Page 4 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)

HENDRIX

SEPTEMBER

I t’s only fourth period and I already hate it here.

The first day of school always sucks for the new kids, but after what went down during orientation I feel like I’m walking through a field of landmines, trying not to blow my head off.

I still have no idea who the stranger was that I almost got down and dirty with two weeks ago in that stupid oversized closet.

Right after the question fiasco, the smoke cleared and judgment reared its ugly head, leaving me to hightail it out of there while I still had a sliver of my dignity intact.

I could hear the asshole laughing from behind as I left, once again back to the playful version of his unstable disposition.

Playing it cool when things aren’t is something I’ve always been an expert at. Which is why, when I met up with Bex and Archer, there was no sus on their part when I explained the need for two cigarettes and another granola bar.

Expertise rolled over the days leading up to today, but not now that I’m here, knowing the stranger who seduced me during orientation could be roaming the same halls. I’ve been flirting hard with paranoia since the moment Bex and I stepped into the academic wing of the building.

Luckily, Bex seemed too distracted with her own jitters to notice mine. But my jitters have turned to fear knowing the next class has neither her or Carrot Top to keep me company.

Ignoring the dirty looks, I pass the threshold into the classroom I’ll be spending the year trying not to gag on. Algebra Ⅱ.

There’s some old man sitting at the desk as I make my way to the seats, too busy squinting through bifocals to notice the room filled with students.

There’s a couple empty desks left in the back, which comes as a breath of fresh air as I keep my sights ahead, ignoring the locals taking in the shiny new toy.

I park my ass next to some guy with his back half to me in a Letterman and backwards Yankee hat, busy whispering something colorful in the redhead’s ear next to him.

And judging by the way her fresh manicured nails are dancing the Tango up his arm, we’re talking neon status.

What the hell is in the water these eliter’s drink?

At least the public schoolers try to be discreet.

You know, consequences and all that.

An idea I’m sure is unfamiliar to these pricks.

It is not unfamiliar to me, especially now.

Still, I mind my business like the good closet freak that I am.

Because this freak isn’t a stupid one. She knows anything more than a judgmental eye roll could ruin her plans to stay hidden inside the figurative closet—the one filled with her secrets, lies, and crazy guys she can’t forget.

I take a quick glance around, hoping all the beauty and privilege exhausting the air in this room isn’t his. It’s been a couple minutes of searching and I’m still breathing, so color me convinced he’s not here.

I’m already outlining Thor’s head on my sketch pad when the old man in front of the room clears his throat.

“Good morning and welcome to a new school year.” His glasses fall down the bridge of his nose so he lifts them with the tip of finger. “You all know who I am, so I’ll be skipping the introductions.”

I bury myself deeper into the desk and continue drawing, since I’d rather stab myself repeatedly in the eye with one of redheads' pointy nails than risk correcting anyone when they believe I don’t exist.

But…good things never last, do they?

Because not long after that the pace sets for me, old man, and Letterman.

Our cycle begins promptly with a lot of “going over’s”.

Old man—the syllabus.

Letterman’s hand—the redhead's thigh.

Me—the details of Thor’s hammer.

Hammer…which is NOT in the shape of Letterman’s fingers sliding under the redhead’s skirt.

I inhale a long breath then release it unsteady, the cycle already deepening into psychological warfare.

Old man starts talking classroom expectations, Letterman starts talking more sweet nothings in redhead’s ear, and I start talking myself out of jumping through a window.

In every attempt to tune out old man and the public display of a fuck tion to my left, I not only fail miserably, but I’m one low feminine moan away from regurgitating breakfast.

The nausea hits for many reasons, but the two tied at the forefront fall somewhere between envy and shame.

Not of them, but me.

I’m envious…because for some stupid reason I feel as though they’ve taken something that was mine.

The touches.

The need.

The words and close proximity.

None ever really belonged to me but I can’t stop wanting to keep them.

Snickering has my head instinctively shooting left to see what else they could’ve stolen.

Nothing of substance really, other than Letterman finally turning to face the front of the room—the hat he was wearing placed in front of him on the desk.

The side of his face…

I don’t even make it to the end of the thought before my blood runs cold. Everything inside me freezes but my eyes, because they’re blinking at rapid speed to affirm what I’m seeing is real.

An Adonis of a man. Except this one supersedes the Greek god. But it’s not his beauty that has my whole body on the brink of shattering. Not the shade of dark brown tousled in a mess on his head squeezing my lungs. Or the carved jaw cracking the surface of them.

Definitely not the striking blue I can spot from the corners of his eyes, shattering my lungs completely.

It’s the pull toward this guy.

Vertigo sets in, spinning the room, so I turn back to the desk and close my eyes, squeezing the pencil in my hand in an attempt to steady myself. It doesn’t work because all I see are those stunning irises shining like light.

All I hear are shushes of the deep, smoky, honey voice that’s been taunting me in my sleep. All I feel is my heart beating like it did when I encountered his dark side.

The sound of wood snapping has my eyelids popping open, sending my Crazyman poofing into thin air. The disruption allows me to gather my bearings enough to scan the room again, this time to make sure no one’s watching.

They're not. In fact most of the class is going on with their lives oblivious to the soul that was just knocked out of my body.

It can’t be him.

Can it?

He would recognize me if he was.

Right?

I mean what kind of guy wouldn’t recognize the girl he had his tongue on and fingers in two weeks ago?

You really wanna go there, Montgomery?

I do not, damn it.

I dare to sneak another look at him and regret it immediately when his eyes find mine.

Unlike me, Letterman seems to feel no shame knowing I caught him staring. It’s the opposite. He’s drinking me in like a glass of iced cold lemonade.

Which both offends and relieves me at the same time.

It’s offensive because I hate being sexualized by horny teenagers, but it relieves me knowing my Crazyman from the closet would most definitely be including some inappropriate comments in the process.

That guy was way too cocky not to boast.

The other guy, well, he would most likely prefer stabbing me instead.

I swivel until Letterman’s out of eyesight, but I still feel him like a blaze of heat on my back.

My body temperature returns and rises fast, causing sweat to pool at my hands, one of which is still holding the broken pencil.

I toss the pieces onto the desk like they’re on fire.

You really are an idiot, Montgomery. A full-fledged idiot.

As if sharing my thoughts, a hefty chuckle comes from my left, eerily similar to the one I’ve been imagining for nights on end.

I slowly turn forward, taking a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. It works for a while—even as the class and my drawing progresses—because let’s face it there is absolutely nothing about Algebra II that can distract me from who may or may not be sitting next to me.

My comics on the other hand…

I stay busy working on the ins and outs of shading when a chastising tone from the front of the room interrupts me.

“Hey, you. Over there,” the old man who still hasn’t announced his name calls out, “with the bangs.”

There is not one other person in this room sporting the hairstyle, so it doesn’t take a genius to know who he’s referring to.

Fuck me for wanting to be trendy.

I drag my gaze to the front before grandpa’s eyes dip to my red lip stain, then swallow down the acid in my throat.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

Oh sure. Now he asks.

“Hendrix.”

Old man waves me on.

“Hendrix Montgomery.”

There’s a shift in the seat next to me, and at first I assume it’s discomfort on Letterman’s end, but the sound of a mousy redhead beckoning him proves me wrong in an instant.

“You’re new here,” the old man continues.

My gaze shoots side to side, unaware if it’s a question or a statement. “Uh, yeah?”

“Well then, don’t you think you should be paying mind to me instead of doodling at your desk?”

Oh, hell no.

If I was offended before, now I’m straight up abhorred. How dare this old man compare my art to doodles?

He’s a fucking doodle behind those three inch thick bifocals.

As angry as I am, I choose my response carefully, since now I do have the focus of my peers.

Especially Letterman’s classy redheaded girlfriend.

She scoffs under her breath, like the sudden attention on me has been some kind of personal inconvenience.

Shit, if more attention is what the bitch wants, I’d be happy to offer it with the back of my hand.

Later, obvs, since I’m trying to shake the old man.

“Sure, I guess,” I respond with a shrug.

“Well, get to it then.” He squints through his glasses. “And next time you walk into my class, Hendrix Montgomery, do it without the bright red lips.”

I sink into my seat, wishing more than anything it was the earth instead. Shoving my sketchpad into my bag, I pull out actual schoolbooks and begrudgingly flip one open.

As the class returns to normal, I pretend to ignore the conversation taking place next to me with my name as the epicenter of every insult. Mostly from redhead because Letterman seems too focused on his cell phone to give a shit.