Page 29 of The Tenth Circle
But…I will acknowledge my need to get away from Saint before my IQ starts dropping. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker I shower and am back in my dorm doing more drawing and stabbing.
“Elaborate, annoying human.”
“The back and forth until I prove you wrong.”
Since I can count on two fingers the amount of times I’ve interacted with the douche, and on thirty-seven the amount of times I obsessed over both, it doesn’t take much thought to know which he’s referring to.
I still let him sweat…because I would rather punch myself repeatedly than give him another reason to boast.
“Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”
“Oh, c’mon Jimi. We both know you’re smarter than this.”
I cup a hand by my ear. “Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t hear you above all the egotism and bad taste in women.”
Saint pushes off the wall, slowly padding over to the corner I lodged myself in. “I said…we both know you’re smarter than to pretend you haven’t been thinking about me for weeks.”
Weeks. Plural.
Fucking-fuck, it really is him.
And he had thenerveto pretend I’m nobody this whole time.
I keep my cool as well as any girl could when swallowing anger down like acid and refusing to boost an already boosted ego.
“You know, if there was a medal earned for lack of originality, I bet you’d be first place winner.”
Saint is a tower standing over me, his pores emanating a mix of orange, salt, and lingering sex that’s intoxicating. “You’re good with the one-liners, Jimi. I’ll give you that.”
I squeeze past the aroma, mostly because he’s not a sticker, therefore some may deem it inappropriate to scratch and sniff.
Saint’s right on my tail as I pass the emergency button for the second time, squeezing myself into another corner and whipping out the pencil I have in my jeans pocket.
You sure got him now, Montgomery.
“Keep testing my patience,” I hold the pencil against the breast of his jacket, “and I’ll give a whole new meaning to the term Letterman.”
He chuckles low, stepping into both me and the sharp object stabbing his chest. “What am I doing that’s testing your patience?”
The look on Saint’s face tells me he not only knows exactly what he’s doing, but he’s enjoying every minute of it.
The name. The looks. The implications.
Same package, different delivery.
And his plan is to torture me until I admit I know who he is.
“Besides breathing?”
Saint leans down, ignoring the sharp object piercing a hole in his jacket. “All that sass makes for a terrible poker face.”
I stick him harder. “Yeah, well, I never liked the game anyway.”
Saint snatches the pencil, then breaks it in half with his teeth, tossing the pieces across the elevator. “But you sure do like this one, huh?”
“And which one is ‘this’ exactly? Where you talk to me for two minutes then forget I exist?”
He pouts. “Aw, does Jimi need some attention?”
