44. Hendrix #2
The therapist I ignore three times a week would say it’s not a healthy decision, but Saint’s proven tenfold how much I can trust him. Even with my grief.
So fuck that know-it-all guy.
Saint plants me feet first in the tub, and the warm water feels like heaven as I sink into the center of it.
“Hmmmm…” I sigh, hugging my knees to my chest, basking in the calming scent of lavender.
“Looks like you’re almost all healed up,” Saint comments, rubbing a gentle thumb over the gash on my head. “Doubt you’ll even see the scar.”
“Mr. Creed’s surgeons don’t fuck around.”
Which worked out great for me, given they had to drill into my damn skull.
Saint agrees, but I can tell he isn’t the biggest fan of Leviathan’s dad. In fact, I don’t think I am either.
He was kind when he checked up on me in the hospital, asked all the right questions, seemed worried when he spoke to Vic, but there was definitely a creep factor hiding in his demeanor.
Same goes for Riggs’ dad—except the self-serving politician in him was easy to see through. Especially when dodging every question Saint asked about his son. Even through my mental fog, something didn’t sit right with me.
Phone calls and visiting days are allowed in most rehabs.
No one’s heard from Riggs in months.
Yeah, the shit is obnoxious, even infuriating at times, but he’s still a decent guy. Along with being a critical part of The Royal Heathens. Not to mention Archer who’s been off tremendously since the night I found them alone in a staircase.
Something definitely isn’t right there…
If I’m being honest, the only head of the four royal families that makes sense being friends with Vic, is Cillian, Crayton’s dad.
He seemed like a genuine, good guy when I met him—and that’s saying a lot given his son is a literal psychopath.
Anyway…back to Hendrix and Saint’s regular scheduled fucked up programming.
Unlike my mom and Vic, Saint makes it a point not to create a spectacle of my injuries, keeping his comments on them one and done. Which is why when he begins washing me, I force myself to engage in light conversation.
About the weather.
His recent visit with Crayton that I forced him to go to with Bex.
Even about the Super Bowl.
It didn’t feel natural at first, given how much I’ve grown used to withdrawing, but the more my attention brightened Saint’s face, the easier the talking got.
This brings us to now, sitting in a comfortable silence. Me, with the side of my head resting on my knees, watching Saint rub a sponge absentmindedly along my back.
“I love you, Letterman, you know that right?”
For the first time in a long time, I can spot the cockiness in Saint’s grin. “I do…but feel free to keep reminding me.”
“I’m serious. I wouldn’t have gotten through any of this without you by my side. It means a lot, so thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he responds thoughtfully, until he scoffs, “But I bet you were singing a different tune when I shoved one of my protein bars down your throat.”
To my surprise, a small chuckle bubbles out of me.
“Yeah…I hated that.”
Saint smiles and shakes his head, but with a sadness I can tell he’s trying to hide.
“You okay?”
“Of course.”
“You sure? Because I’m here for you too if you aren’t.”
My attempt at reassurance falls flat along with the hand on my back. Then, I watch as Saint drifts off into thought for what feels like forever.
As overwhelming the urge is to pull whatever thoughts he has out of him, I refrain for the sake of it being nothing compared to what he must’ve felt losing me this whole time.
Saint calls my name, allowing me to expel the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “You know everything I do is for you, right? Even the shit that makes you wanna hate me?”
Suddenly, I find myself wanting nothing more than to shove these words back inside his head.
“Like force feeding me protein bars?”
“I’m serious.”
Well, guess we’re doing this.
“It took me a long time to grasp your methods, but yes.”
“The good, the bad, the ugly,” Saint elaborates. “Everything, Jimi. It’s always been for your own good, even when I refused to believe it myself.”
I’m thrown by the intense nature of his words, and not in the usual swoony way. Because if I learned anything about Saint during our time together, it’s how he’s never the type to be serious for nothing.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Don’t you dare try and lie” is how I should finish off the question, but I’ve only just gotten comfortable with speaking again.
My temper…it’s going to take a bit more to flare.
Saint dips the sponge in the tub, then returns to scrubbing my back. “I just need you to promise you’ll remember this moment…” He pauses. “No matter what happens.”
“What’s about to happen?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, I’m gonna fix everything.”
Before I can push harder, my mother appears at the bathroom door, suppressing her rage about me being naked in front of Saint.
Ask me if I give a shit.
“What is it?” Saint grits out over his shoulder, but she speaks to me.
“I need you to come downstairs.”
I give her nothing, not even a glance.
“Please, Hendrix, there’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Still nothing.
At least from me. Saint, on the other hand, whips his head to the side to face her. “Are you fucking kidding me, you’re doing this right now?”
Curiosity, with a tinge of fear, gets the best of me.
“Doing what?” I ask him quietly.
“Listen, Saint. Your father and I have spoken at length, and we think it’s best if Hendrix starts getting out of the mansion a bit. Maybe even return to school.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you two think. It’s not up to you.”
“And it’s up to who? You ?”
Yes.
Saint jumps to his feet. “Get the fuck out, Juniper. Now.”
“Or else you’ll what? Trash your bedroom again? Break your father’s things? Go rogue and torture the man your father and…” Mom clears her throat. “The others have been trying to get information out of?”
Wait…what?
They finally caught the piece of shit fake security guard?
When did all of this happen?
Other than at the hospital, Saint’s been nothing short of cool, calm, and collected. On his meds. It’s the only other reason I felt comfortable leaning on him so hard.
And now I find out he’s been sheltering me from his very own breakdown this entire time?
Oh my God.
I’ve been so caught up in my grief, I didn’t even think about Saint’s mental health. Or the consequences if he was to fall apart too.
I am a total selfish, nasty bitch.
Sadness mixes with shame, causing burning hot tears to cascade down my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Letterman.”
Saint holds out a hand, motioning for me to relax, even though I can practically feel his temperature rising.
“Get…the fuck…out.” He snarls, and I don’t need to look at my mom to know she’s scared.
Or look at Saint to know he’s skating the edge.
I won’t be the cause of his destruction, not again.
Therefore, it’s my turn to shelter him.
“I’ll go,” I announce, rising from the tub and swiping a towel off the hanger. “Please just stop arguing.”
Saint’s expression is as apologetic as mine was a few seconds ago. “Trust me, you shouldn’t.”
“You’re probably right. But I’m gonna anyway.”
“I’m happy to hear it.” Mom’s voice softens. “It’s for your own good, Hendrix.”
Somehow…I doubt that.
I’m proven why about ten minutes later, as I step off the elevator, finding Mom, Vic, and Auntie, along with a tower of a man waiting for me in the foyer.
Black suit, suspenders, holding a present.
A FUCKING PRESENT.
Remember the temper I mentioned earlier? The one I couldn’t find in me to flare? Well, turns out, some timely reminders is all it takes to rear its ugly head.
So ugly, Saint has to hold me back from mauling people.
“How fucking dare you!” I launch a slipper at Vic over Saint’s shoulder, hitting him straight in the chest. “How fucking dare you try and replace him already!”
Mom’s frowning next to Auntie, and although genuine, pisses me right the fuck off. So, she gets a slipper too.
Bonus point for nicking Auntie.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” Mom cries. “I know how much Carlo meant to you…how hard his death has been on you. But we don’t have a choice.”
“You better fucking believe I have a choice because Carlo’s death? It’s on all of you.”
The words are spit with the utmost confidence, regardless of how guilty I feel knowing Carlo died in his sole effort to protect me.
Guilty, not stupid.
Because even though I’ve been out of the loop, it doesn’t take a mastermind to realize the car bomb planted by the Ivanovs was in revenge for Carlo killing one of their men.
An eye for an eye.
I’ve watched enough movies to know it’s Mafia 101.
Along with collateral damage.
A.K.A. would’ve been me if my necklace didn’t break.
“Like it or not, Hendrix, we’re all in this together,” Vic adds for her, sincere, but with enough firmness to piss me off even more.
“Matteo here,” he gestures a hand to the guy with the gift, who’s effortless dissociation tells me it’s most definitely not from him, “is a professional who works very close with Dante Salvini, and has a lot of… experience in the field.”
Vic’s Catholic way of saying experience killing other mobsters.
“Dante Salvini, huh?” I give Saint a “I promise not to commit homicide” nod, then move around him to face Vic.
“You know…it’s funny how in all the months I’ve been researching the Salvinis, not once did I get a hit on the head of the family.
Or his dead, psychotic brother Luca. It’s almost as if, I don’t know, information about them has poofed from the internet. ”
The accusation in my tone does the trick to rattle my oh, so secretive stepdad. Even my oh, so newly secretive mother and aunt.
“You’ve been looking into them?” Mom asks with subtle alarm in her voice.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”
She swallows. “I mean…we told you not to.”