SAINT’S SACRAMENT
SINS OF THE FATHER
Tiana Laveen
SAINT’S SACRAMENT-SINS OF THE FATHER
Copyright © 2013 by Tiana Laveen. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the authors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
FIRST EDITION ebook
www.tianalaveen.com
September 2, 2013
Edited by Natalie G. Owens
Cover Design by Travis Pennington
Blurb
At long last, Saint enjoys comfortable living in Los Angeles, relishing the time with his Queen, his sons and his little Princess, the newest addition, Isis. Just as they are settling into a pattern of predictability, the good times do not go unchallenged. Despite her busy schedule, Xenia’s career has reached an epic level, bursting through the glass ceiling—she is now featured on daytime television. She accepts the job with Saint’s blessing, only to discover an old flame is pulling the strings behind the scenes like a puppet master…
To make matters worse, Saint’s career is in jeopardy as a devious multi-tiered plot unfolds, swallowing his resolve and testing his constitution. Now, with Lawrence and Jagger at his side and the sage advice of his father, he must come face to face with not one, but three entities that have come together, masterminding a plot to seek and destroy the man and everything he’s worked so hard to build.
This is a tale of corruption, broken hearts, and evil deeds come home to roost, and the love of a husband, father, son and friend being tested to the limit. When the dust of Hell clears, who will be the last man standing?
DEDICATION
This book, Saint’s Sacrament — Sins of the Father, is dedicated to all the readers that have adoration for Saint Aknaten and his family. It is dedicated to those who have supported me as the author, as well as the series as a whole. Thank you for your thoughtful emails, social media connections, positive reviews and online posts regarding the ‘Saint series’. Your deeds and good tidings are cherished as well as desired.
WORD TO THE READER
When I wrote the last sentence in, “Saved and SAINTified”, I was finished with the Saint series...or so I thought. I loved him as much, if not more, than my readers and fans did. Initially, when Saint came to be, I was certain the man would not receive a ‘warm welcome’. However, because I loved him so much, I still felt it imperative to release the first book, The Naughty Sins of a Saint, and not allow public pressure, or my own worries, to flood the end result. If only one person enjoyed him as much as I enjoyed creating him, then it was still worth it in my eyes. Some may wonder why I would hesitate. Well, Saint is an unusual character. Sure, unusual characters are penned every five seconds, but Saint merges sexuality, sensual and intimacy issues as well as racial education into one large pot. Not only that, he is unapologetic in the way in which he handles himself and communicates with others. He is the type of character that is either loved or hated due to the polarity that he causes when he leaps off the pages. I imagine, for some, that is part of the appeal.
He has an odd, erotic, at times edifying and powerful story, and I’ve been truly touched at how this fictional character had touched the lives of so many. Women who are doctors, fast food workers, stay-at-home moms, police officers, lawyers, maids, you name it —he’d snuck into their homes via their electronic reader or bookshelf, and they found him appealing in more ways than one. I soon discovered there were also male readers who had latched onto the ‘Saint series’, and much to my surprise, they, too, enjoyed him immensely. I had already written the sequel; I simply had not released it yet, and I had other projects lined up waiting for final edits. After moving timelines here, there and everywhere, the second of the series was released, When Saint Goes Marching In. Again, I misjudged my reading audience. I thought now surely, they will say, “Oh goodness, this woman has gone crazy and had this man chase a lunatic and now his ex-girlfriend has done the unthinkable.” Nope. Instead, I was sent a multitude of emails and told by many, face to face, “We love this man...”
Thus, a third book was written and I became so engrossed in the thing, I never realized I had written over 700 pages. Please do not ask me how I could not know, when the page count is clearly written on any WORD document. You see, when you are writing, and not keeping track of page counts, word counts, chapter counts, etc., things just move and this moved...and grew...and burst through the ceiling because I was so enmeshed in the story. It became a double novel.
When asked in interviews or via social media, “Tiana, please tell me this is not the last Saint book. Are you going to write more?” I’d respond, “This is it,” or, “Well, I will never say never, but I have no intentions to do so at this time.”
The same way Saint came into my life is the same way he reappeared. I had moved on, and was doing other things, then, one night, I had a very odd dream. That is how his character was born in the first place, and that is how he returned to inform me that he appreciated my efforts, however, he had something else he wished to say. I understand that, at that point, after I woke up wearing my white tank top and dark gray yoga pants that read, “Attitude” across my rear end in bold pink font, that I indeed had a situation on my hands. I just sat there looking dumbfounded while the whistling of birds continued outside my bedroom window. I was going to have to stop the project I had currently in front of me, and dive head first in this new Saint endeavor. Luckily, I had only written the first chapter of that one, though I do apologize to my current characters — but you know how demanding this man can be...
Believe it or not, I am not a series writer. What I mean by that is, I do not write book after book, simply because. I don’t do it due to peer pressure, sales, marketing, etc. I will not write a series if the book is fine by itself, or only one or two volumes will do. I don’t want to beat any dead horses, but if fresh ideas emerge and I can tie up some questions and loose ends from previous editions, then a series is a fabulous way to do just that. Saint’s character is so dynamic, and his story so unique, he is the perfect Hero for a series. If I don’t have another dream, if I’m finally satisfied and he is too, this will be the last one. My decision will be based on the ‘writer’s itch’, you know, that scratch we feel when a light bulb comes on in our head and we jump out of bed screaming, “Oh my God! I have to write that down!”
Saint’s Sacrament — the Sins of the Father delves into some arenas that were not previously touched upon and also taps into other characters, such as Jagger and Osaze, giving you a closer look into their lives and development. It is a tale about love prevailing and Xenia and Saint growing even closer, due to adversity. You will get a front row seat to watch their family and see the people you’ve come to know interact and make life-changing decisions. I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved writing it.
So here we go on another adventure, another ride. Saint is driving, so buckle up.
Without further ado, let’s get it in...
~***~
Table of Contents
PREFACE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PREFACE
Sinclair Grayson looked around his grand condominium and sucked his teeth. The night had carried on far too long, and the kiss of weariness had touched his cheek on more than one occasion that evening. He’d had his share of boardroom meetings with the musical elite to last him a lifetime but there wasn’t much he could do. He was highly sought after and depended upon. This within itself propelled him forward—this sense of being needed, powerful and black. It held weight in the world, it meant something. He could look at himself in the mirror, admiring his form, and say, ‘You ARE somebody.’ He was living the American dream, but not without his share of stress, which caused him abdominal cramps that oftentimes went ignored. He’d wretch in pain, twisting and tossing in his California-King bed with the black silk sheets clinging to his night sweated form. He dreamed of a shot of Novocain, straight to the gut, but there was no cure. His life was too stressful to ever be normal. Yes...the bed, that was where he’d go for peace, but his thoughts of a peaceful indolence were circumvented, interrupted before he’d even made his way into his master suite.
His cell phone rang. Again. He stared down at it, ripped his tortoise Bottega Veneta glasses off of his face and tossed them haphazardly on his black and white checkered liquor cabinet.
“What is it?” he scoffed as he undid his dark blazer and slumped down in the gray leather Batam sofa, sprawling his legs forward as his inner thoughts swarmed with annoyance.
“I...I was just calling to ask you why you left. Why we can’t try?” came a shaky female voice.
“Shit, woman. I don’t have to give you a reason as to why I don’t want to be with you anymore. I just don’t.” He cradled the phone, reached down to his ankles and grabbed his shoes, one at a time, pitching them across the room as if they’d done him harm. “Look, Cammie, I’m sorry you feel that way.” He sighed, thinking he’d possibly come across too harsh on the poor woman.“...But I have a lot on my mind and we’ve already been through this.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t make it harder than it has to be, alright?” He inclined forward, his back arched and his forehead wrinkled while he gradually closed his eyes. Madame Migraine came upon him and made his already bad mood ten times worse.
“But I won’t give up. I love you, Sinclair.” Now his pot was frothing, boiling over from the steel container of his heart and making a mess all over him.
“Stop it! Get some self-respect, seriously!” He disconnected the call and fell back onto the couch, rubbing his jaw and lip with one hand and grasping the television remote with the other. Cammie was beautiful, but she saw dollar signs everywhere, and he knew it. She’d been born and raised in the hood, crawled her way out like a filthy mouse trying its damnedest to get clean, and get cheddar of all sorts. Ironically, that was what attracted him to her. He liked the women that pulled themselves up by the bootstraps, the rough riders, the ride or die chicks, the ladies that were intelligent, mouthy and could back it up. She’d even gotten an abortion for him—something she almost changed her mind about at the final hour. He’d promised her they’d always be together, but that a child would complicate things. He made sure to not tell her his other suspicions, that the little bastard probably wasn’t even his. No, he didn’t want to get her dander up and end up in a courtroom paying over ten grand a month in child support for a child he may despise. She knew that baby would be her permanent meal ticket out, but she took a bet, believing she could get more from him if she placed her sights on what was behind door number three. Besides, she didn’t want a child, either.
The woman was a video model, known for making the rounds and making them well, but she was no dummy—silly and naïve at times, but far from stupid. Regardless, he’d gotten bored of her, as he did with most every pretty face that crossed his path. Here he was, forty-one, and never married. The damn thought had never even crossed his throbbing mind. No woman, especially Cammie, was up to par. She simply wasn’t on his level; he needed a damn challenge and had yet to find one. Actually, he had once. There was one woman who had poise and grace, yet she carried the streets in her back pocket. It was too late for that, however. He’d soiled the opportunity as he ran amuck, sowing his wild oats, looking a gift horse in the mouth. He’d had a beautiful woman, and neglected her. A woman with A+ astuteness, the gift of gab, and the chick made heads turn and jealous women sneer as she’d pass. He would often ask himself, ‘Why in the hell didn’t I love her?’ It just didn’t make sense, but she had rejected him and chosen another, and it caused him sleepless nights and daydreams of revenge.
He was back in L.A. now, and that was where she resided as well. That woman, the one that slipped through the cracks, had called him one evening, and carelessly sent him packing. Amongst soft music playing in the background, possibly Anita Baker, she’d told him there was no need for him to call any more, she was with someone else now. She didn’t give him an opportunity to ask the what, when and why. She simply stated the new circumstances, and just like that, she was gone. He was confused, possibly hurt, but more concerned about his lack of concern than anything else. Sometimes he just didn’t understand himself. Women came and women left, most he’d given walking papers to, but he knew quality when he saw it, and that was what she was. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time she said her piece, figured she actually may have been better off, but over the years, he regretted what he’d done, letting her go so easily. His life would have been so much different if he’d fought for her, fought the man that stood in his way, the man responsible for the terrible events that followed. Eight years later, she still entered his thoughts from time to time, and he couldn’t help but compare her with all the others... They never scratched the damn surface, but this was beyond love lost, now. Oh no, this had entered the big leagues of retaliation. Now that he was back on his feet, in his element, and had returned to Los Angeles, he could devise the necessary steps to administer the same pain that had been dumped on his life like a can of paint.
Sinclair sighed, slid his hand in the top of his unzipped pants and looked up at his arched glass ceiling. Slices of the darkened cityscape seeped through, revealing their tenebrous enchantment. But the pretty scene didn’t make him feel any better. After a while, he turned on the news, and watched the L.A. weather forecast light up the screen detailing storms a-brewing. Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet, made his way toward his kitchen and grabbed his mail from underneath his suitcase. Sorting through it, he tossed it here and there, until he came across his monthly NBC personnel newsletter. He had many associates who worked there, some in television production, others in management, and a few actors. Sinclair likened himself to the limelight, a Renaissance man. He was a highly sought after music producer for movie soundtracks, working with some of the best orchestras, musicians and artists around the world. He had a keen eye and ear, a highly talented and business mind, but he always seemed to attract trouble. This, he could never understand.
“Hmmm, new co-host for the ‘Morning Tea...” he continued to read as he slid leisurely against his kitchen island, the soft hum of the grand ceiling fan lulling him into a peaceful spot. Then, his heart thumped against his chest, beating it like a snare drum for one of his many nasty baselines that got the crowd moving. “Xenia!” How odd he’d just been thinking about her. He’d only been back in L.A. for three months, and he was smacked dead in the face, the words before him forcing to recall her all the more.
He read the article closer, much closer now...
...Xenia Aknaten is slated to take the place of JoAnn Friedman on the Las Angeles celebrity morning news show, ‘Morning Tea’. Due to slumping network views of the early morning show, JoAnn Friedman’s contract was not renewed. In an effort to boost viewership, new managerial and staff changes have been made. ‘Morning Tea’ is a household favorite amongst stay-at-home mothers and fathers as well as those getting ready for their workday. Mrs. Aknaten brings with her a wealth of experience mainly in radio media, and has done extensive work and interviews for women’s issues, African American concerns and entertainment news. She has her finger on the pulse of the latest topics, music and entertainment gossip. She is edgy, entertaining and enlightening, and will be a much-welcomed addition. We welcome Xenia Aknaten to our NBC family!
Sinclair bit into his bottom lip as if it were a succulent steak, not ceasing until he could taste a tinge of blood. He balled the newsletter up in his hands so tight and compact, it soon resembled a colorful golf ball as he tossed it to the ground. He walked back to the couch, immediately grabbed his phone and pressed the buttons so hard, his fingertips hurt.
“I need to speak to Liz Aphrone, right now, please … Yes, that’s fine. This is Sinclair Grayson.” He waited impatiently as soft music played, taunting him just as Anita Baker had when Xenia had called to tell him it was over.
“Hello?” came the sultry voice of the sixty-seven-year-old millionaire, an NBC icon in her own right.
“Liz, yes, hello, this is Sinclair Grayson.”
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