18. Saint
Saint
“ T his wasn’t part of the plan,” I sputter into the phone, listening to my dad go on about being stuck for a few more days at headquarters.
“You made it through the first night, son. So things couldn’t have been that hard.”
Oh, things were hard all-fucking-right.
And now all they want is to be hard again.
I peer over my shoulder to where Hendrix is still out cold.
My mind reels with images from last night, but poof into oblivion when my dad says, “Saint? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” My jaw clenches.
“Just a few more days, alright? It’s important you keep an eye out.”
“When are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Once we get back. We’ll have a family dinner and I’ll explain what I can.”
“Everything,” I shoot out.
“What I can , son.”
Hanging up, I chuck my phone on the couch.
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Hendrix asks, her voice groggy from sleep.
“So she wakes…at eleven A.M.”
“Is it really that late?”
“For me, yeah.”
“Damn.” She rubs her temples. “I had a nasty headache. Must’ve knocked me out.”
Studying her face, I find very little evidence of suspicion, and Hendrix is never great at hiding her suspicions.
“I could tell.”
Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
I know exactly what’s running through my little Jimi Hendrix’s mind, the panic oozing from her makes it obvious.
Regret for agreeing to sleep with me in my bed.
Fear of me having heard her orgasm in her sleep.
“You snore really fucking loud. Wouldn’t shut up.”
“I do not.”
Blowing out a breath, I make my way toward the kitchen. “Whatever you say.”
My hand grips the refrigerator handle when she blurts out, “Hey…were you?” I side eye her and she pauses, shaking her head. “Nevermind.”
“Don’t hold back now, Jimi.” I pull open the door, snatching two bottles of water. “Looks like we’ll be spending a lot more time together.”
Hendrix flings the blanket off her, legs swinging over the side of the bed. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
“Our parents are stuck in D.C. till Wednesday.”
“Oh, hell no.” She reaches for her phone, already dialing, then curses when it goes to voicemail. “Ughhh! This is bullshit.”
I stroll over to her, arms wide. “And here I am thinking we were bonding.”
“Shut up, Saint.”
“Not a morning person, I see.” Throwing her the bottle, I add, “Duly noted. Now drink up, you look like you have a hangover.”
She catches it with two hands. “Yeah. My head feels like a ton of bricks.”
My gaze trails to my side of the bed, and guilt gnaws at my insides, but not for the reason it should be.
“So much for me softening the blow, huh.”
After a long sip of water, Hendrix stands. “It’s not from the fall, Saint, I had the headache before.” She looks as though she wants to say something else, but tilts her chin instead. “What’s got you so chipper?”
Short list, Jimi. Your delicious cunt being at the tippy top.
“First day back at practice. So I get to hit people.”
She quirks a brow. “Aren’t quarterbacks the ones who get hit?”
“Not when you’re me.”
“So damn full of yourself,” she grumbles, moving past me.
“Where you going?”
“I need a shower.”
The crack from my neck when I twist it does nothing to thwart my need to join her. Touch the forbidden fruit between her legs again.
But I’m no longer drunk, Hendrix is no longer sleeping, and judging by how she’s guzzling the bottle of water, I’d say her mouth is working too.
“Use the bath towels on the bottom shelf in the closet, not the top one.”
She halts her steps, turning to face me with a grin. “Why not the top ones?”
“Those are mine.”
“Well, then maybe I’ll use one of yours .”
“I know what you’re doing and it isn’t gonna work.”
“What?” She takes a long, dramatic step forward. “I’m just trying to take a shower.”
“Jimi.”
“ Letterman ,” she muses.
“I like to keep my shit to myself. And in a certain way.”
“Really?” She taps her chin. “I had no idea.”
I lunge for Hendrix, and she yelps, high tailing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
How long does it fucking take to make two breakfast sandwiches?
“Ali! Baby!” I holler into the back of the local bagel spot, where my brother from an Arab mother got lost behind a wall. “You know I’m not myself when I’m hungry!”
He yells back something in his native language, most likely to shut the fuck up, so I pluck a Slim Jim off the counter and rip it open to avoid destruction.
I’m down to the last bite when the short old man pushes open the swinging doors to the kitchen, holding two round sandwiches in aluminum foil.
“Just in time.” I blow out a breath. “I really didn’t feel like breaking another one of your Hookahs.”
More under breath Arabic commences as he shoves the sandwiches inside a plastic bag, handing it over, then waving me off.
“No money? Again?” I ask, pulling out my wallet.
He gives me the finger and walks away.
“A twenty it is!” I slap the bill on the counter, then head toward the exit. “Until next time, habibi .”
I’m over halfway through my sandwich when I turn the corner to Riverside, the short walk to food coming through in the clutch when I’m late for practice.
After the shower, Hendrix, like the temptress she is, strutted her usual stuff in one of my towels, mentioning some shit about meeting up with Archer.
Her willingness to greet me half naked is another reason I’m sure, but still find it hard to believe, that she’s got no idea how hard I mouth fucked her pussy last night.
The groan in the back of my throat has nothing to do with the huge bite I’m taking into eggs, cheese, and bacon.
“Fucking shit,” I mutter when I feel ketchup spill on my chin, then curse again when I find some splatted on my Retro 3’s.
While peering into the bag I notice, in the midst of Ali breaking up with me, he forgot to give me custody of some napkins. So, I find the nearest trash can and throw the rest of my sandwich inside it.
I’m crossing the threshold of the parking lot when I spot Riggs and Levi on the field, tossing a ball back and forth.
Yes, they know I’m back—little hard not to tell them when finding out last minute we’ve got football practice.
And yes, they know about my situation with my little Jimi Hendrix.
Took every dose of meds not to beat the fuck out of them both for laughing. Same goes for earlier when they heard I was grabbing her a sandwich along with mine.
Yeah, I may be a dick, but one who heard Hendrix’s stomach grumbling. Wasn’t going to let her get as cranky as I was…risk a battle royale or some shit.
I’m approaching my Rover when a strange car a few rows down catches my eye.
A black on black Rolls Royce Ghost.
Not exactly a first choice luxury for teenagers, even the wealthiest ones.
There’re two guys in gray suits and Aviator sunglasses, one with almost his whole back to me, while the other leans against the passenger door. Door guy’s got a lot to say with his hands, allowing me to catch the pistol at his waist.
They shoot the shit, no not literally , as a third motherfucker with slicked back hair and cigarette in his mouth listens from the driver’s seat.
Now…we’ve got a lot of different heads rolling through Riverside: from kids of corrupt politicians, dirty blue collar, crooked white ones.
Even a dash of Bratva.
What we don’t find rolling around, at least not in a long time, are a bunch of Italians straight out of A Bronx Tale.
Italians tend to stick together, mate together, and send their kids off to fancy Catholic schools together. Which is why this conclave at Riverside comes through sus as fuck. Even more so knowing my little Jimi Hendrix got herself a shadow looking just like them.
A memory hits from a time shortly after I met Hendrix.
I overheard her one night…drunkenly spilling the beans to Archer about her dad being some off-the-boat deadbeat Italian.
Said his last name was after cheese or some shit.
Thought nothing of it, since there’s cheese and dead beat daddies all over the globe.
But now…
I’d be a brain dead idiot not to consider some connection.
The sun appears from behind a cloud, blinding me, so I shield my eyes and squint for a better look, not surprised one bit when Hendrix’s shadow emerges.
Carlo lowers his shades to make eye contact but breaks it just as fast when the guy in the car gets a phone call.
What is this motherfucker up to?
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I check the screen.
Five minutes to two.
More than enough time to snap some pictures.