24. Hendrix
Hendrix
W alking into school this year was nothing like it was last year.
For starters, I didn’t have Bex, Archer, or the crippling fear of an unknown madman.
Because said madman was right beside me, along with his sister and two royal behemoths causing unwanted attention until we were forced to part ways for classes.
Not Saint, though. No.
He seems to have started a special tradition.
“Seriously? Every single one?” I grumble as we make our way to English, which I’m sure will be the only other class besides Art and Illustration I’ll be able to tolerate thanks to who the teacher is.
“Aw, c’mon, Jimi. It’ll be fun.” Saint brings me in for a sideways hug and leans into my ear. “Gives us time for extra foreplay.”
Tearing myself from his hold, I hit him in the chest with my English textbook. “I am not one of your groupies.”
He raises an eyebrow in question. “So what are you then?”
Damn him, damn him.
I am nowhere near prepared for the conversation about us, because I didn’t intend to have it until we partook in one about him.
Along with the other him.
Like most of my original intentions, I’ve put the Vicious talk on the back burner, knowing how crucial it is to find the right moment and version of Saint to make it go smoothly.
In the midst of danger, family drama, and sexcapades is the literal definition of terrible timing.
But now that Vic made me promise to help Saint and stick this out until things blow over, I have no choice but the present if I want to understand what exactly he needs protection from.
“What I am is late for class,” I respond halfheartedly, right before I’m saved by a cliché ring of a bell, and dart into the classroom.
Saint follows behind, muttering irritation under his breath as I head to the back of the room to avoid prying eyes.
There’s a lot of them, too, thanks to the asshole spending three periods calling me dumb shit like Little Sis, Sissy Poo, even his adopted kitty.
That’s what I get for demanding him not make things obvious, given I haven’t even told my best friends about any extras between us.
Not even our first encounter.
I slide into a desk and groan when Saint yanks the poor, unfortunate soul next to me out of his by the collar, then drops into the seat.
“Was that really necessary?”
“What?”
It’s frightening how genuinely confused he looks.
“There’s like five seats available around us.”
Saint wiggles his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “You know how much I like the view from the back but I prefer easy access.”
With a bored exhale, I start unpacking my things. “We really need to work on your lame jokes.”
“And his social skills,” Bex chirps out of nowhere, beside Archer, the both of them sliding into the desks in front of us.
“Shouldn’t take long,” Archer deadpans. “He doesn’t have any.”
Saint biffs him off the head, making Archer grumble, “Case in point.”
Ignoring their bickering, I kiss my best friends on their cheeks. “Missed you guys this morning.”
“Same, Hen.” Bex squeezes my hand. “Felt weird without ya.”
Saint tosses the pen he stole off my desk in the air. “I’m sure the three of you will be up each other’s asses again in no time.”
“Give that back you idiot.” I swipe for the pen, but Saint’s got it outstretched beside him.
Where Annalie is sitting and staring, probably plotting my death.
A lot of unfortunate souls in this classroom today.
Hers included it seems.
“Good morning,” a deep, unfamiliar voice announces from the front.
I look to find a man, who isn’t Mr. Beckett, our English teacher from last year, in a suit holding a briefcase.
“What the heck?” Bex shoots out, turning around to Archer. “Where’s Beckett?”
Out of all the snobby teachers I met in this wretched school last year, Mr. Beckett was the only one I liked.
He was strict, but only because he cared.
Went out of his way to help his students.
“No idea,” Archer responds with a shrug.
A lot of “I don’t know’s” lately from my trusted bestie.
“The schedule has him listed.” I reach into my bag for the paper to make sure I’m not crazy—relieved but bummed when I find his name.
“Here.” Saint hands me a tissue, blank stare ahead. “Cry me a fuckin’ river.”
Crumbling the tissue up, I hit him with it.
“I know this is not the face you’re expecting.” New guy places his briefcase on the desk. “But your assigned teacher had a sudden death in the family, so I’ll be covering for him until he returns.”
I’m relieved—and pretty sure I’ll be going to Hell for it.
“That being said my name’s Costa, not mister, I hate formalities, and I’ll be your English-Lit teacher for the time being.”
“Costa? More like Hot Stuff ,” Melanie, one of the Royals’ cheerleaders, interrupts with a giggle.
Seems the entire school needs lessons in joke making.
I mean Melanie’s obnoxious but not wrong. Costa’s got a lot going on. Dark eyes, smooth, slicked brown hair, olive skin, clean shaven angular jaw. Wide shoulders hidden behind a gray suit.
His demeanor, though? Not an ounce of chill like Beckett.
Laughter erupts in the room, and Costa silences it with a whistle and clap of his hands.
“Another thing you guys should know about me. I have no patience, and a finger that loves to make phone calls.” He eyes Melanie, who’s sinking into her seat. “So tell me, Miss Baker, what’s that saying? Fuck around and…”
“Find out,” she mumbles under her breath.
“Right.” Costa nods. “Thank you.”
If I had antennas for senses, they’d be pin straight right now.
Last minute hire. First day, but already putting names to faces?
Comfortable enough to curse and threaten?
I sneak a glance at Saint, who’s got a look to match mine, and both our sights gravitate toward Costa who’s quick to reach for a book on the desk and open it up.
“I like to know every person in a room before I walk into it, which is why I’ve been doing my homework all week on each of you. Making some of those phone calls I love so much to fellow colleagues.”
Shit…Hell may be worth not having this guy for two weeks.
My shoulders relax, but it’s not until Costa’s done strong arming us that Saint does the same—pulling his eyes away to take out his phone and type a message.
Voices around us drown with my attempt to read what it says, stretching as much as I can without being obvious. I’m not stupid enough to assume I heard the extent of what he knows from Vic, so any chance I can sleuth, best believe I’ll be sleuthing.
I get no further than the name on top of the screen.
Which isn’t a name at all. It’s a number.
Seven to be exact.
Who the fuck labels people by numbers?
Saint looks up the second after he hits send, and I’m seconds from drilling his ass with questions when a bing goes off on Annalie’s phone.
I can feel every ounce of blood draining from my face.
She looks down at the screen, then at Saint, then back at the screen, biting her lip as she types.
I watch all of this unfolding so hard from the corner of my eye it might fall out.
Right after Saint’s phone goes off, Annalie reaches over, grazing her nails up his thigh, mouthing a word I assume isn’t a guy named Dick.
Suddenly, I’m catapulted back to a year ago in a seat similar to this, bound by fear, nausea, and yes, jealousy as I watch this bitch touching someone who isn’t mine.
Tidal waves of anger overcome my emotions, making my hand squeeze the pen I’m holding.
I know we aren’t together.
That we can’t be together.
But for some reason the idea of him still wanting to mess with other girls didn’t occur to me. Not sure why, this is Saint for fuck’s sake, he’s a whore.
Who am I to change that?
To change him?
There’re two reasons why moments, even magical ones, are held in our minds, not our hands.
The truth—because it’s heavy.
And time—because it stops for no one.
Saint leans into Annalie’s ear, whispering something before dragging her desk closer, the sound of metal scraping the floor drawing everyone’s attention.
The real messed up part? It’s not even on them.
With every breath my throat burns hotter, and I know it’s only seconds before my eyes give away what I’m trying to hide.
How can I be so fucking stupid?
What did I think was going to happen?
We’d start the new school year off as stepsiblings by day, secret lovers by night?
Bex and Archer cast glances at me over their shoulders, sharing the same look of concern as I blink away the tears threatening my eyes.
Saint on the other hand? His only concern is with Annalie and her hand riding his thigh.
But it’s her stupid mousy laugh that hits my breaking point.
“Fuck this,” I mutter with a furious swipe of books and pens into my bag, then shoot up and across the room, eyes ahead the entire way to the front.
A strong hand snaps around my arm when I reach for the door, making me stagger back, around, and into Costa’s chest.
What the—?
“Is everything okay, Miss Montgomery?”
“Don’t you dare fucking touch me!” I shove the asshole away, too blinded by shock and rage to notice Saint until he’s got his hand around Costa’s throat, sweeping his legs out from underneath him.
Saint stands over him like a god of wrath, and the entire room explodes in shouts and whistles, desks banging and sliding to make room for a fight they know is about to happen.
It’s the same fucking movie when it comes to this guy.
Only difference this time—I refuse to stick around and watch till the end.
The door flies open seconds later, revealing Carlo, gun drawn, with zero hesitation before jumping in front of me and backing us into the hall.
“Get off me, Carlo!” I command, trying to fight his hold as he drags me away from the room. “ Ora! ”
“ Signorina —” he attempts to argue, but I pull from his loosening grip before he can.
“No.” I hold out my hand to keep him away. “Everyone needs to stop. Fucking. Touching me.”
He returns the gun to his waist.
“ Let me, eh, take-eh you back to your room, yeah?”
“Not happening. I still have half the day left.”
“ Sì, but your brother…he’s, eh , come si dice? ” Carlo’s fingers pinch together. “A pain in my fucking ass.”
I must’ve hit a new level of outrage, because it comes through as a chuckle. Then a snort. Then a straight fit of laughter when Carlo asks if his English was correct.
“Saint is a pain in the fucking ass in every language, so yeah.”
Carlo nods, relieved by my amusement.
Silence befalls the classroom, allowing me to hear the rapid footsteps, radio static, and chatter coming from security down the hall. Which means it’s only a matter of seconds before I go back to facing the hurt, and my friends, who I know will be looking for answers.
I have none. For anybody.
Not even myself.
So when Carlo suggests again we go back to the room, I don’t bother trying to argue.
I’m in the midst of unbuttoning my shirt when the door flies open and closed with a thwack.
“You alright, Jimi?” Saint has the audacity to barge over, still reeling from whatever unfolded thirty minutes ago. “Did that guy hurt you?”
“What the fuck do you care?” I yank my arms out of the sleeves, tossing the shirt next to me on the bed.
“You’re mad.”
Shimmying out of the skirt, I toss it too and bite out, “No shit.”
Saint allows himself one quick drink of me in a bra and panties before he says, “You’re the one who told me to be discreet.”
“Discreet. Not an asshole.”
“But I am a fucking asshole.” He reaches for me, and I back up as a warning.
“You don’t get to touch me. Not after letting that bitch touch you.”
“What do you think’s gonna happen if I miraculously stop playing the part? Huh? People will assume I chose a life of fucking celibacy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Falser words have never been spoken, I know this.
But I refuse to let him make a point.
“So, what, your plan was to have sex with Annalie to keep up pretenses?”
“What the fuck does it matter, Hendrix? You said it yourself. You’re late for class .”
Saint—two, my hypocrisy—zero.
Because of course there’s a part of me that wants us to be more.
But it doesn’t run on common sense or survival instincts.
Morally right or wrong.
Only the feelings I can’t deny I have for him.
Saint, too, even though he’s made every feeling for me, good or bad, known since day one.
Never in the right way, but a way nonetheless.
Which is more than I can say for myself.
“Our parents are married.”
“So the fuck what? My grandparents were cousins.”
I twist my face in disgust. “Seriously?”
“Pretty sure that’s the least of my family’s sins.”
A heaviness rests on my shoulders, trickling slowly to my chest. “You were gonna have sex with Annalie.”
Saint eats up the space between us, cupping my face with his hands. “I was giving you the chance to stop me.” A heavy pause follows before he adds, “It’s not my fault you didn’t take it.”
“What are you saying?”
“What are you not saying?”
Every word from his lips is a missile ready for combat, forcing me to shoot whatever I can from my own.
“You’ve done a lot of fucked up shit to me.”
“That’s in the past. Let it go.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“And you think what I’m doing right now is? Look at me!” He punches his chest. “I’ve never sought any girl’s approval besides my sister. Asked before taking. Relinquished my power. There’s a lotta fucking firsts I’m fighting here too.”
Firsts…
A keen sense of awareness pierces my chest, making me wince.
Like every other good intention, Saint’s performance with Annalie was nothing more than his twisted way of seeing if I want to be with him. Of showing he’s willing to let go of his freedom, reputation, even the war within himself and between us.
For me.
Something, in the entire year I’ve known Saint, I’d never even imagine he was capable of.
Vic was right again.
“How was I supposed to know?”
“You weren’t,” he responds, filled with honest disappointment. “You were supposed to trust me.”
Here lies the gruesome irony.
That, in spite of every molecule screaming inside me, my trust in Saint has been the only constant in our relationship since day one.
It’s why I spent a week tangled up in him, not once considering he’d still be having sex with other girls.
“Saint…I...”
“Just fucking forget it.”
A throat clears by the door, and when I look I find Bex and Archer, eyes wide with disbelief.
Realization hits that they’re here while I’m undressed…in front of Saint. Who they still think I hate.
“Sorry, Carlo let us in.” Bex cringes. “Are we, uh, interrupting something?”
Archer purses his lips. “Read the room, Bex.”
Saint opens the nightstand drawer, pulling something out and into his pocket before closing it. With a quick once-over on me, he says, “Nah. She’s all yours.”
My mouth opens, but the words die in my throat when he turns, walking out, making me feel alone in a crowded room.