“You know damn well why, Saint.” He poured milk over his Kellogg’s Rice Krispies cereal into a large blue bowl. “Asking me about my stint in prison. What the fuck, man!”
“It was just a joke!” Saint cackled. “You were sitting there all stiff, I thought I’d inject a little action.” Saint sniffed and leaned back in a pimp posture, catching his free hand under his nose, and extending his leg farther out to push on the gas. “It was just a segue, you knew I’d clean it up and explain you were only there to speak to that inmate class while in the Marines.”
“But you let it go and on, having fun at my expense. You had my girlfriend thinking I’d done hard time in the pen. Traci didn’t know whether you were kidding or not and then asked me twice that night if you were just trying to cover up the truth once you saw my reaction. Thanks, man! Thanks a hell of a lot!” Jagger grinned as he stabbed his cereal with a big silver spoon, and placed his tattooed arms on the two-seater kitchen table.
Saint ran a hand over his neck, surmising he may have gone too far, but it was all in good fun. Traci and Jagger had been dating for a while, they were official—but they were quiet, dancing around one another like school children, and he wanted to see some fire. He knew it wasn’t his place, but he wanted his friend happy, and though he appeared to be, he knew their relationship had the potential to be so much more.
“So, what was the best part of prison?” Saint teased, bringing Jagger back into the fold of his twisted sense of humor.
“Not funny.” Jagger took another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
“Okay, seriously, when you visited, tell me one of the craziest things you saw.” Saint was intrigued. He lived off of stories like this. He managed to always compartmentalize them, and use bits and pieces for a later date, even if it was only for a joke.
“I’m not telling you. You’ll just turn it into something stupid.”
“Aw, come on, man! I tell you what, you tell me a prison story and I’ll treat you to lunch tomorrow. I have too many meetings today.”
“It better not be fast food. I want the good shit, the fifty dollar lunches!” Jagger said around a mouthful of cereal.
“You are killin’ me...trying to make me go broke feeding your big David and Goliath ass.”
“Take it or leave it. Why’d you wanna know anyway?”
“Actually, it is because of that case Lawrence told me about. Due to Clarence and Jason’s good investigation skills, that fucker is in prison now.” Saint reflected on the case that made his blood boil. A man walked into a restaurant and shot a black woman and her husband, killing them both. He hoped the man got the chair, but it was doubtful. The state of Florida wasn’t exactly known for giving a damn about the ill treatment of people of color it seemed as of late. “I’d like to visit him in prison and mess with him a bit. Though I know that’s out of the question.”
“Why didn’t you just say that at the beginning?”
“Because I like fuckin’ with you...”
“Fair enough. Okay, here is the story: this is how the inmates make a home-made pussy.”
“Ha! This gotta be good!” Saint cracked up as he drew closer to his office. “Oh, before I forget, when will you be in today? I need to talk to you about that Huerna Foundation project. I think they need added security down there. Maybe some of your retired friends can take a look.”
“Oh, okay, sure. I can make some calls. Well, what they do is take a paper cup, and two of those little yellow sponges, right? You know, the kinds our moms always had in the kitchen. They put the sponges in the cup on each side then cover it all with a latex glove. Then they put like lotion or hair grease in it. Then, well...they fuck it.”
Saint burst out laughing. “Hey, where there’s a will there’s a way!” he finally choked out through gasps for air. “Gotta do what you gotta do. So it’s basically like a boot-leg pocket pussy?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Times are hard.”
“I guess they use whatever the can.” Jagger tilted the bowl toward his mouth and devoured the left-over milk in loud slurps.
“How’d you know about this? You been fuckin’ those Brite sponges, haven’t you, Jagger? Before Traci was on the scene, you been messin’ around with SpongeBob’s ol’ lady!” Saint cackled, amused at his own joke.
“See what I mean?” Jagger shook his head and grinned. “This is why I can’t tell you things like this. On a serious note, I don’t see how sponge fucking can help you with anything, but that is what came to mind when you asked me.”
“I don’t see how either, but it was entertaining nevertheless.”
“You are the one that was running from the police, not me,” Jagger teased.
“True. And I’ve seen my share of precincts, too. Most of my homeboys I grew up with have been inside and I was arrested before when I was sixteen. Ironically, that time it was for something I really didn’t do. They let me go, but I was accustomed to things like that happening. It didn’t scare me straight like it should have.”
“Yeah, the teenage years. Mine were kinda crazy, too. So the trouble you were in…do you believe it was unfair?”
“Collectively, I and the guys from my neighborhood got treated suspiciously just by the way that we looked. Some of it was our fault, some of it wasn’t, but it happened nevertheless. Sometimes we did loiter, steal and do other shit we had no business doing. Other times, we were just harassed for being minorities. Hey, I’m getting ready to pull up in here, so I’ll let you go. See ya in a bit,” Saint said as he saw the top of their building in the near distance.
Saint pulled into his parking spot and looked up at the screen. Jagger stood from his table and saluted. “You got it, Boss. See you soon.”
The screen went static then black...
As Saint entered the building, he thought about his friend, long and hard.
Jagger was still guarded but the man was trying, so he had to give him props for that. It had been a long, scary road for the guy. It took everything in his power to get that level. He wasn’t afraid of flying grenades, enemy ambushes, derelict Angel Children on killing rampages or of much anything else, but when it came to women, and love in particular, Jagger transformed into a frightened newborn bunny rabbit. People who’d had their hearts crushed had a tendency to experience that.
In all of that time, Saint and Jagger had had the opportunity to get to know one another, up close and personal. This was just one of the many reasons he trusted the man with all that was in him, and wasn’t mad when Jagger officially beat his ass to teach him a lesson, to help him in his future endeavors. They’d shared so much, and Saint could now honestly say he was one of his closest friends. Saint didn’t call many people friends. He knew a lot of people, had thousands of associates, but true friends were hard to come by. Jagger had risked his life to help protect his newborn daughter; he’d sacrificed himself, taking out half of the problem without a blink of an eye—a true soldier. Jagger was a man’s man, all brawn that covered a sensitive heart. He was a proverbial teddy bear—built like a brick wall with piercing, all-knowing light blue eyes that paled against his creamy tan complexion, the intriguing combination of an Italian father and Native Indian mother. His childhood had been hellacious—and in that he was a different breed than Saint. Regardless of Saint’s trauma as a youngster, he knew his parents cared for him, especially his mother. Jagger, on the other hand, spent most of his time shielding his brothers and mother from violent physical abuse, extreme alcohol indulgence and verbal altercations that would make the most liberal minded person’s skin crawl.
The man’s story was a tale of survival of the fittest. He was destined for greatness, to be a leader. Jagger had very strict ideas, however, about right and wrong. Saint suspected it was mostly due to his traumatic upbringing. Instead of falling into a life of crime, Jagger did the opposite. He found comfort in discipline, threw himself over the altar of justice as a sacrificial lamb. But he had to do something with all
of that rage...all of that pent up energy, all of that seething, scorching emotion that boiled just under his cool reserve. The man was a time-bomb, and he knew it...so, he did what he did best. Got a gun and blew some shit up. He was often the lone survivor of area raids in Iraq and Afghanistan, coming forth from a dust cloud with shrapnel lying all about and with nothing more than a scratch or two to show for it. He was resilient, and for his unique attitude, he attracted people’s curiosity. Yet what was first seen as admirable, actions of a true hero of the military elite, was now considered plain weird...
How was this man surviving such brutal attacks?
Then the paranoia began. Is he doing something to cause this? “Jagger has nine lives and magic powers!” some had teased him. He was thrust into the most dangerous of assignments and proved himself, coming out victorious every time.
Decorated with Combat Action ribbons, Global War on Terrorism and Marine Corp Expeditions medals, and a host of other accolades, acknowledgements and recognitions, he was the epitome of what it meant to be a man who fought for his country. Nevertheless, it still never quite satisfied his complete need for justice. It was a never-ending thirst and no matter how much enemy blood was spilled, he remained forever parched. Saint knew all about that now. His father, Lawrence and even Raphael, made it clear to him that this was his lot in life. He was designed to right wrongs, and angels oftentimes got ugly—their children would be no different. All of the hoopla about angels being peaceful was bullshit. They were an army, designed to protect mankind by any means necessary. The Angel of Death and the Angel of Mercy were constantly having children—each one special to them, hand-picked through various bloodlines, yet, all of them were related through their very special gifts.
Jagger knew wondrous things, incredible things that Saint was only just becoming aware of. The man was a skilled artist at what he did, steady, focused and well-trained. Saint still was in awe of him, at the way he’d taken the mole down, the memory infiltration, the lack of fear... He respected the man from the depths of his heart, for taking a spot behind him, especially since he, too, was an Alpha. That had to be terribly hard to do. Jagger didn’t answer to anyone, and no one bossed him around. But he, too, had a healthy respect for Saint, understanding that Saint was rough around the edges, but his power was astounding and there had to be a reason why he was blessed with such a gift.
Lawrence, being the peacemaker, had brought it all together, and both men were grateful to him for creating the close-knit bunch. He was the glue, the one to break up fights and potential disagreements, the one with all of the knowledge about their people. He was an old soul and a beautiful person who Saint was certain felt ragged after interrupting his and Jagger’s many spats. Jagger and Saint would still exchange words from time to time but that was to be expected. They had strong personalities and had trouble controlling themselves on occasion. Lawrence was disciplined in his outward displays. Saint wanted to learn that—to figure out how he did it—but soon gave up when he realized it was just not in him to be like Lawrence. He envied the peace that Lawrence had within, and he envied how Jagger loved the man. They’d known each other so long and depended on each other. Saint sometimes thought about how his life would’ve been different had he met them sooner. It would have saved him quite a bit of heartache. But, everything happens for a reason, and there is a season of understanding in life, and now that he was in the know, he felt truly blessed…
~***~
“She shaped like a sock full of pudding!”
“Mama, I gotta go.” Xenia bit away at a budding smile as her heels clicked loudly against the studio floor, holding her cell phone to her ear.
“Alright, but don’t forget our pedicure date comin’ up. My feet look like I been crip-walkin’ in broken glass!”
“Bye, Mama!” Xenia laughed as she disconnected the call then made eye contact with Sinclair who was making his rounds, speaking to the staff and pretending to be interested in their responses, no doubt. It had been two weeks without incident and though she dared not admit it to her husband, she was now grateful for his intervention. The man barely said a word to her, and when he had to, it was brief and straight to the point, and always about a business matter regarding the show. She took a seat on the side of the set, straightened her black and gray polka dot skirt, crossed her legs and looked down at a stack of papers detailing a list of possible guests for the show.
Here we go again…
She first smelled his all-too-familiar cologne, a bit overpowering. The aroma hounded her nostrils as it floated past. Her lashes fluttered as she pressed her lids closed and sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, bracing herself.
Why the hell is he so close to me?
Before she could ask the question directly, he placed one hand on her shoulder.
“Xenia, can I talk to you for a moment?” His voice was slippery, gliding past her with syrupy promises of mischief.
“We’re talking now.” She looked away, back down at the papers.
“No, I mean,” he gave her shoulder a light rub, “privately.” He tethered the latter declaration on a sigh.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sinclair.” Xenia looked up at him, slammed the stack of papers on the desk in front of her and removed the dark sunglasses from atop her head. “Look, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I thought we had an understanding?”
“No,” Sinclair grinned, “I’ve done some thinking and it is unfair for your husband to try to bully me into submission.” He chuckled, apparently oblivious to the fact that nothing her husband said to him was in jest. “I just have one question for you, Xenia. Then, I promise to leave you alone about this.”
Xenia rolled her eyes, knowing the man was full of shit. She thought about Saint and knew it was imperative she not tell him another damn thing about the menace if she could help it. She didn’t want to keep information from him, but the repercussions could be catastrophic. He meant what he said about actions. Saint would no longer be calling or meeting Sinclair for lunch. There would be nothing merry about the encounter. Honestly, she feared for Sinclair’s life if he made another false move, and despite her disdain for him, she didn’t want the pathetic soul to wind up in intensive care…nor did she desire the nasty media attention it may render. She wouldn’t mind him getting his ass whooped though.
“What is it, Sinclair?” She sighed and leaned back in her seat, away from him.
“Xenia.” he placed his hand across his chest, then looked to his left, briefly watching the crew milling about. “Please, just step over here to the side, away from everyone. This is embarrassing.” He grinned. “I don’t want to pour out my heart in front of all of these people.”
“I don’t give a damn if you don’t want—”
Just then, Shianne, the new intern, bounced over with a red clipboard and her iPhone.
“Hiiiii, Xenia.” She shot the two of them a sweet smile. “I hope you two weren’t in the middle of anything, but I had a question regarding the spelling of your last name and some of the necessities for your dressing room.” She stashed the clipboard under her arm and tapped the end of an inkpen against her bottom lip.
What a pretty girl, thick glasses ’nd all…
“Actually Shianne,” Sinclair broke through, his annoyance more than evident, “we were in the middle of something.”
“Oh, I—”
“That will have to wait,” he snapped. He delicately took Xenia by her wrist, knowing she wouldn’t cause a scene in front of the young lady, and led her away without a moment to spare.
“Real smooth, Sinclair!” Xenia barked as she snatched her arm away from him after he relocated her out of sight. They stood by an open door, the sweet breeze blowing through, making the palm trees just outside of it sway in the wind. “What the fuck is it?!”
“You never used to curse like that. You’ve been around your husband far too long!” he teasingly chastised.
Xenia crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. �
��You’ve got three seconds!”
“Alright.” He smiled, throwing up his hands in faux surrender. “I just need to know if you still loved me when you married Saint.”
Xenia paused, in shock at Sinclair’s nerve.
“It’s a simple question.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip, smirked and leisurely slipped his hand into his pocket.
“No. I was not still in love with you when I married Saint. You’re beating a dead horse. Now, I’ve answered your question, so we’re finished talking.”
He rubbed his chin and looked away, shoulders slumped. A low sigh escaped his lips. He had a knack for feigning hurt feelings to elicit sympathy.
“Wow…” He turned toward the open door. “I really wasn’t expecting that answer, Xenia. I always loved how honest you were, and I can’t believe you’d deny me the one thing I ask of you—the truth—when I need it most.”
“I can’t believe this! Sinclair, I don’t have time for this stupidity.”
He spun toward her, his eyes glittering with dark rage.
“I answered your question. I told you the truth and you can’t handle it. Don’t ask me anything else unless it is related to this damn show!” She pointed in his face as she maneuvered her body around an old camera pulley, and began to walk away, teeming with seeds of anger. He was muttering something, and she tuned him out before she was showered with the bright overhead lights of an afternoon soap opera about to begin in a few minutes. Slightly dazed, her thoughts muddled and her temper soared as if it had wings. She blocked the light away with her arm and headed around the set, moseying through a thin crew of chatty employees.
Damn it! I wish he’d leave me the hell alone. I can’t tell Saint about this like I did last time. That proved to be a disaster. I should’ve known it would be short lived. Sinclair doesn’t back down. This whole time, he has been plotting. I can’t stand his ass!
“Xenia!” Shianne called out, raising her thin, light brown arm in the air, her long layered relaxed hair bouncing as she moved toward her. She was grateful for the distraction.
Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father Page 13
