Page 38 of The Tenth Circle
The muscles in my jaw tighten as I mutter to him, “And the next timeyouallow a crazy motherfucker to run up on Hendrix without protecting her, I’ll have a six foot grave dug up with your name on it.”
“Please don’t—” are the only words to spill out of Stevenson before thousands of volts shoot through his kidney.
Hendrix’s scream echoes down the tunnel as her boyfriend spasms against me, and I shove him to the ground. As for Archer, his stare looks almost as frozen as Stevenson’s did moments prior.
With tears rolling down Hendrix’s cheeks she falls next to Stevenson, cradling his neck.
“I meant what I said, Jimi…next time take the fucking win.”
She twists her head to face me. “I hate you!”
I lower to my haunches, lifting her chin with spiked knuckles. “Keep telling yourself that…maybe one day you’ll believe it.”
Hendrix practically drops her boyfriend’s head on the ground when she lunges at me, but her anger is no match for quarterback reflexes.
When I’m standing she flies to her feet and tries again, where Archer comes to and intervenes with a medium sized bearhug around her. Smart move, because any harder than that he’d be singing on stage for his maker.
“There’s no going back after this one, Saint!” Hendrix seethes. “Game over…I’m done!”
“Forfeiting is not becoming of you, Jimi.”
She spits a surprisingly far loogie my way.
“Neither is becomingyou.”
Shoving my hands in my Letterman pockets I begin to trek backwards onto the field, jutting my chin toward a groggy Stevenson. “Don’t forget to take out the garbage.”
Hendrix offers a middle finger as Archer lets go, then pulls out a phone from behind her leggings. I assume to call the police or paramedics. Maybe both.
Most people would be concerned with getting caught, but most people don’t have a father under his belt who oversees ninety percent of the street cameras in Manhattan. Or three of his best friends—one who dominates over half the city’s real estate, another who owns the largest private hospital, and the last one who’s on his way to governing the entire state.
All four straight descendants of Riverside’s founding fathers.
Humanity takes over in the form of pity as Archer helps Sleepy Stevie sit upright.
Either my judgment is hazy, or this guy’s been adding some Muscle Milk to his morning ’Mericano…because it takes him a lot less effort than it usually would.
I turn to continue on, picturing Riverside’s drama boy raising a set of weights instead of high notes.
Dressed in ball shorts instead of tights.
Hand up in the air calling out for a spotter instead of Juliet.
I’m seated front row in mental theatrics when the sound of moans snag my attention from the other end of the field. As I draw closer I find two guys and a girl getting their freak on.
By freak on…I mean one of them sliding a hand between her legs, and the other’s tongue inside her mouth. All three rising to a level of sloppiness that could make Riggs on his worst day cringe from secondhand embarrassment.
It’s a sweet dose of entertainment, until one of the guys rolls over to have her straddle him, and my eyes spot the fucking custom Birkin.
Fury strikes through me.
I take all of it in, the fire behind my eyes growing so hot the two handsy pricks can feel it from half a field away. Therefore sensing the need to back off the pretty young thing they’re trying to fuck.
Emphasis on theyoung.
More emphasis on thefuck.
I’m hit with a vision so maddening it storms the corridors of my mind, every thunderous crack chipping away at the walls I took years to build. They stand before me like a living, breathing thing. Contracting and expanding. Closing in fast.
