35. Hendrix #3
“Fine, have it your way.” I step onto the table and jump off the other side, swiping a shot of something clear off a server’s tray, throwing it back just as the idiots are in front of me again.
Saint rumbles a low, dangerous sound. “Why do you always have to be so fucking hardheaded?”
“That’s funny.” I shrug. “You had no problem with my head a few hours ago.”
Truth time, ladies and gents.
There’s nothing I like about announcing to Leviathan that I choked on his best friend’s dick like a cheap corner hoe before we got here. But what I do like is how Saint’s furious eyes are about to pop out of their sockets as I make the dick sucking face with my tongue in cheek.
A few of the guys snicker like hyenas as they watch me, and I don’t need a magic ball to tell me how fast they’re about to regret it.
With a single spin on his Jordans, Saint turns, slamming the one closest to him’s forehead into the glass window.
It’s the Royals’ second quarterback Coby, who I remember used to draw pictures of me as a pig during class.
And now I can draw him as a falling sack of potatoes.
Sorry, Taylor, looks like karma is my boyfriend too.
The kids around us take several steps back, giving us, and Saint’s crazy, a wide berth as he spins to face me.
“Hard way?” he questions, pointing a brow, and for some, I’m sure deranged, reason, the threat that used to disgust me spurs me on.
I spot the next asshole closest to Saint. One of those JV’s from last year he secretly Haloed for calling me fat.
Fuck it .
“Hard way.”
Whack goes the next asshole’s head into the glass, and this time it leaves drops of blood.
Saint’s glaring down at me as I bite back a laugh, but I can spot Levi from the corner of my eye looking not as amused as I’d expect.
If anything, wary, and I can’t help but wonder why that is.
“Why don’t you just go down there and dance with her, bro?” Levi suggests, his expression much lighter. “I’ll clean this mess up.”
Saint seems to think on it a bit, looking between me, the poles, and the dancefloor below us. “Fine, let’s go, Jimi,” he mutters, taking my hand and dragging me for the second time tonight.
Past Carlo, down the stairs, across the bar, all the way to the middle of the crowded dance floor.
Zayn’s “Trampoline” blasts through the speakers as Saint jerks my back to his chest, guiding one of my hands to reach around his neck.
“You’ve got your sexy and sassy pants on tonight, huh Jimi?
” he says into my ear over the music, driving his point by scraping nails up my thigh.
“I told you it would get me in trouble.”
A devious smirk pulls at my lips, but when Saint’s breath kisses the skin by my neck, the witty remark I was searching for never comes.
He lowers just enough for his hips to level with mine, and my eyes flutter closed when he begins winding us slowly to the tempo of the song. Surprised but not surprised by how smoothly he moves.
Our bodies sway, dip, grind together, and other than Saint’s hums or occasional comment on how turned on he is, we remain quiet to let the beat carry us.
I scratch lightly at the hairs on the back of Saint’s head as he rolls his hips deep, making the erection building behind his jeans rub a hard line along my ass. I gnaw on my lip, not even trying to stop myself from pushing back against it.
Gentle fingers brush away some waves from my shoulder, and right after I’m being peppered with kisses down the hollow of my neck. Slow, sensual, and absolutely unfair to do to an orgasm deprived Hendrix in the middle of a dance floor filled with people.
On instinct I bend my neck to give him easier access, needing to feel so much more than his lips, hands, and caged erection on me.
As if aware of my needs and crumbling state, Saint squeezes my waist, using the tip of his tongue to follow his trail of kisses.
I’m like a cat in heat curving my body into him.
Fuck me…
Can this boy ever not be so damn perfect at everything?
Saint retracts his head from my neck, making my eyes draw to him.
Who am I kidding?
Everything about me draws to him.
“You’re not playing fair…” I mouth and he grins back an “I know.”
Asshole.
The beat of the next song is a lot faster, thank fuck, because it allows me the chance to mentally try and fan my pussy.
It works.
But only because Saint has mastered the art of moving to Taylor Swift too.
In a mocking way, of course, but the excitement on his face comes a little too natural for a guy who electrocutes people for kicks.
If I had to guess? This is Theory’s monster she created.
A laughing snort pipes out of me when Saint starts fan girl bouncing, but it’s not until his hips are shaking it off like the song is calling for, I’m straight up wheezy cackling.
Guys, girls, hell, even Carlo looks on in bewilderment as Saint grips my hips, forcing me to shimmy shake like he is.
The best part?
He doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck that people are watching.
Another day, another version of Saint for me to fall in love with.
And I want the one I have with me now to be the one who knows it first.
Saint wraps his arms around me, and like he did on the field earlier, picks me up, and spins me around, making me yelp out in surprise.
When he stops, I’m dizzy, so it takes a few seconds of staring into his eyes before screaming, “I love you, you idiot!”
This time, it’s me getting dropped like a potato in front of him.
A much cuter, less dickish potato.
Saint blinks at me.
“You fucking love me...” He mouths.
I nod, and his lips smile something magical. “I knew it!” He scoops me up in his arms again. “You are obsessed with me!”
Yep. Such. An. Idiot.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I kiss him hard enough to leave his lips a shade of mauve. Then, with my thumb and forefinger pinched together, I tell him, “Maybe just a little!”
I allowed Saint one Drake song before dragging his ass off the dance floor, not only needing a drink but needing to pee.
And thanks to Carlo waiting for me by the bar with a water bottle, I’ve executed at least one of those necessities.
Saint’s coach ended up surprising the team with his— not at all cringy for a fifty-year-old man in the club —presence twenty minutes ago.
But partying with the faculty was something not even love was enough to have me doing.
Saint fought the good fight but ended up losing with no grace when his coach journeyed over and demanded he join the team upstairs.
Fast forward twenty minutes and the monster sized jacket Saint forced around my shoulders, I’m in front of the bar next to Carlo, officially giving up on the alcohol and sipping on Poland Spring.
The music turned to shit, and the distaste must be readable on my face because Carlo asks if I want him to take me back to the dorms.
“No!” I shake my head. “But I do need to pee!”
Carlo squints at me, unable to crack the code even though I’m two hip sways away from doing the Orange Justice.
“ Bagno , Carlo!”
Jesus, you’d think after a year in America the guy would pick up on Fortnite dances.
He bobs his head in an “ah” motion, then begins guiding me through the masses like I’m a celebrity walking through a swarm of paparazzi. Who would clearly suck at their jobs because not one of them is looking at me.
Not one set of eyes.
Until…
An odd sense of dread takes over as we approach the hall to the bathrooms, the eerie feeling of being watched creeping up on me like a chill.
Still being ushered by Carlo, I shade my eyes from the strobe lights and glance over to where my senses are telling me to. When I do, I find a guy in the distance, not much younger than Carlo weaving carefully through the crowd with eyes gripping me.
Can’t tell exactly what his features are, or what he’s wearing, but I can definitely tell he looks like questionable news.
“ Signorina !” Carlo shouts, nudging me forward, which is when I realize I slowed down.
“Sorry!” I chuckle nervously, then when I look back to find the mystery man…he’s gone.
Obviously, the smart thing to do is tell Carlo about the creeper, not Saint, but the second I’m about to all hell breaks loose in the form of a brawl.
Bodies slamming, fists flying, and in seconds the entire space around us turns into the techno version of a mosh pit.
Some guy’s elbow manages to hit me square on the lips right before Carlo throws his body in front of me like a shield against the wall.
My lips sting, especially since they’re still recovering from being torn up earlier.
I don’t get much time to focus on the pain, because as the fight draws closer, so does the wave of anxious people trying to escape.
Carlo’s got his gun in the air, screaming for me to keep my head down as we scrape the wall to the hall of the bathroom. But the second we reach it, he gets pulled from behind, leaving me stumbling backwards and him into the frenzied crowd.
“Carlo!” I screech, barely able to keep up with the stampede toward the emergency exit ahead, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
My mind is reeling, but I still manage to think quickly when approaching the ladies bathroom.
I time my steps perfectly, and the second I reach the door, I shoulder check it open, once again stumbling until I hit a sink.
In spite of the chaos taking place outside the door, the large bathroom sounds empty, and I use the quiet to my advantage as I gather myself in the mirror.
My ears ring, breaths are unsteady, and heart gallops like a horse in my chest as I take in the blood dripping out of my mouth.
Twisting on the water, I quickly clean my hands then the blood, wincing when the wet paper towel presses against it.
“Son of a freaking bitch ass on wheels.” I continue dabbing the area, until finally all that’s left is a nasty swollen lip. Tossing the dirty paper towel in the trash, I grip the edge of the vanity, going over emergency priorities with a hang of my head.
First things first:
Clean lips. Check.
Breathe. Check.
Limbs. Check.
Cell phone…