19. Hendrix
Hendrix
T here are dreams, and then there are out-of-body experiences.
The second is what I’m pretty sure occurred last night.
I’ve had vivid come abouts in my sleep plenty of times, but everything, down to the sounds of his voice, smell of his sweat, even metal from the locker I was pinned against, had me transported to another dimension.
One where Saint was eating my pussy like it was his last meal.
I screamed my orgasm, pretty sure even out loud, and now all I can think about is if Saint bore witness to it.
I’m thinking no, since when I did wake up flushed and damp, all I found was an empty bottle of Whiskey to speak for him.
Was kind of pissed he took off in the middle of the night but also relieved given it’d be a lot harder to hear me coming if he wasn’t in the room.
“Why are we here?” Archer complains as we lounge on the top of the bleachers. “Haven’t you had enough of him?”
My brain continues to ache, skin’s turning clammy, and the onset of dryness in my throat has me wondering if all three are the start of me getting sick. Every symptom, including the piercing behind my eyes, makes it that much harder to counter his judgment.
Isn’t Motrin supposed to help headaches? Damn.
“He’s not that bad,” is all I can manage as I adjust my sunglasses on my face.
Archer whips his head to me. “ Who isn’t that bad?”
I catch my mistake, then wonder if, in fact, it was a mistake.
Of course I hate Saint for the shit he’s done, but I can’t lie and say he isn’t proving to be a third bit decent.
Who knows? Maybe his trip to Cyprus paid off.
At least for the time being.
Some ignorance is better left inside the head, so I go with the safer answer to avoid Archer’s artery from exploding.
“Sorry, I figured you were talking about Carlo.”
Confused eyebrows cinch together, but Archer still breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck, because I was for sure gonna have you committed.” With a close inspection of my face, he says, “Hey, you okay? Your cheeks are really red.”
Ignoring the drawn attention, I cast a glance at Saint when his back is to me.
Tight black and gold jersey with a number three taking up most of it.
A matching helmet with a crowned lion on his head.
He’s speaking intently with his coach, drawing lines for different plays in the air.
My body heats and teeth find my bottom lip when he suddenly bends over, continuing the conversation while tying his cleats.
With a shimmy to ease the pulse between my legs, I lick my lips, debating the outcome of striding over there to squeeze his ass.
Holy, shit. This must be some fucking flu.
“What are you doing?” Archer’s question is abrupt.
I blink rapidly behind my sunglasses. “Huh?”
“Stop eye fucking your stepbrother.”
“I am not eye fucking anyone, you ass. I zoned out.”
“Uh-huh. Sure,” he grumbles. “Still don’t know why you feel like watching Saint practice.”
“Not what I said, Arch. It’s just nice out and I’m hoping the fresh air will help my head since clearly the Motrin didn’t.”
Or the greasy sandwich left for me by Saint.
Although, it was another decent thing I’ve added to the Why Saint Isn’t a Complete Asshole-Fuck-Shit-Fucker-Face list.
Rubbing sweat off the back of my neck, I jut my chin at him. “Plus, wasn’t it you who said you’re not allowed to go anywhere else but here. With me?” A judgmental pause is warranted before I follow up with, “So why don’t we talk about you, huh?”
Archer shifts in his seat, deciding now’s the time to pay attention to a game we both know he doesn’t understand.
“What about me?”
“How about an update on you and the fire?”
“Still an ongoing investigation.”
“Since when are you tight lipped about drama?”
“Not tight lipped, just cooperating with the detectives.”
“You mean your dad?”
He says nothing.
“What about the suspect?”
“Still a suspect.”
My eyes roll so far back I can see the throbbing of my brain.
“Okay…so who is he?”
Archer’s attention falls on something in the distance, and I follow his line of sight to find it’s someone .
Who antagonizes him on the reg.
“Riggs?”
Archer tenses. “No…why the fuck would you say that?”
“Because you’re about to snap off a piece of bleacher.”
He looks down at where he’s fisting the edge of the seat, then releases it with a shake of his hand. “Just stressed, that’s all.”
Yeah…and I just zoned out.
Blood boils over, but not from random lust or arousal.
It’s a familiar rage. White hot. Looking for someone to burn.
My chest heaves, gaze swinging back and forth in an attempt to get a handle on the violence I’m inflicting in my head.
“Hendrix, chill, you’re—”
“Your parents need to back the fuck off!” I spit, and although Archer startles, he doesn’t deny it when he shrugs.
“We both know that won’t happen.”
It won’t.
Because Archer’s parents may be nice people—but they spend every day dictating what he can and cannot do.
It’s really fucking sad, because Archer isn’t the type to stand up for himself when it comes to them.
“If you’re not ready to talk to me, it’s okay. But whenever you are...”
“Trust me, I’d love to not feel this alone.”
The undertone here…not good for the flames.
Rearing my head back, I look Archer dead in the eyes. “You’re never alone, Arch. Not as long as I’m still kicking.”
A genuine smile lights up his face, and my heart goes from broken to doing somersaults inside my chest. Someone as kind and beautiful as Archer should never be given a reason not to smile.
“Good to know.” He kisses my temple. “Now, let’s hope your stepbrother keeps you that way.”
“What’s up, guys?” A voice matching Stevenson’s greets us from behind, making me jump.
“What’s up, man?” Archer fist bumps him.
“You okay, Hendrix?” Stevenson asks, placing a hand on my shoulder as he sits.
My chuckle, it fucking hurts. “Yeah, all good. Nasty headache.”
A pssh shoots through his lips. “Oh, I feel you…was at a party in Brooklyn last night. Got totally fucked up.”
It didn’t take long after the wedding for Stevenson’s feelings to taper off, but I guess hooking up with someone else will do that to you.
I’m not mad about it, obviously. Since my feelings diminished a lot quicker than his. In fact, May’s a really nice girl. Smart. Pretty. Kind. Comes from a good family.
“So how was the party?” I ask him, pulling a loose cigarette and lighter out of my bag, wondering if a little nicotine will curb my symptoms.
Archer’s pierced glare aims right at my head, but he doesn’t bother with his usual scolding about smoking on school grounds.
“Insane. You didn’t hear about it from Levi or Riggs?”
“Riggs was there?” a shocked Archer questions.
“Of course he was. Tyson threw it.”
Andrew Tyson. Another jock with a God complex.
Archer nods to himself, and I almost call his previous bluff before reminding myself we’ve got company.
Flicking the lighter, I hold it against the tip of my Newport. “Anybody fall on their face?”
Stevenson cracks up. “Yeah. Me.”
I inhale with a chuckle. “You really are a fucking klutz.”
Stevenson pulls me to him, tickling my side.
“Quit it. I’m sick and gonna die!”
Archer laughs. “A lot quicker if you keep that smoking shit up.”
I’d defend myself if I wasn’t screaming for dear life.
Stevenson hauls me onto his lap, fighting for my cigarette, when all of a sudden a football comes flying and smashes him in the face.
“What the fuck?” He releases me, hand covering the nose spilling with blood.
I spring to my feet, not needing to turn around to know who the culprit is. He’s got an arm already being talked about by the NFL.
Archer jumps to his feet just as fast.
“Shit, I think it’s broken,” Stevenson muffles behind his hand.
Every ounce of like I felt for this motherfucker goes flying out the window. In its place…blinding rage again.
“Here.” I toss my cigarette, then pull off my tank top, pressing it against Stevenson’s nose. “Use this to stop the blood.”
Heat blazes against my back, and I’m not talking from the sun.
Saint’s eyes. They’re stabbing through my sports bra.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
“Don’t.” Archer squeezes my arm. “You have to live with him.”
My jaw clenches as I spin around to find Saint. Which isn’t hard given he’s the only one standing in a circle of teammates.
He’s got his arms crossed in front of him, helmet like a crown halfway on his head, glaring at me like a mad king who’s just been provoked.
Approaching the locker rooms at record speed, I leave Carlo behind holding my bag as he rambles in Italian how I shouldn’t be fighting with my brother . Then, I push the doors open so hard they let out a thwack against the wall.
He doesn’t follow, knowing better than to test my patience or my mother’s demand to give me space.
A little kindness I was offered in return for waiting hours to hear from her. Didn’t get much information other than that, and an apology for not coming home when she promised. No shocker there…since these days she cherishes secrets almost as much as her new husband.
“Saint!” I belt out, charging past the half-naked sweaty guys. “Where are you?!”
I find Riggs and Leviathan at the back of the locker room, still half in uniform as they begin whistling and egging me on.
I flip them off all the way to the recovery room, where I enter with another violent swing of a door.
There Saint is, back to me in a huge, steaming walk-in shower, scrubbing his shoulders with a fucking loofa. “Now, now, Jimi. How many times do I have to tell you? If you wanna see my cock, all you have to do is ask.”
I pick up the nearest hard object, a football, and launch it.
“Fuck you.”
It strikes him on the back, but might as well not have, because he barely flinches. “Definitely what I prefer you to be doing.”
With determination leading my strides, I march over, kicking off my slides right before entering the shower. Steam blinds me, and my hair is already drenched from the showerhead.
Saint turns, throwing a very large wrench into my murderous plans.
Wrench equals cock.