51. Hendrix #3
Worry tightens my chest, knowing the only thing that would kill me more than Saint not being able to play football, is him reassociating himself with a monster.
“I hope what you did that night hasn’t altered your perception of—”
“Reality?” Saint cuts in with another joke, proving more and more that my suspicions may be right.
“Of yourself .”
After adjusting his sling, he says, “To be honest, Jimi, it hasn’t. If anything…I can see myself clearer now.”
“Really?”
“Really.” His eyes slide to mine. “I can’t explain it, but something inside me changed right before I attacked Boris. And as much as I expected it to…what I was doing to him didn’t run on Vicious’ compulsion. Only my instinct to protect you.”
“I could see that...”
“See what?”
“That you were with me the whole time.”
Saint huffs. “Oh, there was some disassociation, trust me. But not like the past.”
“Well…what did you see?”
“For starters…color. Not just white and black.”
“Was one of them red?” I inquire with the utmost hesitance, which only makes Saint’s next huff come with a chuckle.
“Not red…blue. Maybe a little green.”
The wink I get from him tells me that last one was for amusement purposes only.
“Blue is good. We like blue. What else?”
“There was a storm…but more like lights flashing through the darkness…that I could feel rather than see if that makes any fucking sense.”
Hearing this has my heart swelling in the best way…because not only does Saint make sense, it’s as if he’s pulling how I’ve always seen him straight from my head.
As an army of colors at war with pitch black.
Saint pushes harder through his thoughts, then shifts my way.
“I don’t know, Jimi. It was like staring into chaos…and for the first time seeing only me. Hearing only me.”
“That’s because chaos has always been you, Saint. Not Vicious. And I can sure as fuck promise that what you did to Boris was following through on a lesser man’s intrusive thoughts.”
“Still makes me sound crazy.”
“Yeah, well, crazy is just love jacked up on steroids.”
A wicked smirk curves Saint’s lips as he tilts my chin. “You accusing me of juicin’, baby?”
“Only that one time…after Halloween junior year.”
When Saint decided it would be a hoot to super glue his dirty jock strap inside my locker, along with a dozen pictures of him shirtless, flexing like Hercules.
“Holy shit…that was you?” he laughs. “I could’ve sworn it was Cray PMS-ing.”
“Nope, all me.”
“That makes much more sense.”
“Why?”
With a quick tap of his lips to mine, Saint responds, “Because you’re always PMS-ing, baby.”
“You asshole!” I smack his chest. “Good luck trying to get laid, like, ever again in your entire life.”
It’s a bold faced lie. Saint knows it. I know it.
Because as much as he’s become a sucker for me, I’ve become an even bigger sucker for him.
The maddening truth is…I’ve been falling head over heels for this idiot from the second he cornered me in the storage room during orientation.
I may have put up a front, an attitude, God knows a good fight, but Saint was an unstoppable force as much as mine was to be reckoned with.
He had an ego that rivaled my passion.
A persistence that tore down my walls.
A charm that made it impossible to build them back up.
His darkness. His light.
Every broken piece of him that mirrored my own.
I may not have foreseen the explosion between us, but my heart burns for Saint in a way that screams it would die without him.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
I want all of it. Now. Forever. Through Heaven or the worse circle of Hell.
Confusion lines Saint’s brows as I twist myself to straddle him, which, thanks to hundreds of stitches, lands me in an awkward scissored position.
“What are you doing? Trying to rip your stitches?”
“I’ve been through worse.”
As much as Saint doesn’t like the idea, he slips his good arm around the small of my back, nudging me closer until our chests brush together.
I take in the bruises lining Saint’s face, not realizing I’m smiling until he says, “See somethin’ you like, Jimi?”
“Nope. You’re damaged goods.”
“You wound me, woman.”
Saint’s about to say something else, but I interject with my lips pressing against his. It leaves him startled at first, but he recovers quickly to deepen the kiss. So deep I can feel the sting from my cut as it rips apart.
“What was that for?” Saint asks, pulling away.
“Just a friendly reminder to buckle up. Because you, Letterman, are stuck with me for life.”
“For life, huh? And where will this life together be taking place?”
“In our little dark, morbid, and emotionally dependent world.”
This makes him chuckle. “Besides dark, morbid, and emotionally dependent, what else should I be expecting?”
“Food. Sarcasm. A mess. Sex. Lots and lots of sex .”
“Can’t forget the drawing.”
“And footballing .”
“What’s for lunch?”
“Breakfast, duh.”
“Who’s in charge of the remote?”
“Me unless it’s football season. Then I’ll be nice.”
“Is the word nice even in your vocabulary?”
“Nope…but you can let me borrow yours.”
Saint’s hand finds my hair, brushing the messy strands away from my forehead. “Under one condition, Jimi.”
And…here we go.
“Sorry…conditions don’t exist in this world.”
“Well,” Saint lets out a tsk sound with his teeth, “it’s gonna have to allow for this one eventually.”
Rolling my eyes, I tell him, “Fine, you pain in the ass, what do you want eventually ?”
With his gorgeous, stupid, panty dropping grin on his face, Saint replies, “To make you a Lavell.”