16. Hendrix
Hendrix
B etween the wrestling match that took place as Saint dragged me to his SUV, plus the damn city traffic, it took over thirty minutes to get back to Riverside.
I spent the entire ride with my back to him and blowing up my mother’s phone. Even Theory’s. Getting no response from either even after several colorful voicemails.
Saint spent his time in conversation, mostly with himself, since I was too busy wishing chronic diarrhea on his ass through every failed attempt at reaching people.
There was also the Plague.
Sepsis.
Deadly case of the Swine Flu.
The last one actually had me laughing out loud as we pulled into the Riverside parking lot. Would have me laughing now, too, if I wasn’t face to face with my next forty-eight hour sentence.
“Let’s go,” Saint demands as he kills the engine, climbing out of the Range Rover without a second glance my way.
I yank the handle, using my entire right side to slam open the door, then slamming the trunk, too, after I grab my belongings that were magically waiting for me.
The halls are empty as we walk into the school—the slow trek to Saint’s room turning unbearable by the second thanks to a brewing headache and physical baggage.
“You could help you know,” I mutter as we make our way to the elevator, feeling the strap of my duffle digging like knives into my skin.
Along with the small boxes.
Saint is unbothered as can be while spinning car keys around his finger. “Can’t risk my golden arm.”
How short lived his attitude was from earlier, when he took it upon himself to help me pick up, even fold my damn shirt.
Adjusting the boxes to see where the heck I’m going, I shoot back, “God, I fucking hate you.”
“Careful, Jimi.” He leans close. “Hate sounds a lot like the beginning of a love story.”
I belt out a sardonic, “ha!” as we stop at the elevators.
Balancing on his heels, Saint lets out a pop with his lips, the sound making it clear he’s privy to something I’m not.
“Yikes. This ain’t good.”
“What’s not good?” I maneuver the boxes to the side, finding two Out of Order signs taped against the doors. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Aright, well,” the asshole hikes a thumb over his shoulder, “see ya up there.”
“Seriously?! You’re on the seventh floor!”
“Eighth.” He winks. “So better get movin’... sis .”
“Mark my words, Letterman. You will pay for this.”
A thumbs up is all I get before he disappears up the steps.
The fear of being seen is diminished by the time I get to the fourth floor, deciding I’d rather shank someone in the kidney for talking shit than continue with my attempt at one trip.
I’m carrying the second box up to the top of the steps when I hear a Drake song blasting from Saint’s room.
Lord…
This guy’s taste in music is almost as bad as his taste in women.
I’m marching over, ready to wage war, when the door flies open, revealing a bare chested Saint in gray sweats hanging dangerously low on his hips. He leans against the doorway, folding his arms and watching me the rest of the way.
“What took you so long?!”
“Take this.” I shove the box into his chest, making him chuckle as he turns to carry it into the room.
I pick up the one I left on the floor, along with my duffle, before following him inside, wincing from the sharp pain in my head.
I need Motrin or a sledgehammer to these speakers, stat.
“The fuck, dude?” I shriek as he slams the box onto the table, causing everything, including my laptop, to crash along with it.
“What? You wanted my help.”
“Help doesn’t usually involve breaking things!”
He snatches the other box from my hands. “It does when you make me do things the hard way!”
Fully expecting more of his aggression, I’m relieved when Saint places this one gently next to the other. Even more so when he presses a button on a remote to kill the terrible music.
Saint slides the duffle off my shoulder. “Where do you want me to put this?”
It takes me a few seconds to respond, given how long I’m staring at the pronounced V of his damn abdomen.
Why does this guy have to be so fucking hot?
Why?
Why couldn’t my psycho step-bro have the body of an ogre?
Clearing my throat, I glance over to where I previously stored my clothes. “I guess the closet.”
Saint nods, much more agreeable, and strides over to it, dusting off my bag with his hand before placing it inside.
I’d think the gesture was sweet if he wasn’t such a clean freak.
“See you got your room back in order,” I mention as he straightens a frame on the windowsill. Squinting, I notice it’s the one of him and Theory from when they were kids.
“Wasn’t easy since you’re a fucking slob.”
“More like petty messy.”
He huffs. “I may know a lil’ about that.”
“ A lot about that.”
Turning back toward the closet, Saint stands in the doorway, gripping the bar wedged between before hoisting himself up.
I take the ceasefire as an opportunity to get answers.
“Can you tell me what trouble your dad is in?”
With a low grunt, he responds, “Fuck if I know.”
Well, that’s better than a fuck off.
“You have to know something.”
Veins and tendons in Saint’s arms flex as he moves up and down, the athletic tone of his muscles on full delicious display. “Our families are always into something. I don’t bother trying to keep track.”
“So why are you starting now?”
“Theory’s home.”
I stroll to the side of the bed closest to him, then sit on top of it with my hands squeezing the edges. “But Theory’s with them in Washington.”
He freezes mid rep. “And?”
“ And …what does that have to do with me?”
Saint jumps down from the bar. “Just playing nice until Dad returns. Then your annoying ass can move into the mansion or back to the streets for all I fucking care.”
The stellar poker face I’m used to must’ve gotten left in Cyprus, because everything about Saint’s statement is as unconvincing as Riggs when he swears he’s not a virgin.
Because let’s face it…guys, especially arrogant ones like Saint, don’t go out of their way to help girls they hate simply because their daddy says so.
No.
They have ulterior motives.
And given the fact, after all of Saint’s threats, I’m still yet to succumb to his rage…I’d say his motives toward me run more on restraint than retaliation.
Which can only mean one thing.
Archer was right when he said there’s more to Saint than meets the eye, but the rule applies to more than his violent tendencies.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t give a shit when clearly you do.”
“Now who’s delusional? Hm?” He takes the three steps between us to clap my arm. Then, gesturing his chin to the ensuite bathroom, he says, “I’m gonna shower. Care to join?”
I conjure up my best disgusted face. “Hard pass.”
“Your loss.” Saint shrugs, heading to the dresser, pulling what looks to be a new iPhone, out of a box and onto the charger.
Deciding it’s best to not feed my exhaustion or headache, I go about my business and kick off my Chucks, then stand and remove my hoodie.
The cold air from the vent above me feels like magic, especially after playing pack mule up eight flights of stairs.
The pampering gets cut short when Saint’s throat clears behind me.
Just like the closet during orientation…once again I find myself in a room with this guy—vulnerable in every way—and it’s not as uncomfortable or foreign as it should be.
“Why do you do that?” Saint returns my previous question.
I blink at him over my shoulder. “Do what?”
“Keep trusting me not to hurt you.”
Facing him, I toss the hoodie on his bed.
He shoots a glare at it, but doesn’t remark, which is why deep down, beneath all the hate, back and forth, and one-ups, I truly mean what I’m about to say.
“I told you…there’s not many people in the world who could stop you from hurting me. So if you’re not hurting me, it’s because you’re choosing not to.”
Unlike last night, sliding into Saint’s bed feels a lot less satisfying, regardless of the ridiculously soft fabric of his sheets and comforter.
It feels wrong but necessary in order to survive the next couple days without adding a stiff neck to my headache. Besides, he’s the one who forced me to come back to this pristine little prison, so it’s only fair his ass takes one for the team until I’m out of here.
Turning onto my side, I open the top drawer of Saint’s nightstand, feeling around for the bottle of Motrin I found hidden in the back last night.
I’m swallowing two tablets dry when I hear the squeak of the shower water turn off.
“Shit.” I throw the bottle back in the drawer and slide it closed. Then, in a frantic attempt to get comfortable, cover myself with the blanket and roll onto my side.
The scent of cotton and lavender settles my racing heart, marking my decision to shelf the sass until tomorrow.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Saint’s voice is gravel as he appears with one towel around his neck, and another folded around his hips.
I force myself to close my eyes. “Going to bed. Duh.”
“The fuck you are.”
“There’s no way I’m sleeping on that small ass couch.”
Rustling comes from his dresser. Opening, closing, things moving around on top of it.
“Plenty of floor to go around then.”
The audacity of his comment has me shooting up in the bed to find him with his back toward me as he dries his hair with the towel.
“You sleep on the damn floor.”
“I use my floor for fucking, Jimi. Not sleeping.”
“Pretending it’s a pen?”
Other than Saint’s tendency to screw his way through the female population, calling a guy this tidy a pig no longer packs the same punch.
But best believe I’m punching anyway.
He delivers me a sarcastic “ha ha,” then examines a gray pair of boxer briefs.
Saint drops the towel wrapped around him, revealing every single curve of his muscular frame. Including a round ass I would definitely bite if I was drunk enough.
My body heat rises, and Saint must sense it because he casts a suggestive glance over his shoulder. “See somethin’ you like, Jimi?” he asks, right before sliding on his boxer briefs.
Payback’s a needy, thirsty bitch.
“Eh. Mediocre at best.”
“Why don’t you come over here? Find out if you’re right?”
A groan rumbles through me. “Can you just get dressed already? And turn the damn lights down for me?”
My entire body seizes, and the air around me grows heavier with the poor choice of words. Saint must place the connection too, because he’s just as tense pulling on a pair of shorts.
I don’t need my conscience to tell me how much of a bad idea it’d be to address Theory’s phrase for him, so I do my best to ease the tension the only way I know how.
“Chop, chop, Letterman. The couch is waiting.”
The quip works, much easier than I was anticipating.
And fuck am I grateful.
Last thing I need is to summon the monster.
Which is why, when Saint’s lip curls as he makes his way over to the couch, I keep my trap shut and revel in the win.
Except…I don’t win.
Because people who are about to sleep on couches don’t organize the throw pillows. Or turn and amble over to a bed.
“What are you—?” My question falls short as he throws his weight onto the mattress.
“What does it look like? I’m going to sleep.”
“Not here you’re not.”
He rests on an elbow. “You have three options, Jimi. Bed, floor, couch.”
I should argue that every single one benefits him in some way, but the pain meds haven’t kicked in yet. So, I play my cards right long enough for Saint to assume my decision, then when he twists to shut the lamp, make my move and scoot closer.
Pushing him so hard he rolls off the bed.
A solid effort on my part, but somehow Saint’s always quicker.
Because in the blink of an eye he’s got a hand locked around my wrist, making me yelp as I tumble over the edge with him.
Saint hits the floor with a thud, and I go flying right over, the blow to my head cushioned by his outstretched forearm.
“What the hell?” I release a pained laugh.
Saint hovers over me. “Shit, Jimi, you okay?”
I take in the genuine concern lining his features. Bright blue eyes wide, lips parted, and breaths heavy.
“Yeah, all good.”
“You sure?” He examines my head. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The tone in his voice is not only concerned, it’s riddled in guilt.
Which is the last thing he should be feeling for someone who pushed him off a bed.
I’m taken, not going to lie.
“You didn’t, it’s okay.”
“I—” He swallows. “I wouldn’t.”
Ignoring the fact he’s a complete dickwad, I have to remind myself that behind Saint’s charming, even brutal exterior, is a guy battling demons he rarely allows anyone to see.
And right now that guy deserves a little grace.
Especially since I’m the dickwad who pushed him first.
“Hey.” I press my hand against his cheek. “ I know .”
Saint’s hair falls down his forehead as his gaze holds mine hostage. “Two percent…” he breathes, with a small smile tugging his lips.
“Two percent?”
“It’s how many people in the world are born with your shade of green eyes.”
“Pretty sure there’s a reason for that.”
Saint chuckles, almost in disbelief as he says, “Shit, Jimi. I’m pretty sure you’re the reason for that.”