32. Hendrix #3
I feel the ease of Carlo’s back against my face before I can see who it is, not that I need to see to know. The jolt of my heart and tingles up my arms speak for themselves.
With swearing under his breath, Carlo releases me, stepping aside and revealing the source of all the trouble.
Broken party and heart.
There stands Saint in his signature fashion: jeans, crisp tee, Letterman, and fitted Yankee backwards on his head. Irritatingly gorgeous as ever. Levi’s flanked at his side, dressed like his counterpart sans the hat, with his ash brown hair ruffled as if recently being pulled.
And the glower at Craig from Levi’s hazel eyes?
Is almost as menacing as Saint’s.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
I do not want to be the reason this poor guy suffers the wrath of a deranged quarterback and his savage best friend.
Because yeah…Levi might be quieter than the rest of The Royal Heathens, but I’ve seen the damage he can cause when they’re crossed.
It’s at this moment I know I fucked up by wishing I didn’t have to deal with Carlo’s antics.
Pick your damn caveman, Montgomery.
“More drivers?” Craig deadpans.
“Please stop talking.”
Contrary to the intimidation wafting from the two Royal giants, they help themselves to a seat, where Saint’s voice scrapes like nails as he demands Craig pour two rounds of tequila shots. So, like a fire ignites under his ass, the bartender rushes behind the bar to prepare them.
All while I stand feet away, holding my breath as my estranged stepbrother twists and locks eyes on my body. Saint’s freshly shaven jaw hardens as he stares at Carlo’s jacket around me, and his nostrils do their jealous twitchy thing when he stops at my thighs.
I look down at where his sight is glued on me, finding the already short sweater dress scrunched up even higher, an inch from exposing my panties.
Shit.
As casually as Saint’s zeroing in will allow, I shimmy to fix myself.
Which, for some reason, seems to piss him off even more.
So, for the sake of Craig not becoming an organ donor, I fasten the buttons on Carlo’s jacket.
Saint watches with a deadly level of possessiveness until the very last button is closed.
Then those angry, hungry blue orbs rise to mine.
I blink, unsure of whether to stay and risk self-inflicted asphyxiation, or chance drowning as I swim back to the boat. Meanwhile, the easiest route hasn’t even occurred to my stupefied ass until now that Carlo said his Escalade is in the parking lot.
The chokehold Saint has on me tightens with every second he inspects my face—not granting me an ounce of reprieve until Craig slides the shots in front of him and Levi.
Before Craig gets the chance to retreat, though, Saint locks a hand around his wrist, pulling him forward and muttering something sinister enough to turn my new acquaintance’s face white.
I offer Craig a silent apology as he rushes to the other end of the bar, not that he’s aware because he refuses to look at me.
This fucking dick.
Once again choosing silence, then violence.
As if he has any right after what he’s done to me.
Saint takes a shot, and Levi right after, allowing a clear view of the gun he has resting on the bar.
Dick. Squared.
I make it one angry step toward them before Archer appears from the dark, a little less drunk and a lot more furious.
“Seriously, Lavell?! Cutting the wires?!”
That signature wicked grin of Saint’s appears behind his second shot of tequila. “C’mon, Good Guy, you should know more than anyone the rules about loud music after ten.”
“Do you have any idea how much this shit will cost me?”
He slams the small glass down on the bar. “Not a fraction of what it probably cost you to get that lipstick stain on your collar.”
Archer’s eyes widen, then he runs a frantic hand over the mark in an attempt to clean it. “You’re a fucking asshole, and you’ll be paying for the damages.”
Saint mocks him with indifference, proving once again my best friend’s point about the colossal sized douche he can be.
Archer being right angers me in ways I’d rather not admit.
So much, any awe or understanding I felt for the jerk ignites into flames I’ve kept buried since he lashed out at me for “rejecting him.”
Archer storms off to handle damage control, and I’ve got half a mind to toss a boot at Saint, but don’t get the chance to follow through because another female voice, albeit far less ratty, appears out of the woodwork.
Literally.
“Hey, guys,” Theory greets Saint and Levi with a careless wave.
As for me…I’m invisible as always.
“How the fuck did you get here?” Saint all but roars at Theory as he jumps off the stool. “I told you not to come.”
“Yeah, well.” Theory pins a look on the other Heathen, who seems just as angry but has yet to say a word. “Nobody was home and Stanley fell asleep on the couch, so I took an Uber.”
Speaking of lashing out …
Theory Lavell, ladies and gents. A true rebel for the cause.
Ugh. This night needs to end.
And it would be for me right now if I didn’t have to worry about Archer somewhere bursting an artery.
As if things couldn’t get any more awkward, a blonde stumbles over to the guys, drunk as a skunk in a sleeveless leather dress.
“ There you areee …” she slurs, and my throat closes with each one of her steps, not expanding again until a lazy finger traces down Levi’s arm.
Theory’s eyes glisten as she watches them, and the girl’s girl in me wants so badly to march over and give her a hug, regardless of our differences. Because if not me, then my mom and auntie will for sure find a way to grant her freedom to be a teenager.
Make mistakes. Fall in love. Become an independent woman.
As if grasping my sympathy, Theory glances at me, and for the first time in a long time, it’s not with hostility, but shame.
As quick as it comes, is as quick as it goes thanks to Saint dragging her away from us, and Levi stalking off into darkness with whoever the drunken mess is.
With a special thank you to the lights shining from the yacht, I’m granted a pristine view of the drama between brother and sister as they argue by the entrance of the dock.
“ Dio mio …” Carlo shakes his head when Saint punches a metal sign.
God is right, and I hope he’s listening because Theory’s going to need all the help she can get after pulling this stunt.
In a dress not much longer than Annalie’s.
What’s being said between them, although inaudible, is punctuated with Theory pointing fingers and her brother pacing like a caged animal. It ends abruptly with a roar from Saint loud enough to wake the dead.
Holy. Shit.
I’ve seen this guy fly off the handle many times, but never toward Theory. Then again, she doesn’t look surprised or scared by the nuclear explosion. Her arms stay crossed, foot tapping, chin in the air as Saint launches any object he can get his hands on.
There goes the garbage can.
Levi emerging from the woods puts a small dent in his temper, but when Saint barks out the order for Theory to go home with his best friend, she does the complete opposite and jets across the dock.
Both Saint and Levi are hot on her tail.
Damn it, damn it.
My legs pump faster than I can register the decision to follow them, not giving a fuck about the bent “loose planks, tread lightly” sign that was recently assaulted.
The dock is long, and they were far away from me to begin with, so I just reach the middle when I’m cut off at the pass by a snickering redhead.
Not this bitch again.
“Stupid pig,” Annalie spits. “You stay acting like any of them give a fuck about you.”
I’ve got no time, or patience, to ring this girl’s neck. Not when Theory’s being left alone with Saint.
Or worse…Vicious.
Granted, if anyone is worthy of Saint’s absolute self-control over his demons, it’s the little sister he loves to mayhem and back.
“Get out of my way.”
“So you can what?” Annalie’s eyes narrow to slits. “Run off and save a girl who doesn’t even like you? Has been talking the nastiest shit to me about you?”
I’m not lost on the fact this is probably the only valid point a brainless twit like her will ever make. I’m just lost on the reason to let it stop me.
“Theory’s my fucking sister, semantics don’t matter. Now I said get out. Of. My. Way.”
I could easily flick Annalie like the measly fly she is, but I’m looking to make a few points here too. Her irrelevance is at the top of the list.
“Oh my God, you’re even more of a pitiful fat bitch than I thought.”
I don’t know what triggered the newfound courage, but Annalie picked the wrong night and the wrong girl to test it out on.
“You’re even stupider than I thought, even with the fake set of balls you bought to challenge me with.”
“Oh, but you’ll never guess the little whore who sold them to me.” She leans in. “If you need a hint—she’s got a lisp, s-s-stutter, and a nasty scar under her jaw from opening too wide.”
Sloshing in my ears drowns out all the sound around me.
No screaming Saint. Crashing water. Chuckling Annalie.
Only me, my rising blood pressure, and the one girl left in this school I care enough about to be deemed a weakness.
Who I know spent years struggling with her speech and being called a whore.
And Annalie, whether aware of it or not, just dangled my breaking point like bait off a fishing rod.
“Are you aware of how desperate baby Lavell is? How easy it was to manipulate her into doing what I wanted?” She pauses, tilting the corner of her lips. “To who I wanted?”
My hands tighten to fists so hard they’re pulsing. “If you intend to walk away from this party with an intact jaw, I suggest you stop talking.”
It’s a lie. Annalie’s going to need a new profession regardless.
What she says next will only determine when.
“Come to think of it…I bet it’s not long before the whore surpasses her mentally deranged brother’s body count.”
Gasps and laughter from onlookers fill the air around us.
Guess she’s choosing now.