has managed to tear down walls I’ve spent years building brick by bloody brick.
Revenge has always been my sweetest ecstasy, so if you take that, and Theory’s history with the bitches at her old school, of course I’m still going to want it.
But…deep, deep, deep down, I know, even though Hendrix can be a raging bitch, she makes my sister happy.
Ergo…there’s no hurting one without the other.
And the part of me that’s willing to risk it, is locked up tight where I need him to be if I want to stand a chance at feeling human again.
So here I am, taking the high road. Keeping my distance here until she’s back in her dorm. Refraining from tearing out her throat and gluing it like a trophy on the wall.
I wait until the coast is clear of officials before turning off the engine, swinging the door open and slamming it shut behind me when I climb out.
As I pull my duffle out of the trunk, the scorching heat forms tiny beads of sweat along my neck, so I spin my Yankee fitted around to block the rays.
The sound of my trunk slamming alerts a cop exiting the building, and I assume I’m fucked until he juts his chin and compliments me on my Manning Jersey, then continues on his way.
Words like his would usually spark my need for long conversations about his success, retirement, and the quality of the team ever since.
Can’t help it.
I bleed blue.
But today is not the day for NFL nostalgia, not when I need to avoid anyone who knows me.
Or dear old dad.
Besides the janitor with his headphones on mopping the halls, the first floor is empty as I step inside, not a T.V. or lamp left on in the lobby. Works in my favor, given not even Riggs or Levi know I’m out yet.
And I plan to keep it that way.
My Jordans squeak against the floor as I pass the old man, who doesn’t even bother glancing my way as he continues to clean around me.
“Yo, Saint!” a guy calls out from behind me, forcing my feet to an aggravated halt.
So much for fucking empty.
My defensive lineman Rick jogs to a stop in front of me. “What’s up, man? How you been?” He holds his fist out, then drops it nonchalantly when I don’t budge.
“Busy.”
He nods in understanding. “Yeah, man. I feel that. Got back here last night just trying to settle in and shit before first practice tomorrow.”
There goes another plan of mine shot to hell.
My jaw flexes as I adjust the bag over my shoulder. “You need somethin’, Rick?”
“Nah, man, all good. But did you hear about what happened in the female dorms the other night?”
“Pretty hard to miss the damage outside.”
“Crazy, man. Heard a kid at school did it. Was cooking drugs or some shit.”
“Cooking, huh?” I respond, bored and close to alleviating it with my fists.
“That’s what they’re sayin’. But who knows. Shit’s always going on in this school.”
“Nothing worth giving a fuck about.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh. “I don’t know, man. Word is you went ham on a couple JV’s two months ago.”
The reaction is visceral as my hand locks around Rick’s throat, pushing him backwards until he slams against the wall.
“Oh, yeah, Rick? What else did you hear?”
My chest crushes his, making it even harder for the guy to breathe.
“I-I…”
“I-I, what motherfucker? Speak.”
“Can’t…breathe.”
“Kids these days would call that a skill issue .”
Rick’s face turns redder by the second. “Please, man. Let me go.”
“Here’s the problem with that, Rick. You made me mad. And I don’t want to be mad. Because when I’m mad bad things happen.” His hands are prying at mine as I continue, “I’m really trying to turn over a new leaf. You understand? Make better life choices.”
“That’s great, man. I’m happy—”
“Right? I was too. In fact, I’ve been feeling pretty proud of myself all morning.” I pause, teeth bared when I add, “Until your dumb ass came along and ruined my mood.”
Tingles, along with the meds in my head telling me to chill the fuck out, rise in my stomach. Growing fiercer and louder as his face darkens to a shade of purple.
“Why’d you have to ruin it, Rick? Hm?” My chest rises and falls in violent waves. “Why’d you have to go and say something stupid?”
“I’m sorry, okay?”
“Aw, bestie, I totally accept your apology.”
“Thank you. Now please let me go.”
I pout like the asshole I am. “But we didn’t even get to hug it out.”
“What do you want, man?”
“What I want is for you tell me what the fuck I allegedly did to these JV’s.”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
Dropping my bag, it hits the floor with a loud thump, but not loud enough to draw attention from the old man entering the janitor’s closet. Then, I slide my hand into my pocket, fishing for the prize possession I’ve been missing for weeks.
“Please, Saint.” Rick resorts to begging as Halo appears already wrapped tight.
“God, I missed this guy.” I lay a quick smoochie woo on my knuckles. “I hate when he gets taken away.”
“Well, I’m glad you were reunited.”
“Was that…a sarcastic comment?” I question with a raised brow. “Because I love a good sarcastic comment.”
Of course he doesn’t respond.
Through Ricky’s beady eyes, he sees a guy about to roast him like a measly chicken. Maybe take his tongue for calling me out.
Every inch of my body ignites with the thought of doing just that. But, like I said. The leaf and good choices.
They’re counting on me.
Plus, a defensive lineman isn’t worth another flight to Holy Trinity.
I ease up my hold enough to allow the red of his face drain.
“Let’s try this question again, Rick, and I suggest you choose your answer wisely. What. Do. You. Know?”
“Just that you beat the shit out of ’em and broke their fingers.”
That’s it? Really? I put in all this fucking work.
“Are you sure? Because I’m on a streak here, Rick. Not lookin’ to break it along with your small dick.”
“I’m sure, okay!”
Releasing him with a shove, I dust off the collar of his polo. “See? Now was that so hard?”
Rick is breathing again but not scurrying off like I want him to. So, I pin him with a glare. “Need somethin’ else?”
The bemusement on his face as he shakes his head wreaks of pathetic—and I’m not a Royal Heathen about that energy.
“Great.” I flash him a smile. “Now kindly fuck off.”
The sound of Rick’s sneakers screeching against the floor is still in the distance when I reach the elevator, and with a ding comes the return of a happy Saint.
Nobody freaked out.
Lost a limb.
Died.
See? I got this no violence thing in the bag.
At least that’s what I tell myself the entire ride up to the eighth floor, where both much needed silence and a warm bed await.
There’s the residual scent of pine wafting through the air as I make my grand exit into the hall, and I breathe that shit in like my life depends on it.
I hate this school most of the time, but after spending weeks in a padded room? Being alone to sleep, maybe screw, and pig out in my dorm seems like a slice of fucking heaven.
My brain is busy picking toppings on a pizza as I fish keys out of my pocket, twirling them around my finger.
Pepperoni.
Sausage.
Chicken.
Mushrooms.
Two liters of Coke and a couple calzones.
Fuck. Yeah.
My stomach growls just thinking about eating real food again.
I approach the door and slide the key into the lock, humming the lyrics to “Superman” by Eminem as I twist it and push. The song, along with my good mood, falls by the wayside the second my room comes into view. Clothes are thrown on the floor next to boxes, and my bed is a mess.
Who’s looking to die today?
Because that’s the only logical explanation for any motherfucker to come inside my room, let alone make it filthy.
My molars are grinding to shavings as I step inside, lowering my duffle to the floor. I peer around, finding open wrappers of my Hershey chocolate scattered on the counter, along with my empty water bottles.
It’s quiet, so I assume whoever it is with the death wish is gone, leaving a pair of Chuck Taylors and an Avenger hoodie behind.
A piece of paper on the desk snags my attention, so I snatch it up.
Every ounce of self-restraint bursts into flames as I take in what’s on it: blue eyes and a big head with two horns poking out of a Yankee fitted. Royals’ jersey with number three on the front. Wearing Jordans that aren’t even fucking retro.
There is only one person on this planet who hates me enough to draw a cartoon version of me in a pair of shitty Spizikes.
And it’s the same person I’ve spent two weeks convincing myself to go easy on. Forgive and forget.
The whole water. The bridge. Not drowning her underneath it.
Well, drowning has a beautiful ring to it now.
I shred the paper into pieces, my eyes burning as they drill a hole in the empty pack of Newports on my desk.
This. Fucking. Bitch.
I’m seconds and a good choice shy of not torching buildings myself when a presence from behind whips me around.
And there she is in the doorway, next to a suit.
My little Jimi Hendrix.
Wearing nothing but a scowl and a towel, hair soaked, sticking to her skin as she grits out, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”