26. Hendrix #2
I stare at the ceiling, waiting for answers on what the heck I could’ve done in life to deserve being where I am.
Maybe trying to drown Kathy Steinhart in the toilet.
The ceiling is wrong, given Kathy had nothing better to do in fourth grade than point out the extra fat I had rolling out of my jeans when I’d sit.
My phone rings, and when I look it’s Bex calling.
The three of us never got to finish our conversation about me and Saint, given how fast I took off when Archer’s warnings turned into Bex’s excitement about me “finally giving her favorite Royal Heathen a chance.”
The look of surprise on their faces was priceless, and the questions were endless when I came clean on how long ago I actually did.
It was a pivotal moment when I left my best friends to search for Saint, so pivotal I still haven’t found a way past the pain to offer an update on what happened hours ago.
With a mental apology to Bex, I silence the call, and immediately after a ping comes through.
Bex: Hey I guess you’re busy…call me when you can. I need to talk to you about something.
I’m in no state to entertain cryptic messages, so whatever bomb’s about to drop will have to wait until I’ve recovered from this one.
Shoving my phone under Saint’s pillow, I go back to hanging out with the ceiling, wondering where he is, who he’s with, and whether or not he’ll bother returning to his room at all. Or even school, giving Vic another reason to move me.
It lasts maybe two minutes before more sorrow and angst take over, so I pick up the remote and do some idle scrolling through Netflix.
Settling on Emily in Paris .
“Alright, Em,” I point the remote at the brunette smiling at me on the screen, “let’s hope your dilemma with a French guy is worse than my dilemma with an American one.”
I exhale a deep breath as the opening scene of a sad Emily eating ice cream alone outside at a café begins.
Great.
We’re both a mess.
The only difference is she’s being smart and eating her feelings.
“Hold on, girlfriend, I’ll be right back.” I press pause and jump off the bed, jogging to the kitchen where I know my tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy awaits.
A slither of hope returns to my taste buds as I swing open the freezer, only for them to crash and burn when I pick up the pint, finding a sticky note on the front of it:
What’s yours is mine in this house Jimi…see you after practice :P
That slimy, sticky fingered bastard.
Even in the past he ruins everything.
Flinging the empty tub across the kitchen, I holler, “Yeah, well. You need the therapy more than me anyway!”
But I really need the sweets.
With a deep growl, I shut the freezer door and swipe my bag off the table, looking forward to my date with Emily too much to give up now.
Carlo’s taken up an empty office a few doors down and is thankfully asleep inside it when I sneak into the hall.
I take the elevator to the first floor, where it’s quiet all the way to the vending machines.
“Decisions, decisions.” My finger taps my chin. “Salty, sweet, or both?”
Who am I kidding? Always both.
Sliding my debit card into the slot, I snag myself the goods with a push of some buttons, then bend down to retrieve them.
That’s when I hear it.
A guy’s faint whisper in the nearest emergency stairwell.
Snacks always do pair well with some tea.
After carefully placing the chips and chocolate bars in my bag, I tiptoe over to the door, looking through the window to see who it is.
My mouth drops open.
Archer’s at the top of the landing, arguing with someone, but I can’t tell who it is because his body’s hidden behind the turn of the stairs.
The muscles of Archer’s back coil as he listens to whatever the person has to say, shaking his head, pacing, and pulling at the ends of his hair. I’m tempted to barge in and kick whoever’s ass is making my best friend upset but decide against it because Archer’s already visibly uncomfortable.
The sound of a hand pounding the wall makes me shoot away from the window, waiting several moments before trying to snoop again.
This time when I catch a glimpse, there’s no longer just Archer in my line of sight.
It’s Riggs fucking Bishop too.
“I knew it!” I whisper to myself when I put my back against the wall. “Something’s going on with that obnoxious little shit.”
In Riggs’ defense, only the former is actually true.
He may not carry as much athletic muscle as Saint, but he’s fit and only three inches shorter than him.
When Riggs’ raises his voice, the words are slurred but filled with agitation. “You fucking promised me, Beaumont.”
“And I’m telling you the damn truth.”
The sound of knuckles colliding with bone comes from the staircase, then, a tussle of bodies.
I swing open the door and barge inside, finding Archer with a bloody lip and being pinned against the wall.
“Bishop…what the fuck?”
“I got this, Hen.” Archer spits blood. “Go back to your room.”
“Like hell I am.” I charge up the steps, shoving the drunken mess off him, feeling a sense of pride when I catch blood seeping from Riggs’ mouth too.
“Use the time wisely, Beaumont.” Riggs sways on his feet. “’Cause this shit ain’t over. Not by a long shot.”
“Go sleep it off, asshole…and don’t come around either of us till you’re back to your sober obnoxious self.”
Riggs salutes me. “Roger that, Cap. But it won’t be for a while.” He slurs something inaudible, then stumbles past us down the steps.
“What was that supposed to mean?” I ask my bloody best friend, who’s still panting as Riggs disappears out the door.
“His father is sending him away.”
“Away? For what?”
Archer presses his fingers against his busted lip when he says, “For starting the fucking fire.”