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:

Hey Jimi…it’s me

Saint

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*