Saint’s Angel
KL Humphreys
Natalie Hill
First Edition published in 2020
Text Copyright © K L Humphreys and Natalie Hill
All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Cover Design by Simply Beautiful Designs.
Formatter Kristine Moran of The Word Fairy.
Editing by Stephaine Farrant of Farrant Editing.
Proofread by Gemma Wolley of Gem’s Precise Proofreads.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Dedication
For you - Thank you for reading Saint’s Angel.
Contents
Prologue
1. Harla
2. Saint
3. Harla
4. Saint
5. Harla
6. Saint
7. Harla
8. Saint
9. Harla
10. Saint
11. Harla
12. Saint
13. Harla
14. Saint
15. Harla
16. Saint
17. Harla
18. Saint
19. Harla
Epilogue
ABOUT KL HUMPHREYS
ABOUT NATALIE HILL
Also by KL Humphreys
Prologue
Saint
Saint wasn’t the name I was given by the woman who gave birth to me—I didn’t even know that name. It came from a family I was never expecting, from a man who took me in, the same man I owe my life to. The man who gave me a family I didn’t deserve, and who I respected more than anyone: my president, Reaper.
It had nothing to do with me being saintly or doing good deeds for humankind, for helping old ladies cross the roads or believing in gods that I knew long ago didn’t exist. As the club’s enforcer, I inflicted pain, broke bones, and tore away flesh. I let my prey think they were dying only to bring them back to life, to a kind of hell they didn’t know existed. I dealt with those that had betrayed the club or hadn’t paid their debts, it was my job. We couldn’t let people think we were soft. That shit didn’t roll in our world.
I was the man for the job; the demon inside me needed to be let out of his cage and feed his hunger. I've done things to men that would make you vomit, your eyes water, that you could only imagine were the work of nightmares, scripted for some sort of horror movie.
They weren’t nice people; some of them deserved the unmarked grave they were buried in, or the acid pot that dissolved their remains. In some cases they were dead, others… not so much.
From birth, I knew I was only ever going one way: to hell, to burn for all eternity. My mother knew it from the day I was born. I remember how she would scream at me and tell me I was the devil, was evil. How she would lock me in the dark cupboard for days or tie me to the bed before drawing crosses on my body as she held that holy book, trying to beat the devil out of me as she prayed for my sins.
I don’t know what sins I carried around at the age of three, but maybe it wasn’t the ones I had already committed. Maybe my mother saw the future in my unusual eyes. She always hated my eyes, could never look straight at me. Every time she tried, she would curse at me and hold that book up high, all the while shielding herself from my eyes, telling me the devil lived there. When she realized she couldn’t save my soul, she left me on the church steps.
I was taken in, but they had no patience for the angry, confused, lost kid I had become. Again, they saw it, saw what my mamma had. They tried beating it out of me, tried ridding the devil from me by starving him from my soul. They’d only feed me bread and water for weeks, maybe months. They kept up their assaults until my skin broke and the blood of the devil seeped from me like a river, leaving trails along the dirty floor. Only then did they seem happy, but only for a while, because it still wasn’t enough. They could still see the evil that lay hidden inside me, in my eyes. So, they chained me up, kept the demon in me captive with the cursed words and prayers to a god that never saved me.
For so many years I had water thrown over me, was beaten and starved from sunlight, that the day I finally escaped, I realized I didn’t know the world I had been shielded from. The world was almost as scary as the hidden cage they kept me in. I didn’t know how to hide myself, to protect myself from the streets of the world. After a beating that left me broken and bloody, I hid my eyes in case the people saw it too—the devil inside of me.
That's where this story begins: the stormy night that changed my life.
Prez found me on the streets, eating scraps from the bin, food that wasn’t enough to keep an animal alive and had been there for days, but my stomach hurt from cramps, and my ribs showed. I was sick from the cold, my body still broken from my last beating. Barely alive. Reaper took one look at me and told me there were two types of people in this world: the victims and the survivors.
When he tried to look at me, I wouldn’t let him see my eyes. I was scared he would see what everybody else had: the devil looking back. I knew I couldn’t take him; he was older, had muscles I’d never seen before, and there was a dark edge to him that I recognized. He kept asking me why I kept hiding. I knew I had to tell him the truth because he would see it anyway, and when he did, my life would be over. I would die at the hands of this man. I couldn’t fight him. Hell, I could barely stand.
When I raised my face and pulled my hood back to reveal the truth, the words coming out slurred due to my broken jaw, Reaper just laughed. He told me to move my ass and to follow him if I wanted to survive, if I wanted a place that was safe. That was the night Prez took me in, gave me a home, and introduced me to the Reaper Fury, the notorious one percenters Motorcycle Club.
I didn’t need to hide my demon here. He was safe to roam, could come out and play, and no one feared the look in my eyes. That was the night the Reapers gave me a family, the night they saved me.
The night I became Saint.
1
Harla
“Harla, wash up. Lunch is ready.” I smile at the soft call from my grandmother.
Pushing out from under the car, I blindly search for the rag. “Coming, Gigi,” I yell out, getting to my feet. My overalls are thick with dirt—as they usually are. I love working on cars. It makes me feel calm. It started out as a hobby, something to feel closer to Pop-Pop and my father. They both worked on this beauty in front of me, a black 1970 Dodge Charger. She has a bright red stripe on the hood. Yes, she's a girl. She’s honestly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My dad tried to restore it but didn’t get to finish it. It’s something I’ve been working on since I turned fifteen and it’s finally finished.
Walking through the door that leads me into the kitchen, I’m hit with the smell of pecan pie. It’s a Sunday tradition, something Gigi has done ever since she and Pop-Pop got married. When my father came along, she never stopped making them, and she’s carried on the tradition with me. She’s even given me the recipe to make it. She told me that one day, I’d have the love of my life, and I could make him one too.
“Gigi, I’ve done it.” I can’t keep the smil
e off my face.
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
Nodding, I reach for her hand. “How about we take it out for a test drive after lunch?”
She clasps my hand between hers. “That sounds amazing. I haven’t been in that car since your pop-pop was alive.” Tears shine in her olive green eyes. They’re so expressive, show so much love.
“Both your pop-pop and your father are going to be so proud of you. You did something that neither of them could, and that was get that old girl running again.”
Pride bursts inside. “It was a triple effort, and they helped get it working just as much as I did.”
She pats my hand. “Harla, be proud. I am. You’re a very special young lady. Will you tell your father when he comes around that you have it working?”
I’ve never told my dad that I’ve been working on it. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I guess only seeing him once or twice a year does that? When he does come around, he doesn’t stay very long. The last few times he’s been here, he’s gotten an emergency phone call, making him leave. That's just how he rolls. He will never be like other dads, and it's something I both love and hate. I thought once I hit eighteen, it would stop, but it hasn’t. He was here only a few months ago for my nineteenth birthday. He always gives me money, and Gigi says it’s because he doesn’t know what to do with a teenage daughter.
“Maybe.” I shrug, answering her question.
“Wash up,” she reminds me with a soft smile. She never pushes me to do anything I don’t want to, and she’ll fully support me no matter what I decide. When I told her I didn’t want to go to college and become a nurse, as we had discussed years ago, but wanted to become a mechanic, she never batted an eyelid. Her reply was, “Now, that suits you down to a T.”
Turning on the faucet, I run my hands under the lukewarm water and get rid of the dirt.
“Gigi, do you miss Dad?” It’s hard on me to hardly ever see him, but it’s got to be hard on her too. He’s her son, and he only shows up on my birthday and Christmas, never spending the day with us on either occasion. He just drops in for an hour or two.
“Of course I do, but, my darling Harla, looking at you, I see so much of him. You are your father’s daughter. No one could ever deny that. So while I miss him, I have you.”
“I miss—” My words are cut short by the rumble of motorcycles. Not a sound we usually hear. We live in the county, not a house for miles, the way Gigi and Pop-Pop loved it. I frown as I look at Gigi. Who could it be?
Gigi’s face pales to a grayish color, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Harla, take this and go hide in the pantry.” She reaches into her apron and pulls out a key, rushes to the locked drawer and pulls out two guns. “Harla, take this and go,” she yells at me as the sound of bikes gets closer. My hand clamps around the butt of the cold gun. Fear has a hold of me, and I’m scared of what’s to come.
“Gi—”
She shakes her head. “Go!” She presses her hand against my back and propels me toward the pantry. “Under no circumstances are you to come out until I say so. Harla, if anyone but me comes to the pantry, you shoot. Do you understand?” Her voice has a dark edge to it, one I’ve never heard from her before. “Harla, do you understand?”
I nod as I rush into the pantry, my hands shaking. I keep the gun pointed downwards, as I’ve only ever used one a few times. Gigi would do a makeshift firing range and teach me. I’m not too bad at shooting, I just loathe it.
The rumble of the motorcycle engines comes to a stop, and I freeze as the front door opens. We always have it unlocked; nothing bad ever happens around here—
Gunshots sound, and I peer through the slats of the door to see Gigi firing as two men enter the kitchen. My heart leaps into my mouth as I take the men in; they’re huge, at least six feet tall.
Gigi stumbles back just as she fires off a shot. The man she hits falls to the ground. A whimper escapes me, and I raise my left hand to silence it. Looking at Gigi, I notice blood on the right side of her stomach. She fires one more shot before collapsing to the floor. A grunt from the other man tells me she managed to hit him too. Damn, Gigi is a great shot.
Movement catches my eye, and I watch as the man Gigi just hit, rushes out of the house, leaving a trail of blood behind him as he does. I spot the bright red tattoo on his neck as he turns. I can just make out that it’s a phoenix.
“Harla.” Gigi’s voice is a croaky whisper, but I still hear it.
I rush out of the pantry and crash down on my knees beside her. Blood—there's blood everywhere. I slide in it, releasing the gun as I do.
“Gigi…” Tears begin to fall down my face.
“Shh, listen to me. There’s one thing I need you to do for me.”
“Anything,” I say instantly. For her, I’d do anything.
“I need you to go to the compound. They’ll keep you safe.”
I shake my head. “Gigi, I need to call an ambulance.” Tears cascade down my face as I grip her hand tightly.
“Harla, there’s no time. Please, listen to me,” she pleads.
“Why? What’s going on? Gigi, who were those men?”
“That doesn’t matter right now. Harla, I don’t have much time. Head south, out of Prescott, toward the Sonoran Desert. Don’t stop, keep going. You’ll find a huge compound. Go there, it’s safe.” She’s talking fast, but I’m listening to every word she’s saying. I just don’t understand why I’m doing this or who I’m going to see.
“Now say it back to me. I want to know that you have it right.”
Nodding at her, I repeat the words she’s told me, but they mean nothing to me.
A small smile forms on her lips. “Good girl. When you get there, ask for—” A gurgling noise erupts from her, and blood pools in her mouth.
“Gigi?” I cry, and the gurgling noise stops. But I already know she’s gone. “No, please… God, no!” I scream as the tears continue to cascade down my face. “What am I supposed to do?” I whisper, but of course, no one is going to answer me.
The room is filled with silence as I gently weep. It’s only then that I realize I didn’t hear any rumbling noises. The man that killed Gigi hasn’t left yet. Reaching for the gun, my hand wraps around the butt. As I turn, I’m instantly confronted by the man Gigi killed. He’s lying on his back, his eyes wide open, as though he’s staring at me, his expression empty. Glancing at his body, I see just one wound in his chest. Blood pools around him, turning the white tiled floor, red.
Shaking my head, I run for the garage. I need to get into the car and drive. I need to go to the address Gigi told me to go to. Safe.
The car comes into sight, and I know it’s my only way of escaping. I swipe up the garage door opener as I walk past it. Getting into the car, I turn on the engine. I’ve only got one chance, and I need to get this right. Hitting the button on the remote, the garage door begins to open, and I put the Dodge into gear. I rev the engine, and as soon as the door lifts high enough for me to exit, I do.
Gunshots ricochet off the car as the man that shot Gigi stands in the driveway firing at me. I press my foot harder on the gas and drive straight for him, white-hot pain shooting up my side. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I get inches away from him. His stocky, near six feet frame is steady and unmoving. He’s got a stupid grin on his face, stretching the scar covering most of his left cheek, which looks as though someone used a broken bottle to slash open the skin there. His eyes are narrowed on me, and his hand is gripped around the butt of his gun.
“Move!” I scream, but he doesn’t listen. A thump sounds as his body hits my car. I don’t stop. I keep driving.
I drive down our narrow road, my foot pressed hard against the accelerator. Pain erupts in my chest as I get further and further away from Gigi. I should have called an ambulance. I should have tried to save her. My tears soak my face, making it hard for me to see where I’m going, but I don’t care. I need to drive. I need to get away. Gigi had one reque
st for me and I’m going to do it. I just wish I knew a little about where I’m going and who I’m supposed to see there. I have no idea what I’m meant to say to whoever it is. There’s nothing I can do about it right now, so I’ll figure it out whenever I get to wherever the hell I’m going.
Once I make it into town, I pull over and grab my cell, which Gigi always tells me is stuck to me. I never go anywhere without it.
My breath hitches when I realize she’s not here, that she’s no longer in the present. There’s no longer going to be conversations where she’ll give me her wise advice, no more pecan pies on a Sunday, no one to turn to when I’m sad.
Pulling up the GPS on my cell, I find out where the hell I’m going. Pain erupts from my shoulder, and when I glance down at it, I see my checkered shirt has blood all over it. I bring my hand to my shoulder, feeling a wetness coating my fingers, and when I pull it away, I find it drenched in blood.
Oh God, I’ve been shot.
There is also a blood spot on my shirt. I lift it slowly and see an open wound, where one of his bullets grazed me. It’s deep enough that I’m bleeding. Opening the glove compartment, I look to see if there’s anything I can use to cover the wound, just until I get to wherever this ‘compound’ is. The pain is awful, but I bite through it and continue to search. Nothing, not even a damn band aid.
Taking off my shirt, I quickly tie it around the wound as tightly as I can. Once I have it securely fastened, I start the car once again. I want to get to this place before it gets dark, and I have no idea if that man is dead. If he isn't, he may not be far behind me.
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