The Saint Jones [Completed]

chapter 67: Oh Son

Sether

I look down at the piece of paper rolled around the stuff that is sitting on the bed in front of me. It is weird and stupid, but I can't stop myself.

The cigarette is summoning my name, pleading me to lit it up already instead of watching it for what feels like hours now. I really want to, but my limbs doesn't want to move to grab it.

Twenty-three years of life and never a cigarette has touched my lips. It happened in the past that the urge was there before I can even understand it, I've happened to lit it up in the past, but I threw it down and stepped on it right away. It also happened that I've brought a whole box back home, which I was intelligently hiding under my mattress. But it never really interested me, not to the point of smoking it.

So why is this thing on my bed, looking up at me with eager eyes, ready to ruin me? I got this in Austin's room, it was in his drawer in the bathroom, wrapped around a thick journal paper. He has no idea that I took this, and it has been ages now, he will never find out.

I seize it in my fingers and look closely at it. The smell is disturbing, it always makes me want to vomit. So why the hell is it with you?! Dammit, maybe I wanted to be a man for once and not a simple guy who's working on a cruise with a disability. Or maybe because I wanted to know what people mean when they admit that smoking is a stress reliever.

I shake my head, silently laughing at my own stupidity. And coming out of nowhere, a loud knock is heard on my door which forces me to look back at the reality around me. I stand up quickly and lift my mattress before I throw the untouchable cigarette under it.

The knocks are multiplying, the person on the other side must be in a rush, but sorry to whoever it is, I'm not in a rush, at all. When I open the door, my breath freeze and my back go rigid and hard from the neck and down.

"You're coming with me," he says firmly, using his serious and cold voice.

"For?" I ask, a hand on the door, in case I need to close it quickly, but both him and I know that if I shut this door in his face, he'll come back with the key card of my room and he'll walk in without caring about my privacy.

"Don't force me to do things I don't want to do."

"I'm going nowhere with you," I try to close the door in his face, but before it can lock, he puts his long foot between it and the frame, preventing it from closing. For a good moment I keep on fighting back his sudden envy of getting me out of here, but when the door slowly slides away from my wet hands and flies open with a loud noise when it hits the wall, I surrender.

"Now you're coming with me," he enters my room, breaks my privacy and grabs me tightly by the arm before he forces me out, and closes the door behind him as loudly as he can.

I look at him from the corner of my eyes, my sunglasses are giving me this privilege. He looks drunk, but when he doesn't? He looks happy, and this he never. This kind of happiness seems more like a victory and this is scaring me.

"Where are we going?"

"You have no right to talk," I chuckle.

"Do you think we're in a movie?"

"What I think is that you're about to get your little and cocky ass beaten."

I laugh at what he just said first, but when I think about it, something cold and unpredictable run though my whole body. My eyes rest on the carpet as we keep going, my feet involuntary following his steps. He never came to my room to escort me out like that, he never told me I'd get my ass beaten, and he never hold me this way, as if I'm a inmate who commited a crime here. So what's the problem?