27. Saint
Saint
H endrix walking out on me last week was a tinderbox ready to explode.
The countdown began shortly after my meds kicked in. I passed the fuck out on Theory’s bed only to wake up—alone—in a fog ten times worse because every vivid dream that came with the side effects revolved around Hendrix.
Her standing on the other side of the football field during a game, glazed over eyes and messy hair, the same excruciating look on her face she had when I outed her to my sister.
Hendrix appeared in the recovery room shower, this time with Stevenson on the bench, kissing the pussy piece of shit as she rode out her orgasm. I screamed in silent madness, banging my fists against the wall begging her to stop. She never did.
In a matter of eight hours I watched her get fucked, eaten, abducted by aliens, even lay dead in a pool of molten lava.
It was an endless series of fucked up events taking place in my mind. She was everywhere, and nowhere, melting my psyche until it bled out at my feet.
I’ve been chasing the high of mass destruction ever since.
Feeding my monster more than enough to keep him content like a baby.
Levi, never one to turn down being a menace to society, joined in on the festivities, claiming he needed a release of his own now that we’re down another Royal Heathen.
Riggs is not only Levi’s cousin, but his best friend, and the sting of Riggs’ dad tossing him into rehab hasn’t eased up on him.
Or hit me yet, thanks to a green eyed siren who snatched up my soul and fucking ate it.
So, together in disfunction, we took off to Brooklyn for the weekend, far away from Hendrix, my meds, her Italian, and my father’s prying eyes.
Levi backed me up in every bar fight I instigated, house parties we tore up, even a street race followed by a police chase.
Won both, by the way, even though only the first included fifty grand.
It was exhilarating as fuck: the speed, the pain, breaking laws and faces, but not one of them pumped my blood hard enough to climb out of the chaos-driven hole.
Which carried on during school hours, where I watched Hendrix from a distance, then took out my frustrations from missing her on the field during The Royals’ first game.
According to the new rival coach from Manhattan High, ripping off an opponent's helmet to beat him with it is not considered good sportsmanship.
Neither is screwing one of the student cheerleaders—exactly what I told the asshole when he got in my face.
In the midst of my existential crisis, the only words I’ve spoken to Hendrix were typed out in a million drunk texts, mostly cursing her out for seizing my thoughts and inhibitions. For flipping my entire grid upside down and leaving me with another fucking mess of hers to clean up.
Only to erase each of them right after.
Needless to say I’ve been spending one second after another using adrenaline to fill this gaping hole in my mind.
Like a junkie desperate for the fix he knows is going to kill him.
Which leaves me here, in The Pit, with bandaged knuckles and white tank stained with blood.
Courtesy of Fight Night.
An invitation only event two Saturdays a month, dedicated to ripping each other apart for sport and loads of cash, with no holds barred. Just two guys in a cement ring, where the only protection is survival instincts.
Violence and money.
A true recipe for destruction.
The crowd erupts in cheers as my fists blast the jaw of my backup QB Coby, who’s been trying hard to make a name for himself and stupid enough to challenge me in an attempt to do so.
No complaints here, since he’s the only guy I’ve fought so far who packs a punch hard enough to make me feel something other than empty.
Coby swings and I duck, the bones of his face crunching against my fist when I return a left then right hook.
In seconds he hits the ground, and my skin vibrates with satisfaction—but not enough.
Not even close.
The ref, Pete, who’s not so much a ref as he is an amp man, uses this time to approach my side holding out a tray filled with lines of coke, offering me a bump. I take him up on it, using the rolled up bill he hands over to snort a line, throwing my head back to bask in the high.
High turns to magic when I spot Coby standing up.
With an explosive roar, I hit him with a round kick to his face. A tooth flies out through a splatter, landing next to us on the ground, igniting more screams and hollers.
Coby sways on his feet, gurgling something unintelligible.
My guess? A prayer to his maker.
“Let’s go, part time!” I beat my chest. “That all you got for me?”
He shakes his head, waving a hand in surrender, but I’m not having it. Not when the Avengers tattoo I spot on his arm has thoughts of Hendrix sneaking up on me.
Her obsession with superheroes.
Drawing them. Wearing them.
Maybe even wanting one to replace me.
Thoughts turn to images: specifically of Hendrix getting swept away by your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, turning me into the first homicidal maniac looking to murder a fictional character.
There’s something raw and excruciating taking over, slicing me open from the inside out. The pain is so foreign I can’t comprehend what to do with it…other than try to replace it.
Gripping Coby by the nape of his neck, I crush our foreheads together, screaming demands for him to hit me.
Push me.
Fucking kill me at this point.
Anything to take me out of the misery I never thought I’d be in from missing a handsy little brat.
Coby takes me up on the offer with a shove and knuckles to my jaw. I welcome the sting from that shit with open arms and a bloody smile.
More.
Fucking more .
My heart beats like a war drum in my chest with his uppercut to my chin, allowing him to continue with shots to my ribs, face, and head.
Then, when the physical pain finally outweighs the invisible, I unleash the fury that ends with Coby unconscious at my feet.
“A bit much, don’t you think?” Levi questions with a raised brow as I drop next to him in the pew.
“Fuck off.”
He lets out an amused huff, then returns his attention to some blonde as I watch Coby get dragged out of the ring.
Money’s passed around in both victory and annoyance, feeling no pity on the idiots who were stupid enough to wager against me. Gunner’s already collecting the next bets by the time I clean the blood off my hands and busted lip.
I’m flicking a lighter to the blunt I rolled earlier when Levi takes a break from sucking face.
“Wanna take these girls back to the room?”
Sex and anarchy have always gone hand in glove when I’m riled like this. One, two, three, even four girls at a time.
Violence for a meal, endless pussy for dessert.
But not tonight.
Or the days prior, when Levi would saddle up bitches eager to suck and fuck us dry. The traitorous steed in my pants wanted nothing to do with anyone lacking feisty green eyes and a permanent scowl.
So I settled for watching drunk college chicks getting each other off. Cursing my dick for only twitching to life when I was picturing Hendrix.
Speaking of watching: I’ve got eyes for nothing except my phone, not even blondie’s blonder friend parking next to me, whose hand is sliding behind the leg of my shorts.
And now her tongue in my ear.
“Whaddya say, bro? I think Matilda likes you.”
I shove Matilda off me by her caked up Maybelline face.
“Not in the mood.”
“Abstaining again?” He whistles. “Damn. This girl must’ve done a number on you.”
Not as high as the number of times I’ve had to refill my gas tank from following her around. No trips to the station tonight, though, since the tracker in Hendrix’s phone tells me she’s still in the building.
“Whatever, dick.” I inhale, then exhale through a choke. “Shut up and get us some drinks.”
I’m stuffing my phone back into my shorts pocket when Levi snaps his fingers at Brendan, The Royals’ weakest link therefore our errand boy, and signals for him to bring us a bottle of whiskey.
He plucks the blunt from my hand. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Rather eat a bullet.”
“Full metal or hollow point?”
My lip twitches in annoyance as Levi turns his head, blowing smoke into the girl’s mouth and shoving his tongue in right after.
Shit escalates quickly between them, so he hands the blunt to me again as she straddles him.
Not one to cock block my boy, I get comfortable in my smoke sesh by resting an arm along the back of the pew, widening my legs until Matilda next to me takes the hint to fuck right off.
When she does I enjoy smoking in peace.
Even indulge in another bump offered up by my running back, Sampson. All is fucking dandy and I’m feeling good…until somebody else is stupid enough to sit next to me.
“What up, man? Hope you don’t mind.” A guy with two inch chompers claps my back.
I look around at our fellow teammates, who are usually stealthy with filtering out who gets to enter the Royal Heathens’ section of the pews, but it seems a stray rat must’ve wiggled its way through.
Blowing smoke in his direction, I ask, “And who the fuck are you?”
He waves his hand in front of him. “I’m Luke, Gunner’s cousin from out of town. You?”
“Stevenson. Town Goldie.”
Creases line his forehead. “Okay...well, that was a badass fight you just had.”
“Didn’t realize our runner thinks he’s got enough pull to bring in outsiders.”
“My bad, brother. Not lookin’ for problems.”
I size him up with an inhale, my knuckles already twitching to start one. “No problem here, Luke .” I turn to face the ring. “You go ahead and enjoy the show.”
Levi’s still kissing the girl when his eyes shoot to me.
With a tsk, I let him know to stand down, to see if our rodent infestation resolves itself.
I continue nursing the blunt, watching Luke carefully as he cheers with the rest of the crowd, smokes a cigarette, even sends a couple texts.
“Fuck, yeah! Get him!” he screams, hands cupping his mouth, then whistles a cat call at one of The Royals’ cheerleaders as she passes in front of us.