Page 37 of The Tenth Circle
But this time she’s firing while I have a bruised ego.
Archer returns to pleading, eyes flooding with panic as I reach back into my Letterman, knowing the object I pull out next willnotbe a brand new iPhone 17.
But it isn’t until I’m meandering over with a smile as sweet as Stevenson, that Hendrix realizes just how badly she fucked up.
She looks at Archer, then her precious little boyfriend, knowing whatever is about to happen will not end well for either of her men.
Archer because he’s stupid enough to always fight for her.
And Stevenson because he’s stupid enough to still try and be with her.
When I’m only a few feet away I begin sliding my fingers through the brass and rubber holes, letting out a sharp whistle.
“Bravo, Jimi. That was quite the performance.”
“Saint don’t be a fucking?—”
“And the finale?” With a chef’s kiss to the air, I add, “Perfect touch of overkill.”
Archer turns martyr instantly with his attempt to jump in front of Hendrix—emphasis on theattempt—because I use a Jordan Retro 4 to trip his ass onto the pavement.
I may have developed an appreciation for Good Guy’s heroism, especially after going out of his way recently to help my boy Cray, but not enough to allow him to shit on my petty parade.
After Hendrix, nother golden retriever, comes over to assist Archer to his feet, she goes classic angry-girl-fist-slamming to my chest. Which, thanks to all the times she probably fights Sweet Stevie’s battles, manages to leave a tingle.
There’ll be no Captain-Save-a Goldie today, though.
Snatching both of Hendrix’s wrists, I walk her backwards into the tunnel, waiting for her little boyfriend to appear at her side.
When he does, it’s with a ghostly white face.
Hendrix is scared too, as most people are when Halo’s around my knuckles, but not enough to stop shooting spears at me between her eyelids.
My attention bounces to Stevenson, then back to angry eyes, then back to Stevenson when I squeeze her tighter.
And tighter…until she winces.
He does nothing other than ask me to stop.
Politely.
Fucking tool.
Without saying a word one hand locks around Hendrix’s throat, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to try and garner a reaction from her boyfriend.
“Saint…” She grunts, trying to pull away, but I refuse to budge untilhedoes.
Archer jumps in again, locking an impressive strong arm around my neck.
Still…Stevie stands there frozen like a deer in headlights—too bad for him I eat deer for breakfast with my eggs.
You know…protein and shit.
With a strong elbow to Archer’s gut he releases me, hunching over to blow out a pained breath.
My fierce glare finds Hendrix. “Word of advice, Jimi. Next time you wanna sprinkle a wound…make sure the motherfucker you use to do it is worth the salt.”
I don’t give Hendrix the chance to formulate a response before letting go and securing her boyfriend’s back to my chest in a chokehold.
