28. Hendrix
Hendrix
“ D oes this field always have to be so damn bright?” I grumble to Archer as he sits next to me on the bleachers.
It’s the homecoming game, which I had every intention of avoiding like the plague until my best friend went all sad puppy on me.
Archer hands me the hotdog he bought us from the concession stand. The least he can freaking do. “Quit being such a crab. The homecoming game is one of the most important games of the season.”
“Oh, please … ” I mock him with an eye roll.
“Woohoo! Homerun!” Mom yells from beside me. “Let’s go Royals!”
I, along with everyone else within a ten foot vicinity of the front row, look at her in bewilderment, and if Auntie Pop wasn’t home sick, pretty sure she’d beat the stupid out of her.
Archer leans in. “Has your mom ever watched a sport in her life?”
“Not a single one.” I take a bite. “Doubt she even knew what ESPN was before Vic.”
Who, of course, draws his attention away from his star son to explain the terms of football and baseball to her.
Archer huffs in amusement, then starts working on his hotdog. “Is it safe to assume the bonfire is a no-go?”
A beach party at night in Brooklyn mostly with people I hate?
No thanks.
Through a swallow I respond with, “Yup.”
“Homecoming dance?”
“Double fucking yup.”
Quite the turn of events since last year it was us forcing Bex to go, and it ended up being a shitshow of epic proportions. There’s no way. No fucking way I’m risking that shit again. Especially now that I’ve been on the outs with everyone’s favorite psycho star player.
On instinct, my eyes gravitate to the field, past the idle marching band, cheerleaders, and our lion mascot dancing. Where Saint’s huddled with his teammates, mouthing off whatever quarterbacks do before they break apart.
My chest tightens as I watch him rub a hand over his helmet, knowing first-hand how obsessed he is with retaining its shine.
“Hey…you good?” Archer looks me over. “We can leave if you want.”
Seriously?
Now he decides to show mercy?
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Besides, not like The Partridge Family will allow it.”
Being together at the homecoming game…a tradition Vic announced we should start the second we got here, right before his precious little princess took off to hang with the cheerleaders.
If I learned anything the past few weeks, it’s that change is rarely foreseen and always causes a ripple effect.
Take my new dorm room, for example.
A single, almost identical to Saint and Theory’s.
An obvious apology from Vic, who’s been more than privy to the tension between me and his delightful offspring, failing in his attempt to bridge the gaps.
Saint barking out colors and numbers pulls my attention back to the field, where a few guys switch positions, and he follows up with a “hike.”
Both teams scatter like mice, some running down the field and hurling past their opponents or tackling them to the ground. All swift, precise, and disturbingly violent movements which seem to come very easy to a bunch of high school kids.
Specifically the ones from Riverside.
And Saint? I hate to admit it, but the guy stands in a category all his own. Confidence emanates off him as he scours the field, not breaking focus even though numerous guys are pummeling toward him ready to tackle the soul from his body.
Saint’s teammates do their part protecting him long enough for him to cock back the ball and launch it across the field into Leviathan's hands with a perfect spiral.
Again.
Regardless of how many times their opponent’s coach is heard screaming for his players to stay on him, they don’t. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s because they’re scared to.
Contrary to the rules, the game continues on this way, with The Royals practically beheading people and Saint calling the shots. It’s like being caught up in a modern day colosseum, where more violence equals more worshipping from the crowd.
Even from a righteous Vic.
As enthusiastic as Archer was about the importance of this game, it quickly becomes a bore for both of us. So, we spend the next hour of it having conversations that have nothing to do with tossing a football or heads.
T.V. shows, music, drama club, drawing.
The fucking weather and his recent bout of diarrhea.
You name it, we’re speaking about it.
And haven’t stopped yet with the last one.
“Thought for sure I wouldn’t make it to the bathroom.” Archer cringes. “I was right.”
I choke on my Pepsi. “Shut the fuck up. You, Archer Beaumont, did not shit your pants.”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
My cackle is equal parts wheeze and snort, both going on long enough for everyone around us who isn’t my mom or Vic to grow agitated. Seems any enjoyment outside murder by Royals warrants dirty looks and scoffs. Plus a tap on my shoulder.
When I turn, I find some Karen with a horrendous blonde bob like a nest on her head.
“Do you mind?” She narrows her eyes. “I’m trying to enjoy the game.”
Oh, lady, you picked the wrong girl and the wrong time.
I hit her with a sweet smile. “Bet you’d enjoy it more if you pulled the stick out of your ass.”
The bitch gasps, and with a middle finger I’m turning back to Archer. “So, bestie…where’d we leave off? Sharting?”
He shoves me. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Would’ve literally hated you forever if you didn’t.”
I really needed the laugh, even though I haven’t been as open about how serious Saint and I were, and how painful his betrayal was. As much as I judge the assholes’ facades, it’s becoming abundantly obvious that I’ve been using quite a few of my own.
Archer changes the subject, and the only reason I let him is because of who’s approaching, in all her cheery disposition, with a Birkin hanging off her forearm.
“Homecoming. Is. Awesome. Oh my gosh.” Theory struts past me with a sudden swing of the bag, grinning as she knocks the cup of soda from my hands onto the ground.
“That’s it.” I attempt to lunge, but Archer shoots an arm out.
“Yikes.” She winces, looking down at the mess. “My bad.”
I’ve got teeth grinding to dust as I glare at Theory, so tired of her petty retaliations.
Snarky comments. Lies.
Narcing on me to Archer’s grandfather when he and I would sneak drinks in the dorm.
“It was an honest mistake, I’m sure.” Mom smiles between us, trying to cut the tension.
I have half a mind to tell her I’d cut things myself.
But instead, I choose the high road her husband lives on, respecting him enough to grumble, “Whatever.”
A kindness I can tell Vic’s appreciative of when he mouths “I’ll talk to her.”
Guy better…because my patience, and kindness, is running thin.
Theory plops next to Vic, keeping whatever she’s saying to him hushed.
“You feeling a night out tonight…just the two of us?” Archer suggests, close enough for only me to hear.
With a glance at Carlo by the end of the row, I tell him, “Is anything ever just the two of us anymore?”
“At least the guy’s been keeping his distance.”
“Ten feet away in Victoria’s Secret?”
“Pretty sure it was fifteen.”
“Ugh, fuck my life.” I throw my head back, knowing damn well any fun we try to have tonight will be monitored by a paranoid bodyguard who’s getting worse by the day.
“Guess it’s a no…”
“I’m sorry, Arch. I know you need the distraction too.”
Although Riggs is gone, Archer still hasn’t eased up on his tension over whatever happened between them. Which, like almost everything else regarding the fire, he refuses to talk about.
Can’t push the guy, though. Not when I’m still leaving him in the gray about Saint.
“All good.”
“Movie night?”
He grins. “Only if I get to pick it.”
“But your taste in movies sucks.”
“Not as much as your taste in men.”
“Ew!” I punch him. “Cheap shot.”
Archer laughs, wrapping his arm around me to kiss my temple. “I’m semi kidding.”
“Semi? Why semi?” I question as his attention returns to the game. “Stevenson was a nice guy.”
“He was a nice guy.”
“But…?
“Buuuuut…” Archer side eyes me. “A nice guy isn’t what you deserve.”
Cheers explode around us, and I’m hoping it’s why I can’t believe my fucking ears. “Oh, really?” I scream over the noise from the crowd, folding my arms and scooting away.
He lifts his hands, waiting for things to get quiet again before saying, “Let me finish...”
I love Archer Beaumont. Along with his gorgeous face.
That’s the only reason I’m not breaking it.
“What I mean is…you’re not the type of girl who can ever be happy with someone like me.”
“Someone like you?”
He pins me with a knowing look, and my nostrils twitch.
“Are you deliberately adding reasons for me to hit you?”
For Archer to believe a guy as good as him would not make me, or any person in the world, happy is downright absurd.
He’s by far one of the best human beings to ever walk the planet, and I’ll kill him dead if he doesn’t know it.
“As if your feisty ass ever needs reasons to hit people.”
Rude, but true.
“You’re an amazing person, you idiot. Quit talkin’ the bullshit.”
“I know exactly who I am, Hendrix, and what I’m worth.”
“Then what the hell is this about?”
Archer peers past me at my mom, Vic, and Theory, who are all too focused on Saint to even realize we’re still breathing, let alone arguing.
“In science we’re all made up of different genetics, correct? Chromosomes? Proteins? Copy number variations? Etcetera?”
Copy number what?
I offer him a dumbfounded nod.
“Well, what if I told you it works the same way with how we fall for someone?”
“Uhhh…”
Archer rubs a hand down his face.
“Okay. Imagine every person’s soul represented by an element. You do know the elements, don’t you?”
My razor thin glare on him answers for me.
“Right, of course. So, take Stevenson for example. A guy whose emotions run deep, forward, intentions pure, crystal clear like…”
“Water.”
“ Like water .”
It’s disturbing how quick this analogy is making sense.
“Now…let’s do you,” Archer suggests with a jut of his chin, implying for me to do the honors.