Page 32 of The Tenth Circle
“Here we go…” he grumbles, but Riggs ignores him, along with his eye roll as he stands.
“So there I was, mouthing off to the sucker as he scrambled to keep up with demands.” He holds the joint between his lips, jab-crossing the air. “Told him keep stackin’, and don’t stop until that bitch is filled to the brim with the goods.”
Levi reaches for his AirPods, and I do the same with my phone, both of us knowing it takes a sober Riggs at least ten minutes to answer a question.
A stoned Riggs? Minimum thirty-seven.
I have two choices: stare at the empty football field or scroll through texts.
I choose scrolling.
To one in particular.
It’s not until I pass Fifteen—I know this because the bitches I fuck are labeled by numbers—that I come across the name I’ve been looking for.
Jimi Hendrix.
It’s a thread I started after stealing her number from Archer’s phone the night after our little game began:
Me
Hey Jimi…it’s me
Me
Saint
Me
Your next book boyfriend *heart eyes emoji*
It took a solid ten minutes of her sitting on the hood of Archer’s Porsche biting her nails before responding. I know because I was watching from inside my Range Rover.
Jimi Hendrix
Here’s to hoping you get *skull emoji* off quick then *fingers crossed emoji*
Me
Now that really hurts my feelings.
Me
Turns me on a bit too not gonna lie…
Jimi Hendrix
How the hell did you get my number?
Me
A friend *wink face emoji*
Jimi Hendrix
Pretty sure you have no friends.
Me
