39. Hendrix
Hendrix
“ W here the heck are you taking me?!” I laugh, nearly tripping over a crack in the ground.
It’s been two hours since Saint woke me up, demanding we miss school, I shower— with him —then get dressed so he can take me somewhere special.
He’s dabbled a lot in specials the past few days: including a movie night with just the two of us in the common area, cooking dinner for me in my room, even making up with Archer for spilling the beans about The Pit and Provisional.
Although, the last one took a few blunts during a sleepover with Archer and Bex to achieve.
All of this in a sweet, unspoken attempt to make up for the nightmares I’m still having almost every night.
It’s the same exact one. With the same exact monster.
The only difference is my ability to wake myself up before he does.
Not that it helps much since he’s become quite the light sleeper since the night that triggered them.
Same thing each time, he asks what the nightmare was about, I keep it vague about my attacker, doing my best not to cross the line into lies. It seems to be helping, though, because even though Saint feels guilty, he’s been in an uncharacteristically chipper mood.
And that’s saying a lot for a guy who goes from electrocution to dance party in his underwear at Mach speed.
“Quit the yappin’, you’ll find out soon enough.”
“I’ve been blindfolded and steered for a half hour, you dick, the least I’m entitled to is questions about whether or not this day is gonna end with me breaking an ankle.”
“Your cankles will be fine, Jimi,” he jokes, and somehow through the pitch black, I succeed at stomping on his sneaker. “Leave my ankles alone, Mr. Athlete’s Foot.”
“Low blow.” He slaps my ass through my leggings, which hurts enough for me to squeal since my cropped puffer jacket can’t protect it. “Besides…it’s like ninety-eight percent gone already.”
Wouldn’t know since I haven’t allowed his nasty feet near me without socks on.
I actually trip over a crack this time, but Saint’s reflexes are quick and have both arms hooking my waist. Then, with his face buried into my neck, he says, “We’re almost there.”
The sound of increased footsteps around us tells me Saint’s not lying, especially when I hear Carlo and Vic’s hired protection talking about scoping the area.
If someone told me six months ago I’d have a stepbrother boyfriend, mobster for hire, and bomb squad K9’s as unofficial pets, I’d tell them to ease up on Riggs’ psychedelic blunts.
“Wait here,” Saint demands through a whisper, right before the warmth from his body trails off and I’m left cold, listening to Rufus sniff the ground around me. This goes on for an irritatingly long time, and I’m contemplating breaking my promise to Saint and removing this damn blindfold.
Loud, scraping metal has my head darting in every direction, and my hand is seconds away from the blindfold when Saint’s warmth returns to my back.
“Go-time, Jimi,” he says, right before we’re moving again.
I swallow the dryness in my throat, my heart rate spiking with every step closer to our destination, and by the time we get there, it’s ready to punch through my ribcage.
As successful as Saint’s attempts to swoon me have been, none of them involved this much secrecy. Preparation. Or even leaving Riverside. This surprise, though, feels momentous somehow, and I still have no idea what it is.
“There’s a small step here,” Saint announces, helping me over it, and a few steps later I’m surrounded by the comfort of heat from all sides.
I can’t see, but judging by the slight echo I can tell we’re in an open space of sorts. My guess? Maybe a warehouse?
A storage unit?
Saint’s gone again, but his footsteps don’t get far before he’s passing me with keys rattling.
A door opens and closes.
Something falls. Saint hisses a curse.
An entire scene plays out as I wait, in the damn dark, with my entire body thrumming from anticipation.
But it’s the buzzing of an overhead light that does me in. “Can I take this damn blindfold off yet?! I’m dying over here.”
The same scraping of metal comes from behind me, ten steps before Saint’s lips are at my ear. “In three…” His fingers slide up my arms. “Two.” The sides of my face. “One.”
And the blindfold’s pulled off.
It takes a few blinks for my eyes to adjust, but when they do I’m gasping with astonishment.
“Saint…” I breathe, as I take in the sight before me.
A two level space large enough to fit at least ten cars, with walls accented between brick, cement, and the checkered glass windows giving life to several potted Zinnias.
The entirety of the rest being filled with every artist’s dream team.
Easels of all sizes. Canvases. Wooden tables. Day lamps.
Shelves lined with drawing pads, pencils, paint, and brushes.
There’s even a floor to ceiling bookshelf loaded with comics, and a sliding ladder in front of it.
My mouth falls open, and my heart squeezes like a fist when I spot the two aprons laying across one of the tables.
Avengers and New York Giants.
“Whaddya think?” Saint asks, watching me as I gawk at the beautiful studio.
It takes me a while to answer, mostly because I’m actively trying not to cry. “It’s absolutely…beautiful.”
“Thought you’d like a place of your own, you know? Outside of school and the mansion.”
“I don’t know what to say…” I swallow down the burn of happy tears. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
He curls his hand in mine, then tilts his head. “C’mon, let me show you around.”
I follow Saint as he leads me through the studio, finding not a nook or cranny left without purpose. The corners closest to the windows, although obvious because there’re light-up signs, he explains are for drawing and painting.
Center is for drafting.
So on, and so forth.
“This part I had built in.” He ushers me past two opened barn doors, into a room where a huge U shaped desk faces the window with several laptops on top of it.
Apple, Surface Pro, Dell, even Lenovo.
“I didn’t know which one was best for digital design.” Saint shrugs. “So I just bought ’em all.”
I glance up at him, still riding out the shockwaves he blasted through my heart. “Thank you…so much. This is…just…I can’t even describe how happy I am.”
“Eh, it’s nothing.” Saint kisses my hair. “I’m just glad I didn’t fuck it up.”
If there was ever a time Saint proved to be certifiable, it’s now.
Sliding my hands beneath the hood of Saint’s winterized Letterman, as he calls it, I tilt my head and stare at his beautiful face.
“This is not nothing, Saint. It means everything to me. You. Mean. Everything to me.”
His lips spread into a wolfish grin. “But you haven’t even seen the best part yet.”
For the hundredth time since I met this boy, I’m being dragged by him, straight to a narrow set of stairs leading to a loft.
He motions for me to go first, so I do.
And Saint wouldn’t be Saint if he didn’t squeeze my ass the entire time.
“Now this is the money, baby.” He holds his arms out wide, walking backwards into a makeshift bedroom. “Where the real magic will happen.”
I’d laugh at his ridiculousness if it wasn’t decorated so damn pretty.
Moody. Obviously. With two dim Moroccan lights hanging from the ceiling, a king mattress low enough to kiss the floor, dressed in dark shades of grays, purples, and whites.
Girly, but not too girly for a guy to bitch about sleeping on.
Well, besides the fluffy throw pillows I know damn well Theory had something to do with.
“There’s a full bathroom too.” Saint wiggles his eyebrows. “For when I get you nice and dirty.”
This time, I do laugh at the ridiculousness.
“Even when you’re a sap, you’re a pig.”
He plops down on the bed, grin still in place as he rubs the area next to him for me to sit.
I pad my way over, and to my surprise, Saint doesn’t jump my bones the second my ass hits the mattress. Instead, his fingers dance through the strands of my hair.
“You really like this place, Jimi?”
“I adore it so much, you have no idea.”
Saint’s expression turns genuine, but he stays quiet as he continues playing with my hair.
“Why’d you do this for me?”
“Because I love you,” he states plain as day. “And I knew it’d earn me the smile your eyes got on me right now.”
What’s crazy? I didn’t even realize I was smiling.
Then again…Saint’s been making it pretty hard not to lately.
“I love you too, Letterman, and I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“More like everything I hired someone to do.”
“That’s not the point.” I scoot close enough to rest my legs across his lap. “And I’m not just talking about the studio. I’m talking about how you’ve been loving me. Trusting me. Being honest with me when everyone else still refuses to.”
Pain flickers in his gaze, but as soon as I see it…it’s gone.
“You okay?” I ask regardless, unsure of what I could’ve said to make him upset.
“How can I not be?” He scoffs. “You’re stroking my pretentious ego. Although…I’d be a lot happier if you were stroking a pretentious something else .”
With my best devious grin, I push Saint back on the bed, hoisting myself up to straddle his hips. “Tell me more about this something else you speak of.” Sliding out of my coat and tossing it on the floor, I add, “And how I can show my appreciation.”
Saint’s eyes glitter with hunger as he watches me roll my hips, the growing erection behind his sweatpants rubbing hard against my already aching pussy. Truth is, I wanted him the second I spotted our aprons on the table.
I pull my sweatshirt over my head, tossing it in the same direction of my coat. Leaving me, dry humping Saint, in nothing but high waisted leggings and a sports bra.
His version of lingerie.
The sting from his nails clawing into my hips makes me hiss.
“Fuck, you’re killin’ me in that bra.”
Like I said…
“Imagine how you’d feel if I told you I’m not wearing any panties.”
If Saint had a superpower, it would be his ability to fuck me with a single look. Specifically the dark, hooded one on me right now.